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Monthly Archives: January 2017

Fallopian dude

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So here La is in California’s City of Angels, the day after an orange clown became president.

Setting aside los fears of walking into a wall of earnest types sporting burlap sacks, overalls, tie-dyed tees and other activist clothing, La marched. With the women. And some progressive dudes. 

There were uteruses. 

There were pink puppies. 

And leopard puppies. 

And much to the puppies’ collective joy, there were pussies. Everywhere. 

Princess Leia was there in spirit, bringing her Resistance wisdom. 

One of La’s marching buddies lost a bit of her ‘swamp’ ‘s’…so she improvised and repaired it with pink lip crayon, which seemed appropriate. 

The vibe was friendly and supportive, but with a distinct and unignorable undertone of angry lady with twisted knickers and a bellyful of rage. Loved it. 

There were the old-school crunchy-granola left coast hippies, whom you could tell were thrilled from the crowns of their wiry grey hair to the hems of their burlap overalls that once again people were taking it to the streets. 

And then there were the pink pussy hats. Fleece ones…

…through to a finer-gauge knit…

…all the way through to ones that had been knitted with rolling pins. 

There was humanity in all its glory, shouting about making the world right. Some were very small. 

Some were channeling Michelle. 

And most were there to be part of something that reminded them that the whole world hadn’t lost its mind.

And so we marched. And it felt good. 


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La favourite thing on this holiday is breakfast.

Specifically, breakfast at Colbert. 

In my eyes, Chris Corbin and Jeremy King can’t put a foot wrong when it comes to old-school, mahogany-trimmed, straight-backed-waiter dining. From the Wolseley, where La once went elbow-to-elbow with poor old AA Gill, to the Delaunay, where we dine with AB and Marty over pink bubbles, I love these blokes and their posh nosh shops. 

This isn’t a trip where we’ve ‘done’ much. Seriousimo’s health has seen better days, so he’s rested up and spent time with his folks and fronkly, 2016 plum-tuckered us out. So there’s been much languishing on squishy sofas. Public preconceptions of my commitment to shopping far outstrip the boring reality: I’m not actually a fan. Having stuck my noggin into Selfridges briefly, all I did was perve at the Célines and order a quick tonging of the hairs at Hersheson’s drop-in blow-dry bar. 

What I want to do is this: sit quietly with a morning rag (enjoying the vast array of choice) and a flaky pastry, and see old friends.

Here at 50-52 Sloane Square, my view this minute is right down the barrel of Sloane Square. The Royal Court, where I used to partake of five-quid theatre nights, is to the left of me; David Mellor, where I bought my first sharp knife as a consenting, sterling-earning adult, is to the right. 

And inside here, jostling with the new memories I’m making of this place are other older ones, from when this was Oriel, and VI and I lived merrily beyond our means, sipping Soave and gin and writing bouncy cheques with our guarantee cards (remember them?) while making eyes at eligibles. Her beauty and vivacity often meant I sucked up her sloppy seconds, but – cripes – we were happy.

Oriel’s where my old buddy Cod – one of the procession of thoroughly new and exotic creatures Londra served up to a 22-year-old fresh off the cheapest one-way flight from Brisbane – described a man to me as having “a splodgy World War Two bottom”, a description that simultaneously summed up his humour, powers of observation and facility for language. 

And just now, as I’m wading happily in  the shallow rockpool of my memories, I’m grabbed by a much-missed old friend who’s just arrived at Colbert, one who fled the Wide Brown Land years ago for the comforts of Cheltenham. What are the chances? 

We’re meeting here tomorrow at 9, for a flaky pastry. 

Thanks, 50-52.


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Took Black Céline to visit her chums at Selfridges: a rainbow of leathery gorgeousness.

The saleslady optimistically tried to get La to buy Black Céline and Blue Céline a red-trimmed sister. 

Although the rouge piping almost made La weep, it wasn’t gonna happen. 2017 is set to be a year of economic uncertainty, fronkly, and not the time to be supporting a family of pouting, selfie-obsessed Céline triplets. 

So far the Dumb Clothes pick of the trip is this bowy-sleeved lolly pink jacket. Thoughts? Mine was that I should have deployed the male JCC to do one of his fash-floor vomiting specials nearby.

Wandered through my favourite tube station, Westminster. It’s such a Death Star-esque, Bladerunnerish dystopian nightmare. 

Enjoyed the annual Ferris Bueller’s Day Off with best friend Furrgler. Miss that crazy bird. We’ve been Ferrising since we attached to each other like iron filings and a magnet in our first week of uni approximately 657 years ago. Our first Ferris saw us feast on my special guacamole (secret ingredient: bacon) at La Famiglia Trivialista’s homestead in the Bane of Bris, aged 17. We’ve come a long way in taste and budget. 

We partook of sticky. Who could resist when offered with such style? I swear old Brett Graham has a looks policy when hiring waiters. Every single one was DIVINE, but barely older than an embryo.

One of the Ledbury yummies was this slightly nipplish nibble. Festive and saucy all at once. 

Spotted this in someone’s front room while walking around the rented ‘hood. Can you see? A couple of Oscars and a BAFTA! Would kill to know who lives there. Obv no shrinking violet – the hardware’s clearly displayed for all passersby to see. No Emma Thompson “I keep mine in the loo” humility on Trevor Place. 

Love peeking into London lives.