An open letter to Jarvis

Dear Jarvis,

I have done my time in fields for you and your band. We are now older, wiser and in posession of a much more expensive wardrobe of fanciful fashions having long ago exhausted charity shop retro chic in our youth.

My jeans are now by Biba and Westwood and I have no wish to sit on my bottom in a field somewhere, somewhere in a field in London. And if someone stands on my Westwood squiggle print wellies I may loose my cool and have to kick them.

On the subject of London. We are all Yorkshire born and bred are we not? Proud of our heritage and yet still bizarrely taking part in the outdated practice of fleeing south for our culture. Let me introduce you to the art in Tate Liverpool sometime, and then perhaps you can toy with fanciful ideas of playing at home rather than away.

So, now, in the revisiting of times from the 1990s I think the time has come to explore the idea of indoor productions within the glorious scene of Yorkshire in which I can re-aquaint myself with your music.

How about it? Ditch the Hyde Park re-union gig and come home. In nice clothes. Without worrying they will get wet and muddy. I promise to be there as long as I have no prior gig clashes.

We can even re-write the lyrics to part of one of your songs. I can hear it now, floating on the winds of change...

Mother, I can never come home again
'Cause I seem to have left an
important part of my brain somewhere,
Somewhere in a hall in Sheffield.

I await your answer in the gig announcements.

Sincerely,

yours.

(and Cast's... and Space's... and also belonging to the Lightning Seeds. Well, let's just say I get around a bit, just as I always did. But there's love and a Yorkshire Pudding awaiting you when you return)

In my McQueen dream...

...I stalk the narrow streets of Venice in decadent Renaissance styling...

...concealing an exquisitely embelished dress of opulent red cascades which elevates my very soul... ....from the cool breeze that rises from the soft lit waters.

As the Grand Canal smoothes it's own path higher through the darkened corners and caresses the soon flooded streets I step through the advancing waters with ne'er a drop upon my ankle...

...but when I dance through the night it is these ethereal crystal embroidered angel boots in which I flamboyantly yet gracefully turn.

Join me in my dream and worship each exquisite step of the perfect heel in this video made by Show Studio before I fall back into my present existance:

The McQueen angel heel object fetish

Resting back now against the chair in effortlessly smart black McQ trousers and red Westwood elevated heels I attempt to defend my precious clothes from the purring cat whose claws seek access to my waiting knee.

Be@One with the good side of Heather

I spend a lot of my free time pouring over images of past collections by the likes of Roberto Cavalli, Chanel and Christopher Kane. In occasional breaks from this I check out stylishly quirky Charlotte Olympia shoes and covet items from Westwood and McQueen. A total overload of beautiful fashion that I would love to fill my wardrobe with. Bizarrely, in the midst of all this I discovered a few items I'd love in my wardrobe among an upcycled (yeah, just like other vintage lovers, those words usually chill my heart) fashion range called Be@One by none other than Heather Mills.
Despite the McCartney divorce debacle, and the press trying very hard to make matters worse, my feelings on the ex-Beatlegirl are very positive. I know she grates on people's nerves and makes people cringe a bit when she gets fired up about something (like press harassment, the slaughtering of innocent animals and other such things that other people think are perfectly reasonable... note my heavy sarcasm) but for goodness sakes, she's hardly the devil incarnate.

I remember when she first appeared as Paul's new girl in the papers. I worked at The Beatles Shop in Liverpool back then and my circle of friends, colleagues and aquiantances was heavily populated by hundreds of Beatlemanaics. Despite this huge number of McCartney admirers that I came into contact with, only myself and my friend Eleanor were happy that Paul had found a companion to somehow lessen the huge gap that Linda had left. Admittedly I'm a major Beatlegirl supporter, but Linda was my vegetarian heroine so standing by her husband's side was still a difficult place to step into. It had taken me years to accept the lovely Nancy Andrews for replacing Maureen Starkey in Ringo's life and I still haven't really forgiven the Beatle himself for divorcing her. So new women in the life of a Beatle is actually a big deal on planet me.

Paul had been looking decidedly lost and empty for a long while after Linda died, and then I noticed during the launch party for his new album Run Devil Run that the missing sparkle had finally returned to his eyes. I decided that Heather was the reason. He'd found a feisty vegetarian woman to bring back the fire in his life. I always have that to appreciate her for if nothing else. I also feel that she and Paul were well matched in that they were like a mirror reflecting each other's good and bad points in equal measure. She came out of that looking bad while he emerged much the wiser and much more media savvy. She's also a remarkable woman for battling through her disability and always working hard for others with her work for fellow amputees and her fight for animal welfare.
She's also the mother of Paul's youngest child so whenever any of my fellow Beatlemaniacs say anything petty about her (and I mean when this happened even before the divorce started) I have the overwhelming urge to scream at them til they get the message. I don't of course, but I often feel like it. I did once wonder how the volume of nasty divorce articles weighed up against the catty remarks from female journalists old enough to know better when the marriage had been announced in the first place... but I have a life to be getting on with and it'd take me about thirty years to count them all.

Some of the things she does can be a little misguided and the press jump upon them instantly. I've noticed that they don't give page space to the good things she does, but then that would ruin the public's negative opinion of her and that would never do. Bizarrely the very mention of her good work tends to drive people mad as though she spends all this time and money on good causes just to wind them up.

The press are so successful in their hatred of her that they've even clouded my mother's vision. My mother knows well my adoration of Beatlegirls, to the extent where she bought me a letter written by Maureen Starkey in the 1960s as a birthday present. Always taking an interest in my interests and enjoying being the first to hear about something Beatle related before I do, you'd think she was clued up. But like I said, the press have got to her. When it was announced that Heather would be appearing in Dancing On Ice my mother declared her stupid for even thinking she could do such a thing. I reminded her that Heather had managed fine on Dancing With The Stars, and that long before meeting Paul she'd been in the running to represent our country skiing in the Paralympics. Thankfully she managed to change quite a few people's minds on that show, and - more importantly if you're Heather Mills - she got people to think about the abilities of amputees rather than the disabilities.

Anyway, you all get it now. I like the woman. Deal with it. ...and if anyone wants to treat me to a visit to her much praised vegan restaurant VBites/ for Italian vegan ice "cream" and give me the dress below from her upcycled collection I'd be very pleased. ;)

McQueen is dead, Long live McQueen

Today I learnt of the passing of such a great artist that his work makes my heart and soul ache with desire for it. And not only that, his art is fashion and anyone reading this knows my love of fashion.

I've posted pictures of pieces by Alexander McQueen on here before so it's already known how much I admire his work. But that wasn't all, I also admired his breathtakingly spectacular catwalk shows and am envious of anyone who had the chance to attend them. Many talk of the wonder of the Chanel shows with designers such as Lagerfeld who prowl on stage at the end like the reigning monarch of cool.

These were nothing compared to McQueen. His shows were true, exquisite performance art and can stand alone as an art piece without even considering the clothes themselves. But do consider the clothes. McQueen was said by the press to design unwearble fashion, but I can't see anyone being unable to find at least one piece among his work that they wouldn't glady add to their wardrobe. The key is not to walk out in them like you would in a McQueen catwalk show, but to take one item and see how spectacularly it enhances the rest of your look.

I can see this and I have yet to afford one of his pieces. I just gaze at them with longing and want to cheer those who wear them with such style and brevity. Pure decadence, pure beauty and the inspiration behind them never seemed to come from anyone else in fashion.

For example one of his most recent creations, the reptile print dress.
Prints are back in, everyone is wandering the fashion capitals covered in chintz and geometric finery. Graffiti style is wondrously creeping back into the mainstream... and McQueen gives us a reptile print arranged so beautifully that it is like an abundance of the most exotic flowers. But miles better.

It's made me appreciate reptiles all the more, and I'm already madly in love with the fabulous colouring of my friend Charley's bright orange and utterly adorable domestic snake "Penny". I'm the sort of person who prefers animal skin and animal print on the animal. Only rarely does someone design something wondrous enough to change my mind on this.

Everyone's still making things out of alligators, snakes etc but not in the same way as McQueen. He's taken the beauty of them without having to cover things in their own skin. I even know someone who's bought an exensive handbag recently which comes with a letter stating that the snake died of natural causes. I think it a hideous thing and don't believe the document in the slightest. I'd rather have the McQueen dress any day of the week.

But now back to his catwalk shows. Some of you may have missed them and there's so much footage out there to see. Here's a little blast through some of the finer moments to whet your appetite, inform, inspire and delight.



My own favourite catwalk show was when he placed the models inside a mirrored box so that they couldn't see the audience. Instead they danced and played up infront of their own image in the mirrors. All the while the audience sat around the box being able to see through the mirrors to view the whole bizarre scene. If I'd had a ticket to sit on the front row for that - with my nose to the glass - I'd have passed out halfway through with utter overload.

So whether you're new to the world of McQueen or you love him as much as - or more so than - I do, glory now in his work, his mind, his creativiy. They say the way to ease a soul after it's passing is to think good thoughts of them rather than to weigh the soul down to earth with tears, inviting the soul to comfort those left behind. His soul is with his mother now, the woman who obviously nurtured him and his talent and who passed away but days before him. Let them be together and at peace.

The wisdom of Roberto Cavalli

"Anyone is capable of doing minimalism. I won't, because it's horrible."

Shopping With Staff

I hate shopping. Anyone who knows my love of clothes, has seen the amount of "junk" (clothes, books, music, pictures) in my house or the amount of bags I return from a shopping trip with will be astonished by this. But I really do truly hate the experiance.

Fighting through crowds of other girls on the high street looking for an item of clothing is my idea of hell. Hate it. I either know there's something there I want (spying it in the window on the way past or knowing about it from a magazine or friend) and can dash in at great speed and grab one in my size or it's not going to happen. It inspires a stress headache within minutes and you only have to mention the word "Primark" to me and I get an overwhelming feeling of nausea at the idea of the chaos in that kind of a building.

This is why I tend to return from a shopping trip with zillions of bags. I have spent weeks building up plans of what I need and where they are and can cover all of the high street shops in Leeds in about an hour to grab my entire wish list.

Now to supermarkets. I have an actual phobia of them. Apparently this is very common and was the original meaning of agoraphobia (Greek for "fear of the market place"). I have lately been learning to tackle this and can now browse occasionally when the place is quiet. I now emerge the majority of the time without running at a breakneck speed out of the doors with tears stinging my eyes and my heart pounding at ninety miles an hour. If you take me there when it's busy and I actually get through the doors it's likely I'll abandon the trolly and run for the exit part way through. Most days I nauseously build myself up towards the idea of going, put on a brave face, and hope to emerge with ingredients that can actually be constructed into a meal or two. Tesco Online is a total Godsend for actually stocking my cupboards with sensible items once in a while.

A member of staff bothering me in a shop will be greeted with a look of panic. Someone at the checkout suggesting I go back to the kitkats and buy two smaller packs because it's cheaper that way is enough to cause me to feel faint. It's lovely that they're trying to help but my aim is to get out of the building as quickly as possible. Just what I don't need is someone demanding I walk past the queue of people waiting behind me to swap things round and then looking at me crazy and getting cross when I say I'm fine with my more expensive larger packet.

"Shopping with staff" is however a whole different board game.

What I like is going to a nice quiet boutique with enough space around me that I can breathe, and staff on hand to assist me in finding what I desire. That I love. I could sit in Vivienne Westwood for hours on the comfortable furniture while staff run around finding me shoes in an array of colours. I sigh with pleasure as they suggest alternative items and teach me how to fasten a belt in a way that means I will forever discard the normal way of fastening a belt because it's not as beautiful as the way that "Vivienne likes it".

Liverpool's Hervia Westwood Store

This is a pleasure that my father taught me on rare trips to city department stores in the search for a new party dress. It could be his fault why I have wardrobes full of evening wear but lack any knowledge of how to do "casual". I was about seven before I even tried on a pair of jeans and I remember learning to climb walls in a white smocked dress and black patent shoes.

This "shopping with staff" pleasure is one that must be enjoyed with a friend otherwise it looses the full joy. Having dragged dearest Charley off on a few of these trips, I fear that we are now fully fledged addicts. Our last trip to Leeds involved us being accosted in Lush by envious staff wanting to know what we had in our multiple giant pink Westwood bags, then having trouble fitting everything into the boot of my teeny tiny little Ford Fiesta.

Goodies found in Leeds by Charley and myself

Talking of Lush, this is another shopping pleasure. Again as much because of the products as the staff. Yes I love cosmetics, yes I trained as a beautician and hairdresser so I understand them, and yes I do find Lush products to be one of my great indulgences. But the experiance of going into somewhere with such happy, enthusiastic, quirky and knowledgable staff is an absoloute pleasure. If I want a specific type of product but don't know what to get I just ask their advice and they always come up with the perfect item. If I'm in a rush I can tell them what I need and they'll help me grab everything. If I'm not in a rush I tend to ask if there's anything new in stock and they'll do more than just tell me, they'll try the products out in front of me as they explain about them. Thus I emerge excitedly with new Lush goodies to use, cradled in hands that have just been pampered using half the products now stored in my goodie bag. I've also never had a moment in any Lush shop where the member of staff couldn't answer my questions about the products. Right down to where the ingredients are sourced and why they are in the product in the first place.

Another place I love for it's exquisitely fabulous staff is Harrods Urban retreat. I was lucky enough to win a day of pampering there and I emerged well and truly pampered. I would recommend to anyone the utter bliss of a visit to the Roja Dove Haute Parfumerie there for a fragrance consultaion. It was one of the most decadent, sense inspiring experiances of my life, and I'm a the kind of person who hunts down decadence and sensual pleasures with an unending passion for more.

Roja Dove

Just imagine lounging against embroidered silk and velvet pillows, surrounded by exotic perfumes incased in exquisite cut glass and gold bottles, being lulled by gentle music and having your mind and senses led poetically through a beautiful path of perfumes until you reach your own perfect scent.

How I ever emerged from there alive and didn't just die of absoloute bliss I have no idea. Anyway, I was originally a devoted Jicky by Guerlain girl and have now realised that my soul should be bathed in Amazone by Hermes.

*sigh*

If all shopping were like that, I'd truly be it's biggest fan.

All PVC and no Bacofoil

Following the previous post, I now have a quest to source a vintage "bacofoil" style outfit. I am hoping that the lovely Miss peelpants will find me one, or that we can somehow get the incredible Vivienne Westwood to create me something.

I seem to be all PVC and no Bacofoil. I love my vintage and 60s styled PVC coats. The purely black super shiny one I always used to wear down the Cavern Club that Gill borrowed in the picture below:

The matt black one I wore until it disintegrated:

The super fab black and white one with the see-through coloured polka dots (it's a bad picture but it just about shows how cool my aubergine and silver Barbara Hulanicki wallpaper is in the background):

And my much worn long red PVC coat that you can just about see in this picture of me in the presance of the wondrous and sparkly Groupie Queen Miss Pamela:

I did have a short red vintage PVC coat just like the one Maureen Starkey had (she lent it to her first husband Ringo Starr to wear during the famed Beatles roof top gig) but I left it on a bus in London. :( It had taken me years to find one, and then I stupidly lost it on the way back from seeing Ringo perform a song at Wood Lane for the National Lottery. I blame Beatlemania for my stupidity. It's all Ringo's fault. Bad Beatle! :(

I also managed to rip a pair of red PVC trousers somewhere on a tour with some band on an evening so hazy I can't even remember it straight. ...but thankfully replaced them with a new pair in Chicago when taken to the quirkier shops by one of my best friends there whom I miss very much. The only pic I have of them is me with my lovely BBA soul sister Penny in my crazy 60s lounge:

The long purple velvet coat I wore in that picture is also long since dead from being worn to death. Thankfully the cute Dollyrockers coat Penny borrowed in that photo is still going strong.

So, lots of PVC, but no bacofoil. Just a pair of silver covered 60s "space age" sandals that I no longer dare wear in case the silver covering comes off. :(