Friday, 20 November 2009

Oh, to be the plaything of werewolves and vampires

Meeting the inlaws - they want to suck your blood, yeah!
November's been a quiet month for blogging. Mainly because I've been stupidly busy, and so very little of blogworthy action has really occurred.
Sure, I discovered a few new food shops, and was reverted to a child-like state of not knowing what a lot of jungle-like looking produce was, but until something really major happens (bigger than a butcher chopping a neck off a sheep for my tea with a ban-saw), bowlface stays pretty quiet.
However, last night broke this drought as I went to the 12.05 am screening of the latest effort from The Twilight Saga. It was called New Moon, there was a cloudy sky, but that wasn't stopping any Robert Pattinson fans or otherwise - myself being in the latter category - turning up in practically PJs to watch this new blockbuster before anyone else. Seriously - we booked our tickets back in October and there were only a few left - it's a big deal.
Gotta say, was a little disappointed by the lack of small goth turn out. Instead, the massive corporate cinema was full to brim with university students, with more JWUKFABDAHLING teeshirts and other odd slogans on jersey tracksuit bottoms than you could shake a stick at.
Granted, it was bedtime o' clock. It's also Newcastle. The Geordies were in tiny waistcoats and bodycon dresses and heels. God knows why - the only men in the cinema were reluctant boyfriends, consoling themselves bitterly with nachos.
So, after several hours of queuing we arrived at the screen entrance where a terrified man was desperately trying to keep control, shouting things like "YOU'RE IN L6, TAKE THE FIRST STAIRCASE" to hundreds of hyper women. I bet he'd worked the Sex and The City launch and thought he'd nailed it. But no, my friend, teen sci-fi lovers are a very different bunch.
Watching the film amongst such a crowd was quite, quite hilarious. Think canned laughter and then some. When the supposedly 16-year old Jacob whipped off his shirt to reveal every muscle known and otherwise to man, (to stop the bleeding of the heroine's head, natch - he's a werewolf so, unlike vampire Edward, he didn't immediately want to eat her in a sexual-tension-y kinda way) I was suddenly back, being six, and watching Man O Man! as a massive pervy "PHWOAR" went up.
When creepy vampire boy surprise-proposes to the same heroine, the screaming was even louder. Every joke and amusingly cringe shot in the film received a bucket load of chuckles. Best film-watching crowd, ever.
As it stands, I'm still very much in the Jacob camp. Fans will appreciate this reference. After all, why would you want a weird skinny bloke with sparkly skin and constant anxiety when you could have a love able, buff. fuzzy giant werewolf, huh? It's hardly surprising Robert Pattinson's grown a puberty beard in real life.

Sunday, 1 November 2009

Bog off Gok, I've got a style adviser with much better facial hair.

My mystery stylist wouldn't call me "curvalicious", he'd tell me to put down the Greggs.

I'm a thoroughly independent shopper. This is due to a few good reasons. One, I normally pick stuff out that looks a lot better on, adapted or with a particular outfit. It's all about seeing potential where most people see dead people's hand-me-downs. Amongst the wrong crowd, this normally encourages such looks of disgust or terror that shopping becomes hugely destructive of any self-confidence. I'm better off checking the size of my arse in a mirror, sneaking the contents of the bag into the wardrobe without being seen and then whipping them out on a suitable occasion to applause.

Coming back to impress my lovable, but mainstream, fresher flatmates a couple years back with some early 90s stonewashed jeans, a pair of loafers and some jazz shoes after a successful charity shop raid, their looks of sheer horror deflated my retail buzz quicker than a chilled out puffer fish.

Number Two, such choices in attire invariably originate from stinky, messy jumbleholes. You need a certain stamina to put up with that. Any laggers get left behind.
Number Three, on the other hand, I get very sweaty in busy high street stores and waiting around for people in changing rooms nearly always ends in dehydration.
This is a shortened version of the list. Ultimately, I rarely rely on others to aid in style choices. Which probably explains a lot, but it's a risk I'm willing to take.

However, something funny happened the other night which really changed my mind on the whole affair. Chatting in the pub to a friend regarding my current indecision as to whether I should get my hair coloured in an extreme fashion or not, a small, but vital, interruption occurred.

An elderly Geordie chap - whose existence I wasn't even aware of prior to his contribution - cut me off halfway, announcing "ee leave yer hair alone, like." He went on to explain how I had a very "natral" look about me, and that my current mousy brown shouldn't be messed about with.
I've taken his advice.
Because really, maybe small old men are the way forward in the style stakes. Not understanding current trends, but the vital essentials of fashion - as in, what looks nice - makes for a pretty useful guide. I feel like hiring him to sit in my living room as I proceed to show him every item in my wardrobe to a show of cards judging wearability. A bit like Come Dine With Me.
He wouldn't do a Gok and shove me in a maxi dress, whilst rubbing his head in my boobs and giving me an over sized handbag.