What Girls, Mad Men and The Great Gatsby tell us about changing body image

As a shirt is tugged off, revealing the pale, naked skin beneath, what’s shocking isn’t the nudity. Hey, it’s HBO – we’re used to that. No: as the camera pans over normal – dare I say, “real”? – flesh, what’s so refreshing is to see soft undefined nipples that most men could identify with.

Girls star Adam Driver is part of a new wave of actors fighting against the tyranny of perfect male musculature that has, for too long, been part of the cultural norm.

Sex and the City (still helps with Google hits even after the shit films)

Since Girls is inarguably and definitely a post-millennial update on Sex and the City – you can LITERALLY count the number of main characters in each show and come to THE SAME TOTAL! Also, New York - Driver’s body has clearly been developed as a riposte to the beefy, all-man template of SATC‘s Mr Big, who is literally called Mr Big. Mr Big. Mr Big. Mr Big. And Driver’s character is called Adam, and his actor name is called Adam, and Adam was the first man. Think about that contrast for a moment, and what it might mean (I don’t have time to).

“Yeah, I had a nipplectomy for the role,” you can imagine the actor saying, though he didn’t (say that. Or have a nipplectomy). “It’s important to know I was cast for body type and not talent. I deliberately didn’t get a spray tan either, I just went with my skin, you know?” Some critics (me, just now) call this approach “the nu-Dogme”.

The inevitable backlash?

Yet already there’s controversy. With hundreds of articles each week about Adam’s shirtlessness – this article is actually about the media response to the shirtlessness, not the shirtlessness itself, but in case you’ve missed all those articles, please see the several photographs of Adam’s shirtlessness so you can get the point – could we be reinforcing something about something [subs please fill, I lost my thesaurus three paragraphs ago)?

(We as a society, not just the media - you clicked on this and watched the show, you're culpable too.) Who knows, but HuffPo asked me to write 800 words for free to boost my journalistic profile so one day I could write for free for other online outlets, so let's unwrap this hot potato and dig into some fluffy yet political carbs.

Girls isn't alone in revelling in real men's bodies. Where once advertisers appealed to their chosen demographic with six-packed demigods oiled and buffed to perfection, prancing about topless under showers of cologne or inviting us, the audience, to become voyeurs as we watched them grapple with seven-blade razors, now international brands are catching on to the appeal of the real man, and cashing in them. Rarely an ad break goes by these days without a man being in it, advertising something. It's so real.

Thank god for physical ideals we can all achieve, yo

Then there's Mad Men, a show that has had more than its fair share of media coverage for its promotion of - finally, guys! - an attainable body type. The pale, diminutive Vincent Kartheiser was cast for no other reason than to ride the zeitgeist with this newly popular archetype. Indeed, his character once mentioned Tarzan, I discovered when I googled "Pete Campbell quotes". Honestly I was hoping for something a little more pointed to reinforce my argument, but that's what came up, so let's examine it as particularly telling: who could be more typical of the physical ideal to which men have been forced to live up to than Tarzan?

Yet in interviews, Kartheiser shies away from being the poster-boy for a new type of masculine ideal, preferring to talk about his work. "I'm so bored with the question about my so-called 'body'," said the actor in a compilation quote taken from dozens of different interviews.

Meanwhile, Mad Men's alpha male star Jon Hamm has been asked by show's bosses to pin down his peen with underwear - with real men to gaze at, the producers must have argued, such throwbacks to physical perfection seem old-fashioned and as dusty as an Arnie film on VHS tape in the Blockbusters closing down sale.

The big picture, or 'I ran out of ideas before reaching my wordcount'

Statistically, male membership of gyms is down [to-do list: google "gym statistics"] and Gillette or a similar brand released a razor with just one blade, or I saw some cheap ‘basics’ razors in Poundland, factual evidence which not only supports this hypothesis but is also quoted in the television executive’s memo to show producers, “cast more skinny white dudes”.

Actor-musician Justin Timberlake definitely got the memo too – all of this isn’t just some stuff that’s randomly happened independently of each other, it’s a considered movement – Wikipedia reveals he has part-ownership in Destino restaurant, which serves an $11 cheesecake. Relevant? No, but would Brad Pitt’s smokin’-hot bod in 1991 film Thelma and Louise have come from eating fat- and sugar-rich puddings? I think you see my point.

The internet and its ways

Other cultural zeitgeist touchstones include rising “social media networks” such as Twitter, Instagram and Facebook, where young men are known to illustrate their accounts with avatars of their own faces. Is such confidence perhaps inspired by television’s celebration of real men? I’ve no idea, but by asking the question I can connect two quite disparate themes!

“You see someone like Daniel Radcliffe, who’s quite short, save the world from a typical ‘hot guy’ like Ralph Fiennes, and you think ‘That’s cool and shocking’,” said Dave Daveman,* editor of popular men’s blog Testemony. “It’s definitely made me more comfortable trying on party shirts in the Topman changing rooms. I don’t even think about how many Vietnamese soft rolls to order and how that affects my physique. I just go for it.”

Shocking

Isn’t it shocking that it’s shocking, though? But by the very fact we’re shocked and use the word shocking, we’re shockingly doing something quite revolutionary in a way, which is in itself shockingly shocking.

Twilight

Picture Twilight‘s werewolf, Jacob, with his rippling six-pack and glistening pecs. Seems so old-fashioned, doesn’t it, compared with R-Pattz’s pallid, clammy torso, its muscles painted on (with deliberately poor skill as an homage to fan-art Photoshops)? No wonder Jake doesn’t get the girl – in the current cultural milue, there’s no room for the gym-honed.

Indeed, to step out with bulging arms or admit to gym membership – even if you claim it’s to “feel good” or you exercise “only for yourself” – is a bold political statement; the only statement as newsworthy is to not develop muscles or hone your body through exercise – refusing to partake in the media’s canonisation and demonisation of the masculine physique is fundamentally impossible.

Other famous celebrities

Skinny, gawky stars like Andrew Garfield will sometimes work out loads and claim it’s to serve the role, but does superhero Spider-Man who uses physical strength to swing through the city being a badass really need to have muscles?

Similarly, some might argue that international super-duper famous film star Leonardo DiCaprio who once starred in like the biggest blockbuster of all time, was cast in The Great Gatsby because he’s a big-name star and a tip-top actor. But let’s not forget that between films he sometimes gets puffy faced and looks like a cat.

Finally, remember that time Eminem got kind of fat?

Harriet’s self-published ebook “Pop Goes the Culture: Spurious Connections Between Telly and Other Stuff” is COINCIDENTALLY available now for 99p but she wrote this article from the heart and not for shameless SEO

*Name has been changed by request. “I’m trying to get fit and exercise, actually, but that’s such a statement in itself I don’t wanna, like, betray the brotherhood by being quoted,” said Dave. “I’m so fucking bored with this shit.”

My new blogging role for Virgin Media Pioneers!

In addition to sub-editing, copywriting, proofreading, tweeting idiotic jokes, writing a book, and contributing to various arty websites, I also regularly blog for brand-new startup site Virgin Media Pioneers as part of its expert team.

If you sign up to the site, you can connect with teenage and twentysomething aspiring (and already successful) entrepeneurs, in all sorts of fields — in my capacity as an expert blogger for the community, I concentrate on Fashion & Beauty, Creative Whatnots and The Meeja, so I mostly connect with those types too.

But you can also get involved with everything from Education to Food & Drink, Digital to Transport. Here are a couple of extracts from my first two blogposts:

You need a copywriter. Here’s how to brief one.

At some point, as a fashion designer or creator, you’ll need a press release for the brand or individual product, or some copy on your website, or a blog, and you’re either not a word specialist, or you don’t have the time.

I frequently receive emails like this:

‘Hi, I’d like some writing done for my website, how much will it be?’

Aaargh! Firstly, how much is ‘some’ writing – is the client asking me to write one blog post, make regular contributions, write one holding page, or create the whole content for a new launch?

‘How much’ depends on all of these things, and the more time I have to spend digging out information about what the client wants, the pricier it becomes. (I estimate the number of hours a project will take before I pitch a price – with emails like the above example, I guess that it will take A LOT of back and forth questioning with the client).

Secondly, they haven’t specified what their website is about! Although I try to make clear I specialise in fashion, beauty, lifestyle, pop culture, I can write to other specifications. But I’m not the best match for a technical website about automobiles or pure mathematics…

To read the rest and see my tips for getting the most out of me, visit the original post at the Virgin Media Pioneers “Expert Blogging” site.

I’ve also written on How to Create a Successful Fashion Brand:

Whether you’re a designer, creating a magazine or website, or opening a boutique, there’s more to your brand than simply a fab, unique product or concept. (I’ll cover the brainstorming process and how to come up with unique ideas in a later post).

A lot can rest on whether your brand stands out enough to get coverage; and whether it’s cohesive. What I mean by this is, if Brand X designs luxurious jewellery with an ideal customer who’s sophisticated, likes black dresses and blow-dries, it probably won’t be successful with a wackily spelled name, a lime-green logo and an online shop. Similarly, independently minded customers with a hipster aesthetic might not be charmed by Brand X if it’s sold everywhere on the high street.

Here are some starting points to think about:

The Name

Easy, it just needs to be unique, catchy, easily searchable, sum up your business and ideal customer, not be registered already by a company or as a domain name or social networking handle, stand the test of time…

Want to find out just what I think? Follow the link…

 

Eff Eee Eee Ell Eye Enn Gee See Aye double Ell Eee Dee Ell Ohh Vee Eee

Inspired by a birthday present given to Isabelle OC this week (a bespoke T-shirt with a list of her loves and hates on it, which is AMAZING), I have done an A-Z of things that bring me JOY and an A-Z of things that can poop off. Behold:

FABULOSITY

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STUPIDOS

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What are some things that YOU hate or LOVE enough to spend two hours colouring them in on a Saturday?

I hate you so much right now

Or, a “check yoself” passive aggressive new year’s Twitter (mostly) resolution list…for OTHER PEOPLE.

1. I don’t care about your Last FM stats.

2. I don’t care about your “new jam”.

3. Definitely go for a “strawberry is my jam” joke, LOL amirite?

4. I don’t care what you unlocked on Get Glue.

5. You are not the “mayor” of anything. Buying an egg and cress on brown in Pret a Manger more than once a week is not a municipal government position.

6. LOL! OMG! Someone in a low-wage menial job who speaks English as a foreign language misspelled my name on a takeaway coffee cup!!!! Here’s a picture!!!

7. “Starbucks red cups” is not a “season”. No, not even if you use the Valencia filter.

8. “Thanks for the RT, @name.” I’m really excited to find out someone retweeted you. Are you lonely, too?

9. Tweet more about your boyfriend, do.

10. Manual RTs of unlocked accounts: you are the devil and no one likes you. But “Ha! RT…” is obviously brilliant, you’ve really added value to the joke and we applaud your effort.

11. DM: “thanks for the follow, add me on Facebook”. I will blow up your ISP.

12. MOAR links to your self-published 99p ebook? What a treat!

13. “Cool, a #FF, let me just reply all to everyone on this list.”

14. “Everyone on my timeline is talking about #TVShow. I don’t watch #TVShow.” God, you’re interesting. Make love to me?

15. Thank you for retweeting that celebrity parody account into my timeline so I know to block it in case of future incidences. Together, we can stop this torment. Wait, you were serious?

16. I think the best solution to feminist infighting proliferated by blogposts is to write a blogpost about feminist infighting proliferated by blogposts about a blogpost about feminist infighting proliferated by blogposts.

17. #justsayin = #justunfollowed

18. Did you just RT a compliment? DID YOU? Go to your room.

19. Follow. Wait for reciprocal follow. Unfollow. Repeat. Marvel at your follower:following ratio! Dive into the sea of that ratio like Scrooge McDuck into a swimming pool of gold coins!

20. “Friday night and I’m staying in with a bottle of wine on the sofa, rock’n'roll hahahahaha!” See also: “Hahahaha I’m 23 and I like [incredibly ordinary activity most people enjoy]. Soooo oooollllllllddd!”

21. Everyone has now seen the picture of the dog dressed as two dogs carrying a present.

22. Ditto the dog dressed as a pirate.

23. Seriously.

24. I’m so glad you linked your Twitter to your Pinterest and went on a pinning spree!

25. “Wow, today’s date sure does have numbers in it, in an order.”

26. “So fed up with people saying today’s date sure does have numbers in it, in an order.”

27. “So fed up with people complaining about people saying today’s date sure does have numbers in it, in an order.”

28. Tell me more about your opinion on Caitlin Moran.

29. A breaking news incident! Has anyone made a Gazza, chicken and a fishing rod joke yet? To the keyboards!

30. A breaking news incident! A parody account of this would be SO funny!

31. Hashtag games.

32. “One more follower till I reach an arbitrary number!”

33. Morning.

34. To properly mourn a celebrity, use the following tweet construction: “RIP, Celebrity Name. [Google, Wikipedia, Ctrl+V famous quote].”

35. RIP, Celebrity. Hilarious pun.

36. That “RIP journalism” tweet with the screen grab of a Katy Perry/Russell Brand news story is A YEAR old. Also you stole it.

37. “Hey, @name, something that is relevant only to you.” So glad you included that “hey” first so we could all join in. See also: “.@name.” Fight, fight, fight!

38. On a similar note, we all love it when you complain to corporations on Twitter and let us all watch. Warm fuzzies!

39. “Hahahahaha! MT @name luv ur mangled txt spk shtning of joke.so u cld fit in ur impt comentary.”

40. “Why is #hashtag trending?” Great question!

41. Your gif avatar doesn’t annoy me at all. *eye twitch*

42. Subtweets.

43. Caring so much about the minor irritations of a free social networking site no one is forcing you to participate in– oh…

Daddy be gay and eat candy!

This proves that women are better than men
Oh, Daddy be gay
This proves that women are better than men, they can go down to hell and come straight back again
Daddy be gay and eat candy

The title of this post comes from a song that I sang last night together with a group of amazing women at the Music & Liberation exhibition at Space Station Sixty Five in London. (I don’t have my London-centric hat on either: it just toured the UK, you might have seen it already.)

The opening was attended by women from kickass bands of the 1970s and 1980s, including Ginger & Spice, Sisterhood of Spit, Clapperclaw  and the York Street Band:

(c) John Walmsley 1979

(c) John Walmsley 1979

These women rocked out, made music and wrote wicked songs, but were mostly unheard by the larger world. Last night, and the exhibition as a whole, was a celebration of them. I WISH I could remember the band name of the two awesome women who performed – complete with air bass guitar! – one of their songs about the invisibility of women in history:

Where are the women’s faces?
Our lives leave no traces
There is no place
For us in your chronicles
History is no place for a lady

Edit! This ace performance was by Clapperclaw. I forgot to mention you can buy a CD of recordings from lots of the bands featured in the exhibition.

Lest this all sounds totally po-faced, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard during that performance, which was complete with the audience supplying boom-tish drum beats, the aforementioned air guitar and a pretty sexy refrain.

Go check it out, at  Space Station Sixty-Five, Building One, 373 Kennington Road, London SE11 4PS, until 13 January, then the materials will be accessible in the Feminist Archive South and Glasgow Women’s Library.

Here are some images nicked from postcards from the exhibition:

Sisterhood of Spit

Shocking Pink Benefit poster, Feminist Archive South

I think my favourite part of this is the “creche by men against sexism”.

Northern Women's Liberation Rock Band poster from Feminist Archive South

Northern Women’s Liberation Rock Band poster from Feminist Archive South

Just outside the exhibition space is a collection of buttons, badges and pins from feminist movements past, pretty inspiring (by which I shallowly mean, “I want these to pin on my denim jacket, I’m inspired to rock some early 1980s fashion and maybe get a mullet?” plus you know feminism and stuff):

IMG_2329

And obviously we ended the night drunk and scrawling pro-women temporary graffiti on the night bus, pretty sure we go through to people on the 59 to Streatham and maybe changed some minds and lives with this?

IMG_2332

 

Ain’t about the cha-ching cha-ching

I can’t think of a finer way to celebrate the jewel in south London’s crown, the Lambeth Country Show, than to pay homage to it in gifs. Welcome to my world, it involves pigs, carrots, beer, burgers and a miniature railway.

Field of Carrots
Every year the highlight of the Lambeth Country Show is the vegetable sculpting competition and this year I entered (along with my housemates Lizzie and Josie, and our Brixton Massive Crew, Maya and Dot) with a recreation of Antony Gormley’s “Field of Dreams” and “Angel of the North” rendered in root vegetables, including carrots, parsnips, sweet potato and butternut squash.

When setting it up in the marquee, we were filmed by a television crew for some countryside cookery programme for the Beeb next year, so if you want to see a sweaty, hungover me with smudged eyeliner shrieking about whittling carrots and grinning maniacally at the camera, watch out for that…

Friday night jerk break!
After attending a public meeting about the Tesco takeover of Music Bar on Brixton Hill, we got down to a Friday night of vegetable carving. But you can’t whittle a parsnip on an empty stomach, as the saying goes, and you can’t have a proper Brixton Friday night without jerk chicken from Negril. A platter involves jerk chicken, festival dumplings, coleslaw, gravy, rice and peas, plantain, chips, salad, hot sauce. We got two.

Culmination of a dream
For years Dot has talked about Brockwell Park’s miniature railway, which has been closed for repairs. We spend many a Friday night in summer getting drunk in the park and discussing the dream: volunteering to drive the miniature train, or at least ride it. The Lambeth Country Show gods provided: for a mere £1, we got a return ticket to the dream destination.

Bonus fun: scariest funfair ride ever, though the views over the park, the lido and Herne Hill were pretty awesome.

BABE 2: PIG IN THE CITY
Another joy of the country show is the events in the main arena: the first year I went, I saw sheepdog trials done with Indian running ducks instead of sheep, and the dog bit one of the ducks and was basically an untrained miscreant, and it was brilliant. Sadly last year a torrential downfall stopped me enjoying Russian cossack war horses or whatever, so this year’s pig races (with bonus runaway pig and surly teenagers) was a highlight.

Food, friends and fabulosity
It’s impossible to eat everything on offer at the country show, but we gave it a solid effort, from breakfast coffee and scones to fresh hot doughnuts dipped in chocolate to mac and cheese with bacon to burgers to falafel wraps and everything in between, all lubricated with lager and lols.

Instagram? Instagif!
I’m a fucking moustache finger tattoo away from being an insufferable hipster with my polka dot dress, casual “oh the BBC filmed me at the country show” chat and ironic vegetable sculpting, so why not tip this thing into critical mass and GIF my INSTAGRAMS from the weekend? Game changer.

Take my breath away…

…well, what else would I title a post about BERLIN? And it is a city that takes my breath away, every damn time. It knocks my socks off; it’s my Madonna’s New York (other cities make me feel like a dork). I had a rock-solid wunderbar four days in my family’s home city last weekend. We stayed in the east, in the Prenzlauer Berg neighbourhood, in an apartment with a terrace and resident wasp, wish I had a picture of the staircase, it was beauts.

FOOD
Our neighbourhood was the BEST for food. We were near an organic supermarket crammed full of deliciousness (and also with a giant cow outside), and every cafe, bar, burger joint and restaurant we passed looked like a winner. We had breakfast twice at Anna Blume.

No photos of our first brekkie, a three-layer cakestand filled with cured meats, cheese, smoked salmon, mozzarella balls with pesto, salads, roasted vegetables, houmous, tzatziki, scrambled eggs and fresh fruit, served with a basket of fucking amazing bread. €17 for two, ridiculous, it could’ve fed us for a week and we’d have paid double.  But check out the €5 birchermuesli, what even is this amazingness:

On Saturday night we got burgers at the highly recommended The Bird, run by New Yorkers who know their burgers. It is a loud, rock’n'roll, brick-walled meat fest, with excellent beer, ridiculously hot waitresses with cool buzzcut hair, and an array of hot sauces that will END you. No burger pic cos when someone puts a burger that good in front of you, it is a fucking crime to take a photo instead of putting your face right into it and performing burgerlingus. I had the Ghetto Deluxe, €10.50.

Our last night we were in an Italian mood and had a kickass pasta dinner with giant salads and more ridiculously awesome bread and red wine for some ridiculous sum, like €15. It’s on the same road as Anna Blume but like on a corner opposite a shop that sold jewellery made from small plastic animals. It’s this level of reporting accuracy that makes me the mega-successful journalist I am.

Another great place to eat is the biergarten in the Tiergarten, the one to the southwest right by the zoo, aka Cafe Am Neuen See. Its canteen does boss pretzels to dip in mustard (omigod the memories), €2.20, and its pizzas, €8.50, are excellent. Get a weissbier, sit by the lake and watch idiots trying and failing to row. I also made eyes at a pretty hot single dad who looked like The Dude. Wish I was here:

FOREST
On the Monday we headed out on the train from Alexanderplatz to Lübbenau and the Spreewald, which is a forest in an especially efficient German sense, it’s ridiculously unwildernessy – but beautiful – with lots of very neat little islands and formal gardens and teeny-tiny bridges. The only super-naturey thing about it is the pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes which ravaged my virgin flesh and left me distinctly bubonic plaguey. Also, it’s the place to go if you want to see a dog on a boat, and let’s face it, who doesn’t?

Lübbenau is “the city of pickles” and it delivered in style, we bought a BUCKET (with a lid and a handle and everything) of pickles from a roadside stall for €2.5, and also had some amazing pickles served with our currywurst and chips dinner (I am all class). My German is mega-rusty and I managed to order us green beer with my language skillz:

FASHION
Berlin has the best flea markets and vintage shops ever, right? Right. We actually only hit one vintage shop – four days is just not long enough to fit in all the beer-drinking, walking, eating, eating, and eating, as well as shopping – Alex on Rosa-Luxembourg Strasse, very near Alexanderplatz. I scored:

A clearly handmade (no label; you can see the thread knots inside) mustard yellow jumper that’s fluffy inside AND out (as you can see from the turned-up sleeve close-up) that is so blatantly some kid’s homemade bear costume, I can’t even. I shall spend the winter dressed like a bear! And all for €25, immense.

A DRAMATIC satin and taffeta ballgown skirt, €35, with multiple layers that SWISHES and has a bustle effect, it’s like if McQueen were doing the costumes for a Gone With the Wind remake where Scarlett O’Hara was actually a witch. It’s so ridiculous, but also deeply practical for covering up my mosquito-destroyed legs, I wore it with my Charlotte Free T-shirt yesterday and looked like a punka.

Finally for €10 in the “bargain basket” I got a pair of high-waisted flannel hot pants/knickers with a tiny sailboat on, I think Posy Fossil would wear these to her classes or just for general romping.

I picked up these badass sunglasses at a street market on Strasse des 17 Juni right by Ernst-Reuter-Haus, musta been serendipity. (More on the Reuter thang later.) I thought they were €4, bargain, after much lost-in-translation they turned out to be €40, ouch, but I bargained her* down to €20, boom. They are made in West Germany AND they have holes in the arms to pop them on a chain. I feel like Carole King when I wear them:

*She totally saw me coming.

(Apols for the crappy, unedited, uncropped pictures. My laptop is being a bastard – don’t buy Dell, kidlets – and Photoshopping at this point is making me cry hot angry tears of Judy Blume character meltdown frustration. I had plans to make this shit look pretty and do collages and stuff. At this point I’ll be happy just to hit publish. Sigh. The crappiness of my computer does at least reassure me that the robot takeover is really, REALLY far off.)

FLEA MARKETS
Although we were staying right by one flea, we decided to take the tram to Friedrichshain instead and hit its less full-o’-people flea, also getting trams is super-fun and makes me feel 19th-century. Totally worth the trip, guys! Lookit what I got:

FOXES. €1 each and worth every cent, I reckon you’ll agree.

Plastic horses with moveable heads, €1 each. (I turn 31 next week, why am I buying toys?)

Deer! Also €1 each, I am the queen of finding €1 tat.

FAMILY
You should all totally take my recommendations on where to eat and shop as I am the bestest, but I cannot in good faith send you out west nearly to the end of the U2 line to Ernst-Reuter-Platz station and, well, platz, as it is entirely irrelevant to your interests unless you are me or a fellow Ernst relative (hi, cousin Natalie, if you’re reading!).

It’s just a big ol’ roundabout, BUT it’s a big ol’ roundabout named after my great grandfather Ernst Reuter, mayor of post-war West Berlin and all-round badass. Check out his steeze:

What a cool cat. There’s also a weirdo sculpture there, naturally I posed in front of it giving it my best smize. It is beyond-nice to hang out in a country where people can pronounce and spell my surname (in England I get a lot of “Renter? Rooter?” because people be idiots), and at Ernst-Reuter-Platz I basically see the REUTER name up in lights! (Well, not lights. You know.) Here I am being a dork in the U-Bahn station:

Anyway. Berlin: I LOVE YOU. For real and true, for life.

Red beans and rice didn’t miss her

I don’t often venture to West London, because, well, WEST LONDON. (The mapin my head of London goes: Brixton, work, Soho, river; everywhere else, HERE BE DRAGONS.)

But I was tempted to go to the left, to the left by an invitation to Outsider Tart‘s chili night. Outsider Tart is a bakery near Turnham Green run by the delightful two Davids, who shipped over here from NYC: think brownies the size of Manhattan and a Little House on the Prairie-style dry-goods store where you can pick up everything from maple syrup to dirty-rice mix and approx. 800 varieties of hot sauce.

Every Thursday, thanks to popular demand (as da kids say), they stay open late, cook up a big ol’ pot of chili (it’s different every time, call ahead if you’re vegetarian/vegan and they’ll fix you something) and serve it up for £6 a pop with cornbread, laid-back family style. BYOB, chat to people, eat chili, possibly buy several dozen brownies to take home…

Last night DavidSquared2 hosted a bunch of foodies, including lucky me and my BFF, and cooked us traditional beef chili, a more mellow pork variety, and vegetarian jambalaya, served with two varieties of cornbread, cheese’n'sour cream, and some decent American beers.

I had thought US booze was all of the insipid Coors/Rolling Rock/Miller/Please kill me now so I don’t have to drink this pisswater type, but I was proved wrong with various pale ales and porters, including one with a heady 9.6% alcohol content. HELLO, LOVER.

We sat a-chatting on a steamy summer evening, downing bowl after bowl of chili, only pausing to consider our fullness and distended bellies when David 1 wheeled out a RED VELVET CHEESECAKE the size of a bicycle wheel… Seriously, check out that bad boy up top. I SAW GOD, Y’ALL. I somehow found room (pudding stomach, right?) to manage half a slice.

The Davids run a hilarious blog at OutsiderTart.com and this autumn will be opening BLUE PLATE, a soul food restaurant right next door to the original bakery. Get to west London and in line now.

Body and beats, I stain my sheets

YA author and Twitter pal Holly Bourne tweeted about pink Nurofen this morning. Pink. Nurofen. For period pains. Exactly the same as regular Nurofen, but in PINK packaging for us whimsical lady-types.

This reminded me of THE STUPIDEST PRESS RELEASE I HAVE EVER BEEN SENT for My Most-Hated Product Ever. Congratulations, Ella Valentine! Last year, I got sent a parcel at work, which I opened up, hoping for cake or booze. (Actually, there was a cake in there. I ate it, it was delicious and I’m not ashamed.)

The press release therein said I’d been sent “baking eggs” so I could more easily whisk up a batch of cupcakes (don’t even start). I assumed a “baking egg” was some sort of baking kit – like those 1980s boxes of fairy cake mix complete with icing and rice paper cartoons to decorate, that I was never allowed to have, thanks mum. Only contained in an egg, I guess? For novelty value?

Ha ha ha, I am so naïve. You know what baking eggs turned out to be? Accompanied by a press release that talked about how “fashionable” baking cupcakes was and how “fashionable” girls needed something to help them bake said fucking cupcakes?

BAKING EGGS ARE EGGS. JUST LIKE NORMAL EGGS. THAT YOU BAKE WITH. But with one vital difference:

No. Words.

Ella Valentine’s website actually makes me suicidal, listen to this: “Ella Valentine Free Range eggs were born to be baked. These big beauties will make your cakes fluffy and your desserts delicious – as every girl knows size is important. Plus they come in pretty pink cartons that are hard to resist.”

Can we PLEASE stop sticking pink on everything? I really like pink. It’s a great colour, it’s flattering, I have many many lipsticks in pretty pink shades, and one ill-advised makes-me-look-deathly-ill pink eyeshadow. But I have to have a pink embargo since it’s been co-opted by Da Man to sell me everything from necessities like tampons to FUCKING EGGS and used to RE-BRAND BREAST CANCER.

Anyway, Holly and I today invented our own brand of sanitary hygiene product, The Crampons – tampons in black wrappers with a gothic font saying “this is your burden” and “blame Eve”. And because – as Alex Glasgow sang – N is for nationalisation, without it we’d crumble and fall – they’ll be free on the NHS.

NO PINK, NO PROFIT.

End of random rant. (Incidentally, this is why I love Twitter more than anything in this bleak world: apropros of random tweeting, you can invent black-wrapped tampons with people. Truly marvellous.)

With tuppence for paper and strings, you can have your own set of wings

LOL, this is just pile #1 of many Piles O’ Crap that I need to haul ass to various charity shops over the next year. Moving is horrific enough, I want to leave with minimal junk. (Not pictured: the 1,000 books I’m keeping…)

Change is in the air… Well, maybe it’s just that the weather is so windy and the wind has changed direction like at the end of Mary Poppins, still one of the most bittersweet film endings of all time amirite?

Regardless of weather, change is coming. I’m – deep breaths – breaking up with London. Come 2014, I’ll have lived here for a decade. That’s kind of enough for me, when I don’t really have a reason to be here.

I’m giving myself a year, and then I’m leaving. For pastures new and, as yet, unknown. I’ve got a year to decide where, and how, and indeed what I’ll do when I get there… (Any job offers for a surly sub-editor, most welcome!)

I’m both lucky and unlucky enough to not have a home town: my parents both moved around a lot as children, as did I, so there’s no “Reuter Hapgood homestead” to be attached to, which means the UK is my oyster. Wherever I choose to hang my hat next, that’s where I’ll call home.

Instinct (which is a totes reasonable way to make a big life decision like “where to live for the rest of your life”!) has ruled out my former stomping ground of Newcastle; I was a student there and returning as a grown-up just doesn’t appeal. But the north is calling me… Mostly for the weather. Um, I’m serious. I’m so the wet girl. Rain, sleet, cold, wind, greyness, drizzle: bring it the fuck on.

Moving is a while off yet, though. I’m still at stage one: daydreaming about where to go. I want… a small city, one I can walk across. Possibly close to the coast? An abundance of charity shops. Excellent pubs. Bands and books and films and friends. The kind of rent that doesn’t make me do a sharp intake of breath each month. To get home from work at Oh I Can Still Have a Life In The Evening O’Clock. Stanley will, of course, be accompanying me on this adventure.

Any suggestions most welcome…

The other part of stage one? Downsizing my enormous amount of crap. Living in one place for a long time, you don’t half build up a lot of junk. Making a possibly-across-the-country-who-da-fuck-knows-where move is going to be upheaval enough, I don’t want to be dragging round half-read copies of Proust that I’m NEVER going to finish because my god, man, get an editor and cut down on the crap about madelines.

So, yeah. September 2013, I’ll be matriculating at THE UNIVERSITY OF LIFE, BOOM!