Shallow Not Stupid

The first time my suitcase was stolen I was in a love triangle with Johnny Rotten and David Bowie. Despite my Ziggy Stardust haircut, it had been over with David since my 8th birthday. Rotten Red was a similar but more exciting shade of scarlet, or so it seemed that day as we came out of the airport in Spain and I saw an old guy with osteoporosis escaping with my suitcase.

Immediately I started fantasizing that if my clean knickers went missing I’d be sent home and wouldn’t have to suffer another family holiday. A mini-break with Gang of Four—Mummy, Daddy, and their two drunk doppelgangers—was just what I didn’t need. But it was illegal to leave me home alone and Mummy couldn’t risk being arrested again. Honor your father and mother unless they are total cunts wearing embarrassing loungewear.

As my suitcase was disappearing into the backside of the hunchback’s car, I remembered my faux Vivienne Westwood trash-bag swimsuit was inside and screamed "Stop, thief!" like they do in Oliver Twist. Mummy lunged at him with the sharp end of her Manolos while my dad took a bite out of his hairy ear.

Imagine the embarrassment when it turned out he was our driver and none too pleased about being beaten and eaten. Mummy doesn’t need the Spanish police after her as well, and Daddy has an obsessive fear of being gang-raped in prison. You couldn’t make that creepy couple up. If they were characters in a novel I’d be accused of exaggerating for grotesque comic effect.

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Mar 19, 2012 20:27:00

Shallow Not Stupid

Aunt Irene the Slut was my first dead glamorous role model. She ran away to New York to lead a Valley of the Dolls existence, occasionally coming home to London for a bit of detox. Mixing an extra dry martini for breakfast, she'd whisper seductively, "If you want to keep your looks, Vivs, drink vodka."

Irene walked the tightrope between a good death and a bad end when a garbage truck reversed into her while stuck in a traffic jam between Fifth and Madison. She had just posted a birthday card to me with this message in Schiaparelli pink ink: "You can drink and take drugs, but not at the same time."

Happiness writes white, whereas silent Rothko red is the shade of suicide. Besides, deaths are easier to remember than birthdays, and a bad end is sexier than dying in your sleep. Suicide is a blind date with a dark stranger, a way of shouting Cut! when you’re still young, thin or fabulous.

Sylvia Plath’s poetry is good, but her dark demise said more than her platinum summer. Her death was "a kind of pornography, at once exciting and unreal," to quote Al Alvarez. He was the last man to whiff Plath’s hair as she ascended the stairs ahead of him a few days before she put her head in a greasy English oven.

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Feb 10, 2012 17:36:00

Shallow Not Stupid

My love affair with China began before the Middle Kingdom was the most fashionable place on the planet, when I begged my mother to bandage my feet. Mummy didn’t want me having the biggest boats in Louboutin boots so she wrapped them in tight bandages at bedtime. If only she had mummified my entire body; I would have stayed size zero.

So I grew up with Cinderella feet, married a spy, went to live in Beijing, and got poked in my 32E chest with chopsticks by a man who wanted me to star in a porn movie about a very white lady and a wooden bed.

Every time I go to Beijing it’s different. In Paris or Venice, the city stays the same; it’s me who changes. But Beijing transforms in the time it takes to make a restaurant reservation and down a plate of deep-fried donkey cock. I’m a tourist, not a traveler. I want glamour and luxury, not an authentic experience with a cockroach on a third-class train. And the Northern Capital is material-girl heaven full of designer stores at third-world prices.

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Jan 22, 2012 18:21:00

Shallow Not Stupid

Never has there been as fat a lie as the one about beauty being on the inside. Unless it’s the one about fashion magazines making their readers anorexic. Glossies don’t start trends, they follow them. And someone at Conde Nast has a sense of humor, judging by the funny-lookin’ ladies they’ve been hiring since last century. Diana Vreeland offset her unconventional appearance by playing up her eccentricity, while Anna Wintour's crash-helmet bob is more iconic than a Disney character. And what of her addiction to Chanel, which makes everyone look like a frosted cupcake? Tina Brown was allowed to keep her nose, but she’s intelligent and from England, where nobody cares what they look like.

Everyone knows that fashion magazines are about the pictures, but every now and then they get intellectual and fall flat on their liposuctioned asses. The dialogue they're aiming for is not so much with the reader as with each other. No sooner had US Vogue profiled the bland, blonde wife of Syrian President Assad, the tyrant going after the Devil of the Desert trophy once reserved for Muammar Gaddafi, than UK Vogue hitched a ride on the camel with a piece about Libya that’s about as interesting as a plate of undercooked falafel. Libyan women wore make-up while civil war raged in Tripoli? You don't say.

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Jan 08, 2012 17:43:00

Shallow Not Stupid

Fashion victims will try anything twice, but dressing up as the fat fool with the sleigh needs to be stopped. As we like to say, it isn’t sexy enough for Soho, where, incidentally, a gang of Santas ran amok on Saturday night, scaring the Chinese pimps and their skinny ho's.

Icons are people you want to be or want to fuck. But while Iggy Pop proves you can survive a lifetime of bad-hair days and still be considered cool, the white wig just isn’t working for creepy Claus, the least fashionable guy on the planet.

There have been attempts to make Santa Baby sexy, but they haven’t worked. Love the song, but don’t get me started on the red suit, which could walk around by itself, considering the number of times it’s been rented.

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Dec 13, 2011 13:44:00
Hermès Birkin

Shallow Not Stupid

There are millions of things that I want. The diamond-encrusted, gold-hardware Hermès Birkin bag that sold for $203,150 this week—the highest price ever paid for a handbag at public auction (in Dallas, where else?)—is not one of them.

Diamonds are a bit last century. A flat stomach and property portfolio are a girl’s new BFs. And carting an Hermès around really old-ladies up a look. Since I'm not an old bag, I can be separated from my anti-aging serum when it doesn’t fit in my pocket.

It’s hard to get excited about designer handbags when my mother was the original Kelly junkie, back when Victoria Beckham was still chunky. My head bobbed at just the right height to get conked by her alligator Birkin when I was five and couldn’t fight back. Mummy looked more Tippi Hedren than Grace Kelly, though nobody knew who Tip was at the time because Sienna Miller hadn’t yet been signed to play her in the Hitchcock stalker drama.

Muggers in sexy Soho pick on people who look like they deserve it, so the no-handbag thing works for me. Mr. Lash is my cash-carrying, to-live-for accessory. And when Mummy goes, and I hope that won’t be much longer, we will throw her in the grave with Granny and eBay all her old bags.

Dec 08, 2011 13:49:00

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