Oh my God. BRET.

Oh my God. Bret Easton Ellis is doing a book signing. In England. In England. In a place that I can actually get to. My God. I am going to meet Bret Easton Ellis. I am actually going to be in his presence. My hands are shaking.

I discovered this little piece of information this morning, after I had all but given up hope that he was going to come here. He is doing a book reading in Nottingham, and a signing in London, and I think I would prefer to go to the signing. At least that way I definitely get to meet him. I love him. Oh my goodness!

I am so excited that I am having a bit of trouble breathing.

And We Don't Know Regret

And these are dreams, baby; this is the future. Don't you get it? We're moving forward, slowly, slowly, and we're not taking you, and you can beg and beg and beg all day, but we will stand tall. We will smirk and snarl until you fall to your knees and weep. But we don't know pity. And we don't know regret.

"We had a shared, inherent sense that we hadn’t yet completed the mission"

Following the recent release of The Eighties Matchbox B-line Disaster's new album Blood and Fire, my obsession with them has reached near unhealthy heights that have not been equalled since I was a lonely 14-year old screaming their lyrics 'I wanna fly like an eagle; I wanna sing like Sinatra' every time I was on my own, whilst literally swooning over pictures of their sweaty singer. God, I love him.

Thus I feel that it is about time this sharply dressed, wild haired, diamond of a frontman gets a post of his own. I give you:

TODAY'S FAVOURITE: GUY MCKNIGHT.

Guy McKnight is sexy. He really is. And he has a voice that far more people should hear; it sends shivers down your spine and raises goosebumps on your arms. It's beautiful, powerful, insane, heartbreaking, intense, captivating. It is a raw talent, which is no doubt why, in the music industry of today, it is so unchampioned.

From copious youtube watching of TEMBD's live shows, I created an idea of Guy McKnight in my head that, in reality, turned out to be quite different. I imagined him as very effervescent and wild, and yes, he is these things, but he is also very charismatic, understated, and - for lack of a better word - polite (unless he is in the crowd- I saw him push a lad at least a head taller than him out of his way on his mission to get back to the stage). Whereas most singers crave the spotlight constantly, when there is a part of a song with no singing, he seems to take a step back from the band. He stands there, with his hands behind his back, watching the crowd, staring off into space...I just fell in love with him all over again when I saw them live (not once but twice in the space of eight days, a few weeks back). But then when he is performing, or when he's jumping into the crowd, or when he's screaming I wanna fuck your mother, he is so dominating. He has this incredible presence which makes you feel kind of humbled, because you can just tell that you are in the company of a genius.
His live performance is so surprising also because he seems so awkward and shy in interviews. Like this one, for example. He says 'er' more than any interviewee I have ever read. It makes me smile.

I wish I could write more about this man, because he is, in my opinion, one of our generation's great unheralded gems, and I adore him in ways I did not think possible, but I have been at work all day and it is way past my bedtime, so not only do I feel that my writing is not up to scratch, but I also suspect that I am in no way doing anything to even partially describe what a beautiful man Guy McKnight is. So I will let the pictures do the talking, and I will see you in the morning.

love

These photos are from an amalgamation of sites, including Flickr, GettyImages and various googled places. If you want crediting, that's cool. Let me know.

Woman in White

After reading this post on one of my favourite blogs, I found myself suddenly and desperately wanting a white tattoo. I have always liked white tattoos because they are a bit weird, a bit different, and you don't really see that many about - probably because they are not very noticeable. Which is another good thing about them. I like the fact that they look a bit like scars.

I just don't know if they would work on my skin though. Because I am incredibly pale (there are albinos with better tans than I), a white tattoo could look kind of stupid. It probably wouldn't show up at all, and what a waste of money that would be.

But they're so pretty...

The Chap Manifesto

1. THOU SHALT ALWAYS WEAR TWEED. No other fabric says so defiantly: I am a man of panache, savoir-faire and devil-may-care, and I will not be served Continental lager beer under any circumstances.

2 THOU SHALT NEVER NOT SMOKE. Health and Safety "executives" and jobsworth medical practitioners keep trying to convince us that smoking is bad for the lungs/heart/skin/eyebrows, but we all know that smoking a bent apple billiard full of rich Cavendish tobacco raises one's general sense of well-being to levels unimaginable by the aforementioned spoilsports.

3 THOU SHALT ALWAYS BE COURTEOUS TO THE LADIES. A gentleman is never truly seated on an omnibus or railway carriage: he is merely keeping the seat warm for when a lady might need it. Those who take offence at being offered a seat are not really Ladies.

4 THOU SHALT NEVER, EVER, WEAR PANTALOONS DE NIMES. When you have progressed beyond fondling girls in the back seats of cinemas, you can stop wearing jeans. Wear fabrics appropriate to your age, and, who knows, you might even get a quick fumble in your box at the opera.

5 THOU SHALT ALWAYS DOFF ONE'S HAT. Alright, so you own a couple of trilbies. Good for you - but it's hardly going to change the world. Once you start actually lifting them off your head when greeting, departing or simply saluting passers-by, then the revolution will really begin.

6 THOU SHALT NEVER FASTEN THE LOWEST BUTTON ON THY WESKIT. Look, we don't make the rules, we simply try to keep them going. This one dates back to Edward VII, sufficient reason in itself to observe it.

7 THOU SHALT ALWAYS SPEAK PROPERLY. It's quite simple really. Instead of saying "Yo, wassup?", say "How do you do?"

8 THOU SHALT NEVER WEAR PLIMSOLLS WHEN NOT DOING SPORT. Nor even when doing sport. Which you shouldn't be doing anyway. Except cricket.

9 THOU SHALT ALWAYS WORSHIP AT THE TROUSER PRESS. At the end of each day, your trousers should be placed in one of Mr. Corby's magical contraptions, and by the next morning your creases will be so sharp that they will start a riot on the high street.

10 THOU SHALT ALWAYS CULTIVATE INTERESTING FACIAL HAIR. By interesting we mean moustaches, not beards.

I LOVE THIS. Take note lads. From http://thechap.net/index.html

Keys and knives and candles.

Always on my mind,
the money that I
the money that I don't have
the money I owe, the money I need -
never the money I have squandered
and spilt on whatever I could get my hand
into
and out of my pocket as quickly as possible.
Always I think of the money I owe, the money I need,
never do I consider the money wasted.
Equally I brood on the love that I desire, the
love that I long for - never the love that I
have or have had and have cast aside.

- Pete Doherty.

An Education

It seems that I am very, very behind the times. I have been resisting watching this film because I do not like hyped up things (Slumdog Millionaire? Never seen it) and because I have never nderstood the public's - and the fashion world's - obsession with Carey Mulligan. Who is this girl, this, yes, pretty, but still rather average girl? Why is she wearing tights on the red carpet? Why does she have a boy's haircut? Why is she wearing yet another hideously predictable 50's frock, because Carey, love, you don't look vintage, you just look lame.

I wonder if I have annoyed anyone yet.

But I finally caved in, mostly because I am head-over-heels in love with anything to do with the sixties right now, and of course An Education is set in 1961. I actually really enjoyed it! I do not know whether it was the clothes (perfect), the cars (oh myyy), the Paris scene (absolutely beautiful) or Peter Sarsgaard's cheeky smile (hello), but it was a really lovely film. And what a fantastic moral it portrayed - I loved it.

For those who have not seen it, Carey plays a 16 year old genius girl on the verge of taking her exams and hoping to go to Oxford, when she meets the wonderful David who pretty much just sweeps her off her (now) fashionably brogued feet and whisks her off on a life of fun and debauchery. Of course everything is not as it seems, but I will attempt to make my point without ruining the ending for anyone who just happens to have purchased the DVD and is about to watch it after reading this. My point is: the moral of the story is to have fun, enjoy your life, be who you want to be, but do not be a moron and throw away everything in your life for some bloke you met in the street. Even if he does have such an adoreable way with words as Peter Sarsgaard (but if you can do it whilst wearing a ridiculously covetable duffel coat, that is probably ok).