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I’m finally sitting down to write an email, and the internet cafe we chose (because it was the first one we saw and we were dying – and no exaggeration meant – to pee) is scorching hot. I feel as if I may have been beamed, Scotty-style, into a sauna, replete with American tourists and exceedingly dodgy orange and green paisley wallpaper. As an Irishwoman, perhaps I should be feeling at home. Instead, I am feeling disconcerted, and sweaty.
Incidentally, as an Irish person abroad (and in that capacity only) I have found myself becoming an entirely different person. When confronted with the ignorance of some (unnamed – ahem) nationalities, my patriotism (that I have joyfully just discovered) becomes enraged, and I find myself at quite a loss as to how to behave. Yesterday I asked some poor soul: “What are you looking at?!” in quite an aggressive fashion. I can’t pretend that it wasn’t beautiful – a beautiful moment for all to behold. More than once on this trip I have found myself barking at a hapless foreigner: “Ireland is not in the United Kingdom”; “I’m not British”; “What did you just say?!”; “Do you even know where the British Isles are?!” and so on. Needless to say I have made quite a small number of friends here. This doesn’t upset me half as much as the “British” slur did, which can only be a positive thing.
Transitions On-Line is increasingly seeming to me to be much akin to a tour operator, albeit not a very well-organised one. That said, had I taken the time to read up about them on their website I might either (a) have come to that conclusion previously or (b) have realised that they are so much more. I’m here to learn how to be a foreign correspondent but, in fact, what I have learned, I shall illustrate in a short list, below.
1. People who are from Turkmenistan, as can be heard on a Parisian tour bus, really, really love it, even though ballet and opera have been, until February, banned by law.
2. Czech people do not speak English, or, if they do, they have seen my unhappy face on its approach and have resolved not to speak it to me.
3. Nikon is a really excellent camera make, and, as an addendum to this point, natural light is definitely the best for photographing. Oh, and rain – not so easy to capture on film.
4. If you want to be a foreign correspondent, you should learn the following things: to drive a 4×4 on rough terrain; to speak Arabic / Spanish / Chinese; to dole out cigarettes to random officials at checkpoints; and to strap and unstrap a bulletproof vest in record time.
5. I don’t want to be a foreign correspondent any more.
I’m here, of course, to expand my journalistic skills and abilities, and I can’t say that the course has been an entire wash. Today was the first day that I thought to myself: “Yeah, I’d like to do this.” A few moments later I came to my senses, when a lecturer told us that he was once pulled from his vehicle in Beirut, forced to his knees, and a pistol was inserted in his mouth. Then the trigger was pulled. It was an elaborate joke. He laughed as he told us the story, but I nearly got sick; I can’t imagine that I would have knelt there and let that happen. My desire to keep myself alive would probably have killed me instantly. Oh, the vicious irony.
There is an interesting pack mentality to human beings in groups, I’ve found. The group, excluding myself and possibly three or four others, does everything en masse. Eating, sleeping, laughing… and I find it disconcerting. I’m just not made out for group play. Maybe it’s because I’m attention-seeking, and find it difficult to be in a group without being the leader. Instead, now, I am its outcast. I’m not unhappy with this; the girls I am with are really interesting, funny girls, and I’m happy to explore Prague, rather than sitting in the dorms drinking warm Czech beer. Probably better than warm Irish beer, but still.
The dorms. The Czech Republic is interesting to me because it’s the first former Soviet Union country I have ever been in; and despite the fact that I haven’t been in Russia itself, the country seems so Soviet. The architecture, the people, the landscape. The buildings in the dorm are as uniform as any I have seen; the rooms are identical in size and layout. In my room there is one bed, one bunk, one small table and one desk with two chairs. There is internet access, usually, but it has been temporarily disabled for repairs. The shower rail falls over at least daily, and both taps fall off at the slightest touch. They go back on again, but it can be difficult to deal with if the hot tap has been turned on and the tap has fallen beneath the flow.
And the people… I don’t know how I feel. I understand their pain at being expected to understand English when they have neither inclination nor desire to do so, but they seem less friendly than in any other country I have travelled. But they are only out of Communism 20 years; and there are signs that the country is rebelling, in a way, against its uniform past. There are neo-Nazi skinhead groups (not everywhere, but there); Roma children are segregated in secondary schools and Roma women sterilised in public hospitals; there are few signs of organised religion; there are no Arabs, no Indians and no black people, at least not that I have seen.
This is an odd experience. The map hasn’t imprinted itself on my brain quite yet, and I am permanently unaware of my location. Similarly, I have no idea how large or small Prague city is, or which direction is North, South, or even home (the dorms). I’m not unhappy here, but I am looking forward to coming home. To predictable, if glum, weather – and to the Irish people, who smile, laugh, and resent the British as much as I’ve realised that I do.
Today over on Beaut.ie, the girls are having a fantasy Friday discussion about which they would prefer – to be rich (as in, stinking, want-for-nothing, rich) or to be sexy (as in, scorching hot can’t-touch-this sexy). If you have one, you can’t have the other. Good old-fashioned fun, but disturbing in parts.
Because the general consensus seems to be: sure you’d be rich, but you’d be miserable because you’re so ugly (that was another condition of the abundance of riches – and all the plastic surgery in the world wouldn’t help you). And if you were sexy, well, you’d be “happier on the inside”. But… surely if you were rich, you could still be funny, intelligent, interesting? Provided, that is, you are in the first place.
And, ambition-wise, is the attaining of riches not a more worthy ambition than the attaining of sexiness – which, let’s face it, is not easily attained if you didn’t have it in the first place and is, like all good things, fleeting?
The crux of the matter is that we live in a society in which it is more socially acceptable and, not only that, but is more worthwhile to be sexy than it is to be rich. What can you do with being sexy? What can it get you?
Everything, if the beaut.ies are to be believed. All the men in the world, friends, more men, men to buy you things, men to give you presents, men to take you on trips and wine and dine you (and look! You’re still sexy, even after ten croissants!). So really, all we want is to be good-looking enough to attract men. There were no stipulations, really – any man will do.
Which brings me back to the photoraph. “I’d be tender, I’d be gentle… and awful sentimental, if I only had a man.” Please God, send me a man?
Festivals, that is. And Oxegen was the first of the pair that will eventually include it and Electric Picnic, for 2008 and – according to my parents – the rest of my life (apparently, I’m now “too old” for festivals and should be at home reading Penguin classics instead, not that the idea doesn’t appeal to me a tiny bit).
The temptation, at festivals, is always there to sit around in one’s tent drinking tinnies and watching the sun evade your every glance. This year, determination and sheer strength of will resisted this, and more bands were enjoyed than possibly ever before – which could have a lot to do with the sheer strength of the line-up. While on the subject of the line-up, it was not without its minor problems. MGMT in the pet sounds tent while Kate Nash hogs the O2 stage? Something is amiss with the organisers’ band rankings.
Friday started late, being, as it was, the preserve of the three-day ticket-holders, and we started later than it, with the impressive Battles in pet sounds. It has been said by some that they are much, much better in a smaller venue – say, Vicar St, where they played earlier this year, but they impressed the uninitiated with a stomping set and a very into-it crowd. Next – given a severe disinterest in either Tricky, Aslan or Paddy Casey (who was seen later on in the weekend queuing with the mortals for the shockingly-clean-all-weekend Portaloos) – was a trip to the food area, including a delicious chicken teriyaki from Aya and an unimpressive stale beer, courtesy of Heineken.
The Bacardi bar, as a non-music aside, was a valuable addition to this year’s setup, with cocktails (at €8, yes, yes, festivals are expensive) and a do-it-yourself Bacardi and mixer of your choice for €6, as well as nightclub lights and an excellent dj spinning the hits to go with the general mood. An excellent breather from what could, at times, have seemed like headwrecking indie-rock music.
Ben Folds astonished: an amazing musician, albeit not the most fashionable lad in the house (hats? why?). A great cover of Such Great Heights and a truly enthusiastic performance at a chronically underpacked O2 stage, which seems, really, to have been a recurring theme of the weekend. There’s a general roundup of opinion at Jim Carroll’s blog post on Oxegen.
Skipping the Go! Team was possibly the worst Oxegen decision ever made; having heard tell of Interpol’s greatness, it was decided – and pushed upon several others – to go to see them, thus ensuring proximity to the Followill brothers when they came out next. Big mistake. Big. Huge. Interpol were the snoozefest to end all snoozefests. I am assured by those who are dedicated fans that they were “magical”, but the consensus of everyone I spoke to who isn’t was that they were boring. Not a good sign for a band second to top billing on the main stage Friday night. And boredom + crowd = bad news. The crowd got rowdy, we moved back, grumpiness was all that was felt through Kings of Leon’s decent (but not spectacular) set.
For photographs, given that (a) mine are rubbish and (b) not uploaded yet, check out Lili Forberg’s selection.
Saturday, which had been promised as a sunny day, dawned bright but overcast, with the occasional, vicious shower. The Music played a good set in the green room, although the crowd wasn’t truly appreciated by sitting on the ground at the bag, sipping warm wine out of a Ballygowan bottle. Oxegen is all class, all class. Newton Faulkner was next; some were blown away, I appreciated his talents but not necessarily his performance, if sense can be made of that. He was skipped and replaced by the Ting Tings.
A prequel to my trip to the green room tent for the Ting Tings would go something like this: once upon a time, there was a band that emerged from the black abyss of nothingness, and was hailed as the “next big thing”. Our heroine was irked by this. Firstly, she had never heard of them: how could they be the next big thing? Creating an album in one’s garage does not everlasting fame assure. Secondly, their rise to the top reeked of the great PR machine and (more on this in a later post), PR killed the radio star. But….
Despite reservations, and the fact that the (massive, enormous, huge) crowd was there for that song, the Ting Tings killed it. A backing track didn’t at all dilute the fact that this band are going to be massive – they came, they gave, they conquered, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place [sweat, you see].
Next, the Counting Crows provided an irritating backing track to a half-hour of sitting on our rain ponchos, enjoying the lack of … well, rain, before Amy Winehouse – for whom we battled our way to the front, amid choruses of “I want her to punch me in the face!” We all saw the Glastonbury coverage, Amy. There is a lot that could be said about Mrs Amy Winehouse (as she was presented). But her life is not for my delectation, nor for yours, and media coverage that discusses her performance at Oxegen while speculating that she was on cocaine, or drunk, or out of her head, is unfair and, frankly, none of anybody’s business. If the world ran smoothly Amy Winehouse’s personal preferences would be unknown to us, and we would – shock, horror – be forced to judge her solely on the merits of her performance.
From where I was standing, she put on a good one. There is no denying her unmistakeable talent, or the power of her voice (emphysema or no). But there was an odd, disconcerting lack of connection with the crowd. Sure, she blew kisses – but to whom? Her eyes didn’t connect, and she seemed uncomfortable, almost as if she was going through the motions. Forgetting the lyrics isn’t as huge a problem nor as unusual a one as others are making out, but it did cause a general sigh of disappointment: oh, here it comes, here she goes. To engage for a moment with the tabloid gossip though, she did look great – not a protruding bone in sight.
Stereophonics were next, and, from where we were standing – nearby but not listening – they sounded fairly mediocre. Then came REM, who put on a stomping good show, for the five songs I did see. But they couldn’t keep me away from Hot Chip, who were amazing. They played the pet sounds tent which was momentarily converted into the dance stage – for which I was, granted ,not in the mood, but Over and Over was a definite highlight of the entire weekend.
Sunday…. and what a sun day. The sun shone, the heat was heavy – my scalp and forehead bear the marks of the vengeful Apollo. Not abandoning the tent on time, Lightspeed Champion were missed, as were Delorentos, but the Blizzards were caught, while lounging in the sun. The boys from Mullingar have now – correct me if I’m wrong – played Oxegen four times, relying on the same material from one album. Lazy, no? Apologies to those whose patriotism this may offend, but being an Irish band does not entitle you to play on the main stage; the Blizzards are neither big enough nor, in my opinion, accomplished enough to warrant this compliment. Get ‘em off, I say – back to the O2 stage where they belong. The main stage was practically empty for their set, which is not good news. And while the weather can be blamed for people’s relaxed and somewhat lacklustre approach, hail, rain or shine won’t deter an enthusiastic festival crowd.
The Kooks are the perfect sunshine band, and proved this as they followed the Blizzards and enlivened the crowd. But they were abandoned for the amazing MGMT (is it MGMT, or Management? said, like), whose set was amazing for the last three songs and slightly dull for the first three. The crowd, spurred, according to some, by enthusiasm (although in my opinion it takes a certain type of boredom to encourage this kind of action) began climbing the support towers, and one crazy b**ch climbed up to the very top, slipping slightly on her way down – who was she trying to kill? – resulting in MGMT leaving the stage for around 15 minutes until the crowd had calmed down. Encouraged by a very calm security man “now, calm down, just … calm down”, we did, and they resumed. Electric Feel was, unsurprisingly, amazing. Just…. beautiful.
Band of Horses were as good as they were in Tripod some months back, which is to say amazing. Some new stuff (promising), songs from Cease to Begin (great), and some controlled swigging out of a Jameson bottle endeared them to all and sundry.
Róisín Murphy leapt on to the stage in the first of seven costumes, with two dancer / singers who were tip-tapping robotically to the synthesised beats of her best-known and lesser-known tunes. Ms Murphy stole her own show, if that’s possible. There were moments when it seemed she was performing more for the cameramen than for the audience, but I’ll forgive her that – I’ve been known to engage in a bit of camera-wooing myself. She was mesmerising, though, that’s the truth.
In all, Oxegen 2008 was a vast improvement on Oxegen 2006. Tents were burned, it’s true, but only at the end and they seemed, in general, to be being set alight by their owners. Wasteful, yes, but not necessarily vindictive. Security was plentiful, as were stewards and general helpfulness. Portaloos were clean, and for the first year in my memory, there were real, live bins. And the eco-cups gave a lot towards overall arena cleanliness.
Oxegen, I’ll be back.
So hopefully this year’s Oxegen experience won’t be like the above picture. The last one I was at was not all that muddy, but there were random strangers fireballing tents, which was somewhat less than enjoyable.
But this year, no… I have the dry shampoo, the wet shampoo (for those hot showers that they’re providing, and on the website go to great pains to describe as “FREE” [their caps, not mine] as if they could reasonably charge for running water in Kildare), the wellies (not Hunters, but I do want them, the fashion whore in me will not be silenced). Anyway, one could say I am prepared. Then again, one could be wrong – one can never be prepared for the festival-related surprise, the event that you never saw happening, the event that you hope never to repeat (like 2006’s episode when a good friend was tumbled while inside a Portaloo…).
Wish me luck. I will hopefully be back to blogging, with vigour, on Monday morning, when the mud and the filth have both been washed off my weary limbs.
These guys have been doing it for a while now: gigging, creating a fan base, taking time off, having a life (having three lives, between them) – and now this. They have produced what is, arguably, the most moving, most innovative, original, artistic, video ever produced by an Irish band.
Featuring Laragh McCann, Ireland’s first lady of the modelling world – who has managed to keep herself out of Stephen’s Green and off the pages of the Sindo, the video is a bootstrap with which any other Irish bands trying to make it on the scene should be pulling their socks up with.
If StarLittleThing are going to make it big, it’s going to be on the back of this tune, and this video. Both are beautiful, and, for effort, no one deserves it more.
Last night at Crawdaddy were Operator Please, a quintet from Down Under with a remarkable similarity to the Gossip and a taste for somewhat obscure, if not unamusing, lyrics: “I bet you know beef jerky has an aftertaste”. Indeed.
The fivesome, who have just graduated school – in Australia-Ireland conversion terms, that makes them… what, 17 years old? It makes them a good deal younger than I am which, frankly, don’t impress me much. Quoting Shania Twain lyrics at will don’t impress me much either, but it seems I am at the point of no return.
A keyboard, two guitars (one bass, and it seems to be an eternal problem with live music that the bass is amped up just that tiny bit too much. Tone it down, guys – the bass is for ambience, loike), one set of drums being played by a cute-as-a-button 17-year-old buachall and, thrillingly, a violin. It seems a terrible cliche to describe a violin in a rock band as an original touch but, despite it being at this point, a bit “normal”, it still gives a thrill. Why? There’s something haunting about a violin riff; perhaps it’s due to classical training, although the giver-upper in me would say nay to that – classical training does not a classical musician make. Maybe it was not all a lost cause though, and it created in me an appreciation of music above and beyond what I might otherwise have possessed.
In any case, the violin added a certain je ne sais quoi to a band that are, let’s face it, just a little bit too new to be brilliant. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good, and they’re there, full-force. And their newness isn’t necessarily a good enough excuse for their not being brilliant. Lykke Li managed it, did she not?
Their best songs were, inevitably, their most popular. A Song About Ping-Pong got the crowd going, as did Zero Zero and Leave it Alone. And, for an Aussie band, the audience was in the main Irish – Aussie bands tend to attract an Aussie crowd; it’s as if the emigrants can’t bear to be parted from their precious comrades for too long. How else could one explain the frequency with which Powderfinger – who have not made a splash anywhere beyond those Antipodean climes – play the Emerald Isle? Maybe Irish bands do the same on their shores, but I can’t imagine being particularly drawn to go see The Blizzards play Sydney.
The keyboardist was pretty slick, if a little lacking in stage presence. Typically enough, Amandah Wilkinson, the lead singer, stole the show. Part Beth Ditto, part Lovefoxxxx, part just herself, Wilkinson tore through their hits with a wild abandon belying her age, if not her shoe size. A little difficult to understand (those youngsters do tend to mumble), but it didn’t matter – she was there, and we were watching.
In a thrilling, and refreshing turn of events, the band played no encore – which is how it should be; only if the audience really campaigns for one should any musical event be extended. These days it’s like that song: I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day. The encore has lost its magic, its allure, its element of surprise. Well, Operator Please surprised. In fact, on both counts; a peek into the backstage area showed bottles of Coke, all lined up on a little side table. Not to be too patronising, but isn’t that cute? Coke – and not the white stuff – at an Oirish gig. Whatever will we see next?
That headline may be misleading; but this is not a newspaper and, as such, I am under no obligation to make sense, which is a joyous occasion in itself.
Yesterday was the fourth Toe jam car boot sale at the Bernard Shaw: the sun shone, the scenesters came out in their hordes (but where are they on a regular day? Where?). The Topshop style advisors were there; Clare, Ciara and Lauren showed their faces and haggled people down (‘I’ll take it for a fiver’, ’sure, no problem’, ‘I should’ve said €4…’); falafels were eaten, cupcakes were scoffed, deliciously chewy chocolate chip cookies were snarfed, from Jo Murphy at the ingeniously-named Píosa Cake (even though Lauren had to point out the double-language wit, and I being the bilinguist an’ all).
The sun definitely helped, but, looking around, it was hard to see past the atmosphere of goodwill and general happy-making. The wares on sale were secondary in importance to the music, the ambience, the beerswilling (in a thoroughly calm and rational fashion) and the camraderie.
Bodytonic’s John Mahon was nothing but enthusiastic, optimistic and, above all, thrilled with the way the car boot sale has taken off. “I knew in my head that it would take about three of them to get a firm footing, to let the buzz get out there,” he says. “But it took off a lot more than I ever expected. The last one was amazing, it was a packed-out event. It kind of feeds itself; I have a Facebook page set up for it, and even though I only have 250 friends (on Facebook), there are 1,500 peole invited.”
And, while the aim of the car boot sale is overwhelmingly commercial for everyone involved (“We wanted to get business in the pub early, and to get Saturdays busy – and to use the carpark space we had, which was being underused,” says Mahon), there is no mistaking that this is about so much more than [lately, apparently pretty sparse] cash.
“We’re here to make a little bit of cash,” says Carly Moffitt who, along with friend, fellow student and fellow artiste, was there with her stall, Paradise Found. “But we’re also here to have a little bit of fun.” The two, art students who have just graduated in fine art from IADT, had sold eight things by 2pm. Not a bad haul, considering the sale only started at 1pm.
“We heard about it in Totally Dublin; there was an article about it,” Moffitt tells me. “We didn’t make anything to sell, it’s mostly stuff that we’ve accumulated in our houses.” The two talk to me while haggling, rearranging displays, and ensuring that their signs are prominently displayed at the front of the stall. “We painted all our signs ourselves!”
In another corner, selling items, literally, from the boot of her car, as well as from a clothing rail, some stacked-up boxes and some assorted cabinets, is Zonja Cleary. “I’m just clearing out my wardrobe,” she says. “I’m downsizing!”
Down one end of the carpark, there are two young fellas selling classic sunglasses, Kanye West-style, as well as, oddly, two Jerry Springer videotapes. The Best Of and Dramatic Romances. “They’re classics, classics!” they tell my retreating back.
Breffni McGeough is selling an assortment of goodies: books, records, and vintage clothes supplied by Ellen Kenny, who’s just graduated from the MA in Creative Advertising in DIT. “We’re Recession Retail,” says McGeough, “reasonably-priced crap.” Cigarette hanging from his lips, he tries to interest me in Alan Carr’s How to Stop Smoking. “It really works,” he says. He has a bright future ahead of him in pantomime.
“Most of the clothes are Ellen’s,” he admits. “But we’re selling all kinds: clothes, a few bits and bobs, books, videos… The main reason we’re here is just to get rid of stuff, clear out. And it’s a bit of fun.”
Píosa Cake’s Jo Murphy is a car boot sale regular, hitting the fortnightly Greystones sale, as well as sales all over Dublin, when they happen to occur. “This is the first Toe jam boot sale I’ve been at,” she says. “I noticed it because of photo bloggers [the last one was hit particularly heavily with the photoblogging phenomenon; check out Dublinstreets for a look]. This one is completely different to the other car boot sales; it’s a much younger crowd, for starters. It’s a completely different atmosphere; here, everyone’s having such a great time. There’s music, there’s more fun… It’s less people’s businesses, I suppose, and more about the enjoyment.”
“The beauty of car boot sales,” according to Mahon, “is that, what’s one person’s junk, is gold to another person. There was a car here last time, and I thought ‘this is so crap’. They were selling really boring books, golf clubs… and they made €600. That’s the beauty of it.”
Bodytonic, the organisers of the Toejam events, don’t advertise anything. “We’ve never ever paid for advertising, so we challenge ourselves to work by word-of-mouth.” This has its ups and its downs; while the car boot sale was colourful, fashionable, fun, and there was a good vibe, it did succumb to the modern evil of Dublin life: the scene. There was a real sense of an “it-crowd” at the event; and the clothing, although hideously trendy, was almost uniform. Artist Christopher O’Reilly (Cricky) once told me that this is an Irish thing. “You see it everywhere; it’s like a social uniform.”
I was sorry, when I got there, that I hadn’t dressed up; but then again, if I had, I still wouldn’t have been a scenester, I would have been a wannabe scenester, and there ain’t nothing worse.
The next Toejam car boot sale is on August 2nd; see the website for details, and contact john@bodytonicmusic.com to register your car and your goodies, but if you’re selling vintage clothes, beware: “I try and edit what people sell, so that it’s not all the same. Last time, it was very clothing-heavy. We try and strike a good balance.”
Check it out if you’re around Dublin, and if you’re not, it might just be worth a day trip. The Bernard Shaw is at 11-12 Richmond St, Portobello, Dublin 2.
- My apologies to those who were told this would be in a well-established national publication; the article was pulled due to reasons beyond my control, and so my lowly blog will have to do, for now. Thank you for your time, your chats and your enthusiasm.
Some advertisement uses that line as its tagline, does it not? It escapes me now; perhaps it has something to do with women’s monthly matters, that does strike some form of chord.
What I refer to here, however, is Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret, my entire review of which I shall reserve until later, only to make a small objection to page 28 of my copy. The first 27 pages are taken up with talking, at length, about positive reinforcement and wavelengths and energy (and, despite my tone, I am attempting, for Abigail’s sake, to keep an open mind). But on page 28 came this challenging idea:
“Often when people first hear about this part of the Secret [their caps, not mine, and 'this part' to which they refer is the idea that when you think good thoughts, you get good things, in a nutshell] they recall events in history where masses of lives were lost, and they find it incomprehensible that so many people could have attracted themselves to the event. By the law of attraction, they had to be on the same frequency as the event. It doesn’t necessarily mean they thought of that exact event, but the frequency of their thoughts matched the frequency of the event… Nothing can come into your experience unless you summon it through persistent thoughts.”
Pardon me, but I find it not only incomprehensible but inconceivable and slightly offensive to think that this woman is suggesting that people who die as a result of murders, natural disasters, road traffic accidents, and so on, die because they were thinking bad thoughts. Is that not another way of shifting blame on to the victim? No wonder people loved The Secret.
Full review to come.
P.S. I remember now: it’s from a Pantene ad.
The great size debate: will it ever stop? How did it ever begin? “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels”, says Mr I-went-to-rehab-because-of-my-broken-foot Steve Tyler. There you have it: thin is in. But – oh – then we see Kelly Brooke, “I use sex to stay in shape” (could I have tailor-made a comment directed at men only, that would have been it. In close second would be “I just love baking; I’d much rather stay at home and bake than go out”, Ms Longoria).
So what is the answer? Are we better with a bit of junk in the trunk? Is a lady better with some lady lumps, or should she be on the treadmill faster than you can say “Coke bloat”?
The truth is, there is no easy answer; predictably, and, sadly, unoriginally, it’s up to you – and they do say that there’s nothing more sexy than confidence. Tragically, that phrase is usually heard coming out of the perfect lips of Ms Jolie or, occasionally, Ms Lopez, so it would stand to reason that being sexy makes you confident in the first place; for those of us who were never sexy, confidence is therefore unachievable, and we can never be sexy, as one begets the other (the chicken, you ask, or the egg?).
What is important is the size you wear, usually relative to the size you are. If you are a size 14 (you’ll know because Topshop will rarely fit you, French Connection will allow you to squeeze into a 12 and Warehouse will do the deed every time), chances are you may wear a size 12, even when you’re not shopping in French Connection – leading to a dreaded case of muffin top, or, in extreme cases, the dreaded camel toe. It may seem vulgar, but nothing’s more vulgar than catching a glimpse of someone’s nethers while they stroll along, apparently without a care in the world.
And, come on, nothing makes you look less attractive than an ill-fitting garment. Exhibit A, a lot of girls in Dublin. (Dublin girls, in general, are Ciara’s territory and she is penning a tome about them, to be published some time soon). Exhibit B, a few boys in Dublin. Muscles are only sexy if you can fit them in your t-shirt; remember, nobody liked the Hulk when he was angry, except perhaps my Dad, who laughed his way through Jurassic Park (I was seven, and I was traumatised; was a shared fear too much to ask for?).
And the thing is, at the moment there seems to be a kind of backlash against body-con; not in Posh Spice’s territory (the red carpet), but in the real world where layers are in and, excepting the amazing woman seen this morning on the 15B in the high-waisted shorts, red striped maritime sweater and amazing grey boots, people – girls especially – are covering it up. All of it. And then they’re covering that up with something else. And layers, it’s true, they make you look tiny. The more layers, the tinier you are. Exhibit B: Mary-Kate Olsen.
Really, wear what you want to wear (I am a walking cliché today, but it’s late, and I’m tired, and feeling desopndent that my blog has been so neglected. Una managed to go to Glasto and blog her little heart out afterwards) – just buy it in the right size. And if you’re unsure, go bigger: leave room for that extra bit of sumthin’ sumthin’.
