Singing muppets 'Jedward' to take on fashion world... No, really!

You haven't read the title wrong, the Irish idiots are actually quite serious about this new venture.


In an interview with 'Now' magazine, John and Edward Grimes, 18, have revealed that they are working on a clothing line which has been inspired by the likes of Michael Jackson and Freddie Mercury...


... I think that they are slightly out of their depth with this one. As if it wasn't bad enough that we had to listen to their cringe-worthy wailing throughout last year's Xfactor series, we are now supposed to take fashion advice from two boys who think it's 'cool' to walk around with identical straw skyscrapers on top of their heads?


The boys have also announced that they will be the ones to model their new range, as 'fashion is their passion.'
Now, I wouldn't class myself as a diehard Jedward fan, (incase you couldn't surmise this fact for yourself), but from what I gathered, their 'passion' was supposed to be music... well, ruining it anyway.


Does no-one have the heart to tell these boys that enough is simply enough? Because I really wouldn't have a problem with it.
In my opinion, the only reason that they have made it this far as 'popstars', is due to the sad fact that the British race simply love to watch people make fools of themselves, we don't however like to be made fools of ourselves, thus I can conclude that there will simply be no market for a range of clothes which will render the wearer a social recluse.


Do I think that the biggest names of the fashion world should wait with baited breath to see if this latest 'celeb' endorsed line will crush them?


No.


In fact, if the twins' fashion talents are on the same level as their singing ability, then I think that it would only be sporting for a fashion God such as Armarni to give them a little hand...that is providing the Emporio industry are in need of good laugh...

The only place where traditional fashion doesn't belong!

OK, I have just got back from Download festival and have much to tell about losing my music festival virginity... but for now, let us discuss the beloved subject of ‘fashion’... or in this case a severe lack of it.

I really don’t know where to begin... though this delayed thought process may be due to the fact that sleep has been just as non-existent as portaloo cleanliness over the past four days. 

The usual eccentric ensembles were on display... man-kinis, tutus, banana suits, various animal costumes, Mexican wrestling masks, rubber zombie animal masks, odd shaped hats and very occasionally; the most disturbingly hairy birthday suits. 

Noting the outfits and the general appearance of others over the course of the last few days has been an... erm... interesting experience, and listening into the conversations of others who are worse off than you are- either due to intoxication by one or more substances, or simply due to general madness, which envelopes you once you lapse into a severe case of hygiene withdrawal.

The most amusing utterance to hit my ears came from a young girl of about 16 years of age. Her simple inquisition of: “do I look OK” to her friend in the portaloo queue has never been so funny. 

I answered this question, (in my mind), with this: ‘No. You most certainly do not look OK and I am not being harsh, just let me explain: you are stood in a suspiciously coloured puddle; wearing an ill-fitting ‘Wonder Woman’ costume- which clashes horribly with your orange neon socks and sweatbands, add these elements plus the mud which is caked up the back of your legs and arse; a disturbing wet patch on your chest; the make-up streaming down your happy, (yet sweaty) face, plus the fact that you probably smell like a biffa bin on a hot summers day. All of these elements have, unsurprisingly, led me to the conclusion that no my dear, you do not look OK... no-body does! 

This is the only time that I will ever advise this, but the best fashion tips for festivals is: take lots of rubbish clothing and pack for all weathers, in a word, ‘comfy clothing’... 

...Yes people, I’m talking OAP gear. 

All of these high street shops which are trying to ploy you with ‘festival must-haves’ are liars. You do not need any nice things, and certainly not new things. 

Before I embarked on my festival trip I naively planned outfit combinations for each day, including a couple of spares and matching accessories but by the end of the first day, all of my plans had been destroyed, and towards the end I simply ended up throwing my body into my bag of creased clothing and surfacing from the dark tent wearing whatever garments had managed to cling to my body, in their near-correct positions. 

In addition to OAP comfort garments, I would recommend these items as the actual festival must-haves: 

• Hat(s). I took my favourite straw trilby, but it got crushed- and you wouldn’t even be able to guess how it met its end, it just did. 

• Baby Wipes. No matter what you wear, you will still feel gross, always keep the wet wipes on hand to freshen up, they only leave you feeling great for about five minutes but that’s better than nothing.

• Bin liners. They can be cleverly transformed into disposable mackintoshes should the weather take a turn for the worse. 

• Sunglasses. Hide the bloodshot and the bags, not attractive but inevitable. 

• Large jumper/hoodie x2. I am ashamed to say that one of mine survived on my body for about 36hrs straight... and may have been worn again on a later occasion... and possibly again on the way home.  

If you haven’t been to a festival, I’m really not trying to put you off, I had the time of my life... but just don’t expect to look your best in a place where you get dressed muddy tent and spend most of your time in a sweaty arena, showering in nothing but the rain and any other suspicious liquids which fly through the air. 

Click on the links above for practical festival attire ideas...

Extend Halloween? Definitely not.

Earlier this month, The Sun newspaper reported that a new fashion craze is sweeping American high schools:

"PACKS of teenagers are going to school as WEREWOLVES...

"The kids wear yellow contact lenses and fangs - and even have fake furry tails attached to their jeans."

At first I was a little skeptical of this story, The Sun newspaper have been known to stretch the truth, tweak story elements and completely fabricate their 'exclusives' for a spot of publicity. 

However, after researching this story I can conclude that this new 'craze' is legitimate in its existence... confused teenagers are actually expressing 'hate', 'resentment', 'individuality' and all that other stuff by dressing like 'creatures of the night' because apparently it makes them feel as though they 'belong' to something.

Now don't get me wrong, I am all for expressing individuality and such, and I must admit that whilst I was making the difficult transition into adulthood, I felt the need to regularly dip my face into a bucket of black paint and stock up on outfits suitable only for the most morbid church services- all in the name of 'Goth', but never did I feel the need to retain my Halloween costumes in the belief that I could integrate aspects of spooky dress-up into regular wardrobe circulation. 

Not many of you will have even picked up on this story, after all it's only teenagers being teenagers right? We all regret some of our past fashion choices and this is simply accepted as a 'trial and error' part of life that we all must experience, I just think that sometimes, 'trends' go a little bit too far.  

In this instance, the 'Twilight' saga has been blamed for kick-starting the trend, as the film and book franchise carries with it a huge teenage fan-base, but I don't think the origins of trends can ever really be properly pinpointed. If people are so easily influenced, then day-to-day life should be more interesting than it actually is. 

I mean, if groups of adults started dressing up as their favourite film or book characters, then they would more than likely be branded 'insane' and promptly removed from society. 

I enjoyed the new Ironman film last week, but that doesn't mean that I am going to forge a new outfit out of aluminium foil, tin cans and fairy lights. 

Come on kids! Yes, it is normal to want to experiment with your look and try and stand out in the crowds of mainstream fashions but I am willing to bet large sums of money that all of you 'Werewolf' people will look back on this particular trend and cringe with embarrassment. Take this piece of advice from someone who knows: there are much better ways to go about 'making a statement' than dressing like something from supernatural culture.  Be yourself, not a character from a story or a fictional creature... 

... However, if you are in-fact real Werewolves, then please ignore the above passage and accept my apologies and the promise that I will buy you a bone or a chew toy if I ever meet you in person... or... erm 'animal'...   

Click on the links above and below to find out more... 

Were-child

You do look like a stilton person...

I hate food shopping.

I have hated food shopping since I was a little girl and NOTHING has changed.

I don't know what it is about food shopping but there must be a reason why some people, who may be approachable in other locations, just turn into complete arse's whilst at the supermarket.

I think that this is something which needs to be investigated further.

The reason for this carefully worded 'post'... cough (rant), is mainly due to the fact that I got crushed today whilst doing my weekly food shop at Sainsbury's.

Some strange creature- who smelt like an ash-tray and looked like a scrunched up version of the miserable 'Mona Lisa', pinned me against a pillar in the supermarket with her trolley, as I attempted to casually browse the cheese section.

At first I thought that this was simply an oversight on her part- that maybe, she just hadn't seen me there... but unbelievably, this was not the case!

After a few seconds, I cleared my throat in an attempt to attract her attention but she merely glanced back at me, before taking her sweet time choosing a particularly smelly and sweaty looking cheese.

Maybe like choice of dog, you can tell more about the personality of someone from the type of cheese that they choose to eat.

So there I was, my life passing before my eyes as I stood pinned against a pillar in Sainsbury's, my left arm going numb as I clutched a chilled bottle of milk.

At the time, I wasn't even sure that I would ever get free.

Maybe if supermarkets had lifeguards sitting on really tall chairs so that they could watch over the shop, they could rescue the naive food shopper like me, from brutal predators such as 'Scrunched Mona'.

Eventually Scrunched Mona chose her cheese and waddled off but not before shooting me a glance which plainly said: 'talk to me... and I will eat you'.

Lovely.

I think you have to be aggressive when you go food shopping, otherwise you just won't survive necessary supermarket trips.

I even managed to have issues in the car-park whilst trying to leave.

Stupidly, I chose a route out of the car-park which takes you across the front of the shop, meaning that you meet three zebra crossings on the way out.

The first two were relatively easy to pass over and I confidently shifted into second gear as the exit was merely yards in front of me... but then... I stopped.

I couldn't help it.

There was a sweet old lady fighting to steer her shopping trolley across my path and I had to let her go.

Problem is, when you wait for one, you have to wait for the rest of the world, as each case seems just as desperate as the last...

...he has kids with him and clearly needs to get back to his car soon, I'll let her go, she looks friendly enough, the next man has a slight limp, he'd better go too and so on and so forth.

Needless to say, I wasn't popular with the angry motorists queuing up behind me.

I might have to invest in Karate lessons or something, just so that I can boost my confidence levels and learn to be more aggressive... either that, or just stop eating.

What's worse, is that I have just discovered that whilst in an understandable state of shock, I must have picked up the wrong variety of cheese and so now I must survive on 'Organic Wenslydale' for the foreseeable future, as punishment for my timidness.

Thank god clothes shopping isn't this dramatic, otherwise I just don't know what I'd do.

High-sneak snippets

Sometimes complete strangers have the ability to make you smile and sometimes it happens when you are in need of it the most.

Whilst out shopping you see a coloured range of people and they are often so caught up in the happenings of their busy shopping trip, that they don't quite realise that what they are muttering to their friend, may as-well be broadcasted on the department store's tannoy system.

Sometimes they are speaking just a fraction too loud and attract a mass of attention... and sometimes you just simply can't help but overhear...

In this new (soon-to-be-regular) feature of my blog, I bring to you snippets of high-street conversation with the aim of making YOU smile.

I will log short snappy sentences or quick quirky conversations which I hear whilst taking in my regular dose of retail therapy.

I aim to give those of you who find shopping a chore, something to listen out for when you yourselves are battling in the high-street and everyone else... well, just something to smile about.

.............................................................

During a half time coffee break on one of my random spending sprees, I overheard a conversation between two middle-aged women on the table next to me.

What I heard quite literally had me fighting to keep my face straight in the pretence that I hadn't bared witness to anything out of the ordinary.

What made this eavesdropping episode particularly amusing, was the fact that the women in question were quite clearly the 'well-to-do' types, making what came out of their mouths all the more surprising.

Their conversation went something like this:

Upper class lady one: "Darling, am I looking unusually lovely today or something?"

Upper class lady two: "Erm... you always look lovely my dear why?"

Upper class lady one: "Well I don't want to sound bigheaded but I seem to be attracting quite a lot of male attention today and I swear I got winked at in the street!

Upper class lady two: "Yes I did notice"

Upper class lady one: "You did?"

Upper class lady two: "Erm... yes... aren't you cold in just your silk top?"

Upper class lady one: "Not overly sweetie why?"

Upper class lady two: "Now you won't take this the wrong way dear will you?"

Upper class lady one: "Take what the wrong way?" (laughing)

Upper class lady two: "Well it's just that your chest rather looks like it is trying to pick up radio signals."

And upon this sublime utterance 'Upper class lady one' promptly claps her hands over her nipples in a most indiscreet manner.

.............................................................

Magnificent.

Vampiric shoes

Note to self: If a new pair of shoes cuts into the flesh of your heel and results in pleasant pool of blood collecting in said shoe... do not then put them on the very next day thinking that your destroyed heel is now miraculously capable of dealing with the blood draining sweeties.

Why do we do it? Even when an item of clothing, (or shoe), attempts to cut our brief existence on this planet short... we always justify wearing it again because it 'looks cute' or makes us look like them 'supermodel types'.

It is ridiculous when you think about it and yet we all do it... and most of us will probably do it again soon, maybe even right now you are wearing something which is not in the least bit comfortable????

I'm not going down the OAP route of promoting 'comfy' clothing- you know, the type of which consists of sagging trackie bottoms, moth-eaten jumpers and ill-fitting vest tops... but maybe, just maybe if we all wore more 'practical' things, then we could remove the first-aid kit from our handbags and free up much needed room!

Who am I trying to kid? It's a proven scientific fact that wearing body-destroying items is a woman's weakness and someone needs to come up with a cure- fast!!!

In the meantime I know I shall probably wear said vampiric shoes again- they are very 'cute' but I definitely won't be wearing them tomorrow... probably.

A David Attenblog

I often refer to a shopping trip as an 'animalistic hunt' and anyone who has properly encountered the 'hullabaloo' of end-of-season sales, would not disagree.

I once witnessed two middle-aged women display a fascinating behavioral pattern which is normally associated with alpha-male gorillas during mating season. Each female competing for the prize, (in this case a pair of jeans with 30 per cent off), whilst the shoppers who manage to retain decorum merely stalk the edges of the shop- waiting to scavenge garments which are left clinging limply to the carcass of the sale rail.

After undertaking numerous shopping expeditions, I have documented many fascinating creatures which thrive in the retail world.

Often ignored but ever-present is the ‘shop assistant’ and in this very special blog, I provide you with information which has never before been documented about this creature and the three most common breeds.

1) Snobiousshopious

This particular creature is very specific about their habitat. They will not be found in common high-street shops and normally prefer to build a nest out of the finest available materials.

Be warned, this particular shop assistant can become quite hostile if it thinks that you have no placing within its' ‘finer’ hierarchic territory.

Blend in with its' natural surroundings and show that you do not feel intimidated by composing yourself with graceful airs.

2) Colossallybewilderdicus

Unfortunately, this particular breed of shop assistant is very common and can become quite alarmed when posed with even the simplest of questions.

It’s best to avoid this creature at all costs, or you may be left dealing with a painfully gormless display of highly bewildering stupidity.

3) Deservingbutnevergettingpromotionous

Finally, we have the rarest of all the creatures; the ‘caring’ assistant.

Distinguishable behavioural patterns include: genuine helpfulness and a believable expression of sorrow- often displayed when sought after garments are not in stock.

They work tirelessly to assemble a variety of coloured garments in order to create a display that will impress a largely female audience.

Look out for this particular species and treat them well because in such a profit driven industry, their numbers are sadly decreasing.

Second hand brassieres?

This week I did something which I thought I would never do... going against every instinct in my body- every fiber screaming at me to stop, to think and take heed...

I cautiously swing open the dented door to what some people refer to as; the untapped ‘Aladdin's cave’ of shops... The charity shop:

The musty odour slams into me faster than the unstoppable bus which rampages through the streets of Los Angeles in the film:Speed.

The smell is simply eye-watering and almost indescribable- perhaps it has something to do with the flea bitten feline which glares at me from above- prowling the rickety (and worryingly unstable) wooden shelving.

Its’ cold yellow eyes seem to burn into my very soul... even the cat thinks that I don’t belong here.

With my instincts (and nose) imploring me to do otherwise; I take a shaky step further into the unknown...

There are others in this grubby shop, I can’t really tell; they seem to sense my presence but do not acknowledge me, as they scurry up and down the roughly marked aisles in desperate ‘animalistic’ like pursuit of their prey: the ever elusive ‘bargain’.

The woman to the right of me- I vaguely recognise. Her faded plum Macintosh glistens with- what I fear to be: bird droppings.

This must be Cheltenham’s very own: ‘Crazy bird lady.’

I have heard people speak of her before- the woman who spends her days feeding and stroking the flying rats which swoop maliciously about the town.

She appears to be muttering to herself as she viciously attacks the drab garments which cling limply to their rusty hangers.

The speed at which she hunts is quite alarming and the look of fear in her cloudy blue eyes seems to suggest that she feels threatened by the presence of the other shoppers- well either of the shoppers or of the cat- which has now turned its’ ugly squashed face in curious attention towards her.

Ignoring the fruitful specimen of shoppers, I begin my search for the intangible ‘bargain’- carefully stepping over the dusty and damaged ‘brick-a-brack’ which clutters the equally aged carpet.

I glance at the clothing which hangs in savage execution on the railing. I suspect these items were once loved but most have certainly seemed to have had surpassed their expected wear time... perhaps I’ll leave the clothes for today.

Onwards to the jewellery which gleams in silent protest from within the shabby glass encasement in the centre of the shop.

Most items have been tossed uncaringly onto the chipped clear shelving.

To call these pieces ‘retro’ or ‘vintage’ is an understatement as I imagine that most pieces have been in existence for a very long time- which wouldn’t normally be a bad thing but the quality of the items is strangely reminiscent of the type of items which I suspect to burst out of ‘value’ crackers during the festive period... I’ll leave buying new accessories for today.

I walk meekly to the back of the shop where the shop-owner appears to dwell.

The woman behind the counter grunts in acknowledgement as I cautiously peer into the row of ripped cardboard containers which sit on the surface of the table before her alongside a bag of fowl-smelling cat food and a dish of warm milk.

She does not seem pleased that I have made it this far and the unpleasant lines around her mouth suggests that she has spent a large proportion of her life scowling at her customers for disturbing her concentration whilst reading the damp 'trash' magazine which lies before her.

Undeterred and with bated breath I take a closer look at the contents of the largest box...

...That can’t be what I think it is! Oh God it is... it’s a woman’s bra no... an entire box!

Apparently you can recycle everything...

No... This really is the final straw- it’s simply not normal! Any shred of bravery and curiosity has seeped out of me... I will leave the charity shop for today.

I had never greeted fresh air with so much relief in my entire life and I can now truly understand how Andy Dufresne felt after his escape from Shawshank prison.

I learnt two things from this mentally challenging experience:

1) Apparently you can buy second hand brassieres- you really have to see the condition of theses stained support garments to understand the true horror of this disturbing detail.

2) The people who refer to the ‘charity shop’ as ‘Aladdin’s cave’ must be one of two things; either: mentally unfortunate, or as I suspect: liars, who take some kind of sick pleasure out of seeing pale people clawing their way back to high street normality.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not normally the type to take a sneery ‘middle-class’ view on things but there are some places which truly baffles the mind.

Do famous people like Fearne Cotton really shop in these places for their fashionable vintage outfits?

I have since learnt that apparently there are ‘special’ charity shops where ‘A-listers’ dump their clothes due to an inexplicable fear of wearing the same garment twice.

If this is true then I am wiling to give this particular variety of shop a second chance... however until the exact location of these shops are confirmed; I will just stick to giving to the charity shops.

A News of the World story, not fact.

This is the general gist of one of yesterdays 'top' stories:

Jordan/ Katie Price/ Mrs Reid/ the biggest disgrace to womanhood since the night Margaret Thatcher’s Mother decided against contraception; has decided that as her life isn’t quite false enough, she would like to have her husband’s face altered to her liking via plastic surgery. 

How romantic.

The bigger-boob-than-brain-bimbo has decided that although she loves hubby Alex Reid ‘with all her heart’, she doesn’t love his nose or ears after all the trauma that they have suffered due to years of cage-fighting abuse. 

I am inclined to agree with the bimbo actually, perhaps her hubby does need surgery- brain surgery. 

Clearly there is something wrong with the orange dim-wit and not just because he married this woman, but also because he allegedly doesn’t even agree with plastic surgery- (other than when done on women’s breasts’), and that he is just to scared to say NO!!

How absolutely ridiculous! An unoriginal response to the story would be: “your partner should love you for who you are and not what you look like...” but then again superficial is as superficial does. 

Just one word of advice Alex; I wouldn’t rely on Jordan as your main image consultant if I were you, or pretty soon you will have more modification’s than a ‘boy racer’s’ badly painted Vauxhall Corsa.

All in one shop!!!

Ever had one of those days when dignity and poise just goes completely out of the window?

Now I'm not the most dignified person to begin with, I do try to conduct myself with a commendable air of grace and elegance I really do... however those who witnessed me falling backwards out of a four foot high hot tub after an unsavoury amount of Jack Daniels and champagne on my 20th birthday last year would agree that it doesn't always go to plan. 

My regular shopping trip to Boots yesterday was unfortunately no exception...

I entered the shop with the aim to buy a powder compact and some conditioner and for most normal people this mundane choir would not normally result in an embarrassing catastrophe.

First stop: the powder compact in the make-up aisle. 

I picked up said powder compact and in order to determine that it was my regular shade of washed out British paleness; I opened it- not unusual to do whilst purchasing make-up. 

However what was unusual was that upon opening the spherical container, it shattered into three pieces in my clumsy hands. 

The first piece, (thankfully), remained in my hands. 

The second piece clattered noisily to the floor by my feet and attracted the attention of the nearest shop assistant as well as the attention of six or seven fellow shoppers around me- one of whom deemed it necessary to start an ironic slow clap. 

The third piece, not only dropped noisily to the floor but it also managed to land on it's side and therefore began rolling along the ground- (attracting further attention) but it did not stop there! It continued rolling to the end of the short aisle, across the width of the small perfume aisle and began a journey down the stairs to the photo processing and digital camera department. I would blame sub-standard craftsmanship on behalf of L'Oreal as opposed to my own clumsy nature but after years of mastering the ability to embarrass myself publicly, it would be pretty pointless. 

Second stop: Aussie hair conditioner.

This was perhaps the most unbelievably embarrassing moment that anyone has ever had whilst purchasing hair conditioner.

After spending the last couple of days stealing my housemate's hair products, I decided that it was about time that I re-stocked my own supply.

I did not however want to purchase my usual brand, I had in actual fact got used to Claire's favourite brand of hair conditioner and also thought that if I bought the same stuff, she would be able to take back a proportion of the bottle which was rightfully hers. 

As I couldn't remember which specific variety of Aussie hair conditioner was for me, I opened the first bottle and gently squeezed it near my face in order to determine that the smell was familiar enough to warrant it's purchase.  

It was. 

Happy with my decision, I toddled of to the queue with my sneakily replaced compact powder and bottle of Aussie hair conditioner. 

Whilst in the queue, I decided to double check that the conditioner was in fact the correct variety and gently squeezed the bottle as I had done before.

However, instead of receiving a gently wafted scent; I actually ended up with the contents of the bottle, exploding all over my face- up my nose and into my mouth- wonderful.

Needless to say, I hurriedly left the queue and replaced the partially empty bottle with another. 

What surprised me, and will surprise me until the day that I die, was that my loving Mother- who was crying with laughter; neglected to inform my that I had a blob conditioner positioned on the end of my nose- until after I had made my purchases and left the shop. 

Shopping can be extremely hazardous folks!