Fashion Festival Frenzy

Asos, the online fashion store, has just sent me June's edition of their monthly mag-cum-catalogue. Boasting a £1.75 price tag for non-regular customers - for whom it is free, and they apparently class me - for the first time in my knowledge, my expectations were high. I mean, as well as providing an outlet for designer labels they've got Emma Watson for People Tree on board.

I have spent the hours since receiving this scrap of a magazine flicking pages with equal derisiveness and gleeful ripping - cut out and keep, recycle the rest, that's the spirit. It got me thinking (as though I needed a prompt) of festivals; their etiquette, essentials, and imminence. As Asos itself had noted, June is just around the corner. Plus the cover has FESTIVAL scrawled across it in computer-lipstick. So, obviously, I was getting comfortable for some original festival-guru top 10's, photo montages, at least a candid of Kate Moss.

Alas it seems Asos is geared a little more for peoples across the pond. Mimicking most high-end fashion bibles it hails outfits that are entirely inappropriate and ugly. And to title an article 'Camping Chic' is frankly an insult to our(collective) intelligence. Anyone who has called a tent their home for more than 3 days in a row knows it cannot be glamorised. Even +chic.

Soooo, I am battling between utilising Glastonbury (Bestival is instantly disqualified from the fashion stakes because I shall most likely be wearing Unicorn) as a largely anonymous platform from which to launch my fashion conscious alter-ego, or, forgoing any new/loved clothing for simply last years wellies, bin bags, and, if I'm lucky, a poncho (never know, birthday's coming up). Because you get grubby at Glastonbury, tents get damp, it rains, there is dirt everywhere (remember where you ARE), the clothes you are wearing will probably touch poo where it's caked on toilet "seats"and on cubicle "walls" (words used figuratively), where you're sitting is 90% of the year home to cows...it sets in pretty quick. But you know this, hopefully. You're going because it's so good you don't care.

And it really is that good.

So why not dress a la Ms Moss? Glastonbury style has a history of being featured in publications from Look to Vogue, make a statement, have a festival wardrobe, no one and everyone cares. Considering this I have a tip and general festival essentials, including wardrobe suggestions...

Tip: Take a maximum of 3 tops, keep one fresh and dry for the journey home on Sunday/Monday, trust me you won't want any more.

Essentials:

• Dry Shampoo (NASA or Batiste) OR phone your hairdresser and get a crop a day or two before you leave for your festival and ask them for heavy styling - it'll last a week without help!

• The wet stuff - Bin Bags, waterproof or poncho although you can pick up one for a pound at the site, Wellies.
• Wet wipes, razor, deodorant, toothpaste & brush.
• Communications - You could limit your phone useage and keep your fingers crossed, get walkie-talkies, or invest in a portable charger/spare battery.
• Jumping on the Bum Bag bandwagon this year - less cumbersome & encourage more upper body mobility...in this bag should be; toilet roll, hand sanitiser, disposable camera, money (you can't live off breadsticks. I tried. They mutate from stick to dust between the entrance and the camp site.), lighter. The first four are ESSENTIALS. I cannot stress that enough.
• Cider - as many plastic litre bottles of it as you can carry, and a cool bag to keep them in your tent in if you're extra prepared.
• Sun cream - put this on before you leave your tent, saves carrying it around and you're protected just in case.

And for the essential wear (imagine for a moment I moonlight as a sinister writer of advertorials...)

• Face - Sunnies.
• Neck - festival pass lanyard and some lengthy bling.
• Top - This layered over this.
• Leggings (H&M do a great pair with zips in light blue or grey jegging-style) and/or denim shorts of your choice.
• Feets - see above for aforementioned necessary wellies, but keep a pair of favoured flip-flops or gladiator sandals to hand, the sun can turn a mud pit to hardened terrain like you wouldn't believe.

That is my Glastonbury guide, from essentials to an outfit akin to what I would wear, have worn, and will wear in a few weeks time to the best festival around. Come sleet or shine I intend to enjoy every minute. Kuurch. Meet you in Avalon. Over and out.

Despicable Irony

I can't decide whether I've made a bold stake at humour in posting this, or whether it confirms that I really am that sad little stick man?

Sometimes I am appalled at my own stupidity

Previously I have wondered how I escaped various childhood traumas and incidents, namely the cutting a chunk of your siblings hair out in an attempt to uncover your future vocation. Parents are invariably horrified and the scene is quickly moved to a professional salon in which the escapade is rectified with a hearty supply of good humour and no harm done.

It seems only now I am of an age perhaps not too far off children of my own, that I am making up for those ingenuous and feather brained misadventures.

I just cut a chunk of my 15-year-old brothers' hair out. With a hair clipper. Without the guides on.

I figured, men cut their own hair with these things - how hard can it be - and thus displayed my own shocking inability to do even the simplest of tasks. Also laying to rest the idea that I could possibly take after my mother, who has been a talented cutter and colourer since she was 16. As I have said on more than one occasion when asked if I can cut hair; "Well, my Mum's a hairdresser..." I know now to firmly reply in the negative and walk quickly away.

While my little brother now sits happily slurping on an ice lolly watching my other brother (who worriedly informed me that our mother would "kill me" when she gets home) play Red Dead Redemption, seemingly unconcerned that his vivid white scalp is now plainly visible and liable to burning in this sudden heatwave, I've got the shakes.

Salvaged ~ sort of

I'm way past the point of claiming not to know any better, I wasn't playing hairdressers, nor am I drunk, not yet at least. I will claim I was trying to help, which I suppose I was, and that he's a boy and can get away with it, and that it is no worse than what the evil woman in Deadlock & Barnett did to the back of my head three years ago, and obviously, it's the back of his head so it hardly matters anyway, aaand his hair grows ridiculously quickly anyway so it'll all be forgotten in a couple of weeks. But I really really worry about myself sometimes. I really do.

For handy ideas and advice on things from DIY hair cuts to Bog Snorkelling Championships please see The Internet, somebody who knows what they're talking about, or a professional. In short - not me.

Outstanding

Not just a rip-off post but done for the purposes of sharing the wealth because I have just found something to stare appreciatively at. This is the reason for blogs.

A little late in the game nonetheless I have come upon Californianite Rumi Heely's blogFashion Toast, which has been the toast (sorry) of fashion blogs and followers for some time now. I just think she is wonderful. To look at. To be inspired by. To admire her unabashed self pedestalisation (new word?)! I wish I had a 'Colin' to take adoring and flattering photographs of me galavanting around in overgrown fields with my leopard print leggings and clumpy biker boots on.

The thing is, despite being achingly beautiful, and actually worryingly narrow in body, she's sort of relatable. She wears clothes that are and look comfortable, that aren't pulse-rocketingly expensive - unless they've been "gifted", which must be nice. And I will be lifting from her blog a penchant for exceedingly chunky finger-adornment and a nonchalant attitude towards hair maintenance [see below for some of my favourite images of casual outfits and surprisingly enviable two-tone regrowth].

Rumi - thank you for putting pictures of yourself in often ridiculous outfits on the internet and making my day :)

The Promise of Summer

So, through absolutely no fault of my own, I have acquired tickets to two, count 'em, Two festivals this year. Nicely spread out though they are, the cost of Glastonbury and Bestival has set me back a tidy £402.50. And I've still got to get to and from Glastonbury.

So, despite the pennilessness, I still spent a good 20 minutes whooping and jumping about my house on Sunday after the, apparently, very last release of Glastonbury tickets at midday and am still softly palpitating at the idea of being inside the fences of Glastonbury Festival once again. I had, after last year, handily written myself notes on my phone as to how to make the next year better and advice as to what to take and, or, not take. However after some rather sinister goings on in the heart of Guildford involving a dodgy phone call and a very late night, my phone and its contents have been relieved from me and, I admit I am finding it quite hard to cast my mind back to almost a year ago.

What I definitely will remember to do is visit the dance village, take more disposable cameras, and maintain sobriety long enough to be able to actually review the bands, known and unknown, that I manage to watch.

“We are friends and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn’t mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you, do miss you and think of you very often.”

Jeanette Winterson

Repercussions of catching High Fidelity on Sky Movies

The Felice Brothers' "The Greatest Show On Earth" is reminding me of Glastonbury 2009. It is melancholy in tone but lyrically uplifting, makes you want to sway merrily with your eyes closed. The languishing crescendo of trumpets epitomise the Jazz Village in the afternoon where the shift between daytime and evening entertainment would ease into play.

Top 5 things that happened at Glastonbury:

1. The soothing sounds of brass instruments that get carried on the breeze.

2. Falling asleep on a grassy hill.

3. Eating a Full English in the rain.

4. Strangers' conversation.

5. Seeing Bon Iver. Twice.

Now, back to business. Litter picking jobs all gone. Oxfam jobs all gone. Stewarding job all gone unless people start dropping out like flies. Think it may be time to face facts. Bestival it is.!

Sunday with the Munsters

After the commotion of the genuinely affectionate goodbyes (even though we will see most of them tomorrow), the drive home (with severe onion fumes putting massive pressure on the inner sanctum of the picasso/lunchbox), and the inevitable kerfuffle that ensues getting inside the house; all is silent. And very dark. I am sitting at my desk catching up with my correspondence, still in my coat, and I realise - everyone has scurried away to their rooms, turned the lights off and closed the doors. How is it that these crazy people, so high on social activity, wine, and country walks can so immediately switch off?

More often than not, on Sundays we will take a drive out of town into bumpkin country to spend quality family time with ex-Londonites of Munster Road and my non-blood aunties' sister and cousins and all their beautiful children, who are now much like our own family. These days pan out as; bbq food, many bottles of wine, eventually a chorus of rock songs, and always very obscure, odd, often unsettling conversations.

Today, these conversations consisted of subjects thus:

1. Speculations as to whether my Grandfather has his sights set on a new wife in Thai dialysis nurse, Pantip, who he met during my Grandmothers demise, and why he would be a good catch for her. Obviously a wildly inappropriate and discomforting conversation for his only present blood relative to be privy to.

2. Emily envelopes me in a choke hold and informs me, in her typical cartoon character voice, that she would like to chop off my head and put it in a jar full of liquid, just like in Futurama. She is 7.

3. Angela and Janice recall their former naturist neighbours "No one ever knew what his face looked like".

4. Angela recalls how her Dad, the recently deceased and very missed Ron (The Don), in an attempt to help around the house and save money, cut her fringe. And how he very carefully cut around her eyebrows "To frame her eyes."

5. Janice says she would like to swap Emily for Maggie (our Yorkshire terrier). Emily protests and says she will just take Maggie. We say that's not a fair swap and that she has to give us something in return. She says "I'll take Maggie. You can have my Dad."

6. Millie informs me that lots of people at school have counselling. "I think I should get a counsellor." I ask her what is wrong with her. She shrugs. "I think it's a trend."

Pour être français: a typically British whinge

Oh (not an exclamation but a breathy moan) to be French. Not just for the manicured nails, the continental breakfasts, the accent. For the love of simplicity, of composure, of not bowing to social pressure (what am I basing this on?).

I would like so many things, I yearn for beautiful clothes, white washed furniture and a stand alone bath tub. For silk lingerie, the willpower to stick to just ONE frosted, palatable glass of prosecco, for a calling - not just to earn money, but to enjoy doing it, so that I may swan off to Paris for long weekends and for no one to notice. To live a life of quiet anonymity adorned with Gallic androgyny; draping blazers, brogues, cigarette pants to mimic the cigarette artfully tucked between my lips.

Lists - Places

Been there:

Caribbean; St Lucia, Grenada

Iceland

Italy; Florence, Venice, Milan

UK; Birmingham, Cornwall, London, IoW

USA; New York

Spain; Andalucia

Thailand; Bangkok, Chiang Mai, Koh Tao, Koh Panghan, Krabi, Phi Phi, Phuket

To go:

Paris

Marrakesh

Prague

Budapest

Hong Kong

Tasmania

Cuba

Chile

New Orleans

Sydney

The rest of the world...!