No-one remembers Buster Keaton anymore…


I love this image of Keaton and Chaplin squaring off from Damian Blake’s Deviant Art profile 

You’d be forgiven for assuming that Galliano’s menswear show would focus on purposely shabby, frayed materials if you saw the flurry of twitpics before the show of whey faced Chaplin-alike models with curly hair and suspect mustaches.

Instead it seems more like a play on proportions (tight jacket/baggy trousers) that makes Chaplin the perfect fit (ahem) for the show.



However, when the tailoring and proportions turn more towards the square shoulders and starched collars, the models look more like Buster Keaton, with straw boaters and newsboy caps.


I wish more men dressed like this.  The world would be a much more interesting place if they did.

Watch video of the show here .
Runway photos from


>Last Thursday, an initiative was brought to pass in the form of a decree. On the 17th of June 2010, the people of Cork were politely asked by the mayor not to use that word which starts with an r and rhymes with secession. This was ostensibly a move that would ‘help drive Cork out of recession and into recovery’. Mercifully, I didn’t actually use the word ‘recession’ in my column on that day. Instead I wrote about people who blissfully ignore the recession and carry on spending whether or not they have the resources. Funny that.

In the spirit of belated inclusion I will instead replace the word ‘recession’ with ‘banana’ for the rest of this column and provide a rebuttal to this decree as only a bananaista can.
The banana exists. You cannot ignore the banana. The banana is part of an economic system dependent as much on a bust as it is on a boom. We only have to weather the banana storm that is hailing upon us as best we can, despite the general feeling that we are all on a slow banana boat ride to nowhere.
Nor can we peel back the layers of the banana with an overly-optimistic word like ‘pre-boom’, which is a notion verging on the tragicomic. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the sense of optimism that this generates and the heartfelt effort by the good people of Cork to wholeheartedly attempt to ‘lift (them)selves out of the doom and gloom’ – to spend one day out of the shadow on the banana. Personally if I’m feeling gloomy I prefer a brisk walk with some podcasts and a nice, refreshing drink when I get back in, but each to their own.
Here’s my point; we can ignore the banana just fine, but what would the response be if we decided not to use the word ‘HIV’ or ‘rape’ or ‘Nazi’ and dress every evil sounding word as something more palatable? I would imagine that there would be outrage on many camps and a distinct feeling of diminishment of people who have been adversely affected by these words. They sound that way and carry that resonance for a reason. We can’t just pretend that something doesn’t exist or that if it sounds better, that it somehow doesn’t make an impact. You have to call a spade a spade. Lest we forget; a banana by any other name would taste as sweet.

Linkage Love Special – online magazines

>Like a lot of people, I’m stuck somewhere between online content and magazines.  Both have their advantages; my favourite elements are the tactility of the paper, the layouts and the flip factor, where you can flip from page to page without waiting for it to load or come up all funny because your connection is bad.

In between online content and paper is the online magazine, where you can flip from page to page and not have to throw anything in the recycling bin when you’re done, or if you’re like me, let it gather dust on your tv.  Here are some of my favourites.


Antler Magazine
I don’t know how long antler has been out or even how old the most recent issue is, but that is a good indicator of what kind of magazine it is.  Fresh, slightly Lula-ish layouts and themes run amok all over the pages and there’s an emphasis on Etsy sellers that are otherwise ignored by more established mags.

I Want You
I’m wandering slightly off the mark here as I Want You isn’t a fashion magazine but a quarterly that focuses more on up-and-coming artists like Christina Christoforou and Arnaud Loumeau, whose graphic prints wouldn’t look out of place on the catwalk.  They also run a limited edition print version that is FREE (!!!).  Sorry, I got a bit excited there.

Because this issue the theme is ‘grunge’ and I have a sick, sad love for anything grungy.  The spreads make me want to dye my hair green, which is no mean feat in itself.

Pic: Reserve LA 

A great thing about the advent of online magazines is that old mags can be scanned in that would otherwise only be seen by a handful of people.  To mark an exhibition at Reserve LA, three copies of cult early 80’s LA punk zine NOMAG were put online.  Plenty of inspirational images to be found.

And as an addendum, you can find a full version of the Size Issue of V here.

They don’t make ’em like that anymore…

>Another teeny post where I look at something, go ‘Ah…’ and bung it on the blog.

The first I saw of Mikhail Baryshnikov was when he jumped over a load of bins and ran after the cab in which Carrie left her purse in an episode of Sex and the City.  This is better.

Vogue Paris Dec ’86/Jan ’87 (via tfs )

KYRIE ELEISON… In desperation his mother sent him to church.  Surely, she thought, Metropolitan Neuritikoff could exorcise the feathered demons from Siegfried’s heart… Prayers were offered… candles lit…  incense burnt.

>The good kind of oil spill

>Another short and to the pointless post today.  Packing anxiety has made me only capable of oohing and aahing over pretty pictures and cool things since all my cogent thoughts are devoted to how I’m going to manage to pack and transport a hundred or so books… by myself… without a car.

I love nail art, but my nails tear like tissue paper against wire mesh and I spend most of my time typing so manicures are a serious no-go area.  I recently indulged in a Minx manicure for my sister’s birthday party and was so hypnotised with the results that I kept the transfers on for about a week longer than recommended.

Now my nails are back to their sad, flaky stage due to shoving things in boxes and maniacally taping labels to bin liners filled with clothes.

Twitpic via M.I.A’s twitter 

I’m an M.I.A fan.  I pretty much love almost everything she does and her nail choices are no different.  This is a new Minx transfer due out this summer called ‘Luzion’ and when light shines on it, it looks like a rainbow slick of petrol on water.  Pretty cool, eh?

>Time poor, Cash, eh… poor

>I’ve been spending a lot of time preparing for the big move from one apartment to another and spending no cash whatsoever on fashiony bits due to a deposit-induced cash squeeze. I can only offer tiny titbits or share things I’ve found online for the time being…  Apologies for being kinda crap.  I have got a few posts in the works about Etsy sellers and packaging, the vintage jewellery that my grandmother recently left me and the few vintage style books that I’ve managed to amass so watch this space.

 Today, however,  it’s the work of Hong Kong illustrator John Woo.


You can see all his Star Wars modelled illustrations here (via Refinery 29 ).

Mustard syndrome

>My parents are not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but they are of a generation that has carved out a very comfortable life for themselves through a lot of hard graft and a little bit of luck. Like many people of that generation, they have found to a certain extent that the serendipitous circumstances that helped buoy their earning power (that’s the construction industry then) have also mutated into the reason why the family belts have been summarily tightened.
A friend of mine told me the following anecdote. His mother had just bought a designer handbag on the reasoning that everyone deserves a treat once in a while – nothing wrong with that… if you can afford it. Said friend went grocery shopping with his mother and tried to put some garlic in the trolley. “We already have garlic.” she said, referring to a months-old bulb mouldering away in the fridge. “We have a very limited budget”. She then stuffed some quails eggs and Dom Perignon into her basket and proceeded merrily on her way, cackling and clacking her heels on supermarket linoleum.

That last part didn’t happen. I’m exaggerating. It was actually Parma ham and elderflower cordial.
As we grow up and out of a global financial situation and our core beliefs are shaken by the very people that we put our trust in, is it not reasonable to question our parents and their financial habits? After all, the Church has scarred us, bankers and the government have stripped us of all semblance of trust; why not look to our parents to totally dissolve any faith we might have left in the ability for a human to live a balanced life?
My friend’s mother is merely symptomatic of the older generation of spenders that are obsessed with the trimmings. They spend money on all the little things they couldn’t afford before they became affluent and ignore all the important basic needs.
There are people (of all ages, I might add) with racks and racks of designer dresses hanging on hooks because the money spent buying a wardrobe might be better dispersed on a pair of Choos.
I call it mustard syndrome. You know you have it when you arrive home one day and find that all you have in the fridge is fancy syrup, continental cured meats, expensive mustard and one solitary, greenish garlic bulb softening at the very back.

The intrepid journalist on holidays

>I’ve been invited to go on a family holiday on the Amalfi coast in a few weeks and am looking forward to renting boats and exploring random islands, catching up on the reading and eating an unsafe amount of food.

I haven’t been to Italy for a few years.  Until recently I hadn’t been on any family holidays at all since a holiday with one alpha male and four alpha females can end in tears and most likely, a Borgia-style temper tantrum outside the Duomo.

So, with the idea that holidays are battlefields, I’ll be channelling photographer, model and muse Lee Miller .  GI tailoring, well-groomed hair, a camera glued to my hip at all times… and a helmet for any food missiles that might come my way.




The shoe must go on*

>I’m currently sitting through my fourth football match in twenty-four hours (Japan v Cameroon at the moment, the score is zzzzzzzzzzzzzz…..) and as a form of creative punishment I may force the boyfriend to accompany me to London in September to watch a dance revue all about shoes (!!!) in Sadler’s Wells.

I’m not that much of a fashionophile to go to a po-faced examination of shoes but this is a different creature altogether.  The revue is written by Jerry Springer – The Opera composer Richard Thomas and choreographed by a series of talented people from all facets of dance.

The shoe, sorry that was a Freudian typo, the show isn’t a glorification or a fetishisation of shoes (although I think that there is a shoe-fetish song…) but rather an humour-laced examination of the role footwear plays in our lives.  If you’re lucky enough to have a subscription to the Times Online you can view behind the scenes preparation footage of the show and read the double page feature in yesterday’s Culture supplement.

Subjects that will be touched on includes Imelda Marcos, Sex and the City, Ferragamos, Uggs, Flip-flops, an insidious man in Hush Puppies and best of all:

A song about how utterly shit Crocs are.  Enough said.

PS – The show is called Shoes by the way.  Did you guess that?

*Excuse the pun.  I’m so, so sorry.

Treehouse of Horror – Strictly Irrelevant Saturday

>This weekend I will mostly be watching old Treehouse of Horror episodes.  The old ones are the best methinks…  Actually putting these up is kinda sorta slightly illegal so I shan’t be hosting them, but you can watch them by clicking on the links.  Loopholes, eh?  Bless ’em.


The_Simpsons_405_Treehouse_of_Horror_III – An evil Krusty doll and a King Kong parody. Need I say more?


The_Simpsons_505_Treehouse_of_Horror_IV – Homer sells his soul for a donut, a gremlin only Bart can see vandalises a moving bus and Mr Burns is a vampire.


606_Treehouse_of_Horror_V – No TV and no beer makes Homer something something…