THE Truth? So 2020
“The truth is always the strongest argument” - Sophocles. What quaint pre-millenial tosh. Sophocles. What did he know? Moron. Welcome to the age of post- truth and relative honesty. THE truth? So last year. Why bother with such trifling nuance when your truth– his, hers, theirs (ahem)– is really so much more interesting, relevant and of course undisputed. There was an interview the other day. Maybe you saw it? Maybe not? Between two professional compassion spreaders (it’s a thing. And not to be consfused with ‘super spreaders’) and billionaire media mogul. I say ‘interview,’ more like a chummy fireside confessional – minus the fire. (I’ve had colonoscopies more probing. All clear, thank you.) In one clip we hear Oprah (billionaire mogul...
RIP Heels? Not on my watch
“Sweatpants are a sign of defeat.” So said the late great Kaiser of Fashion himself , Karl Lagerfeld. Oh dear Karl, is that you I hear? Yes, yes indeed– sighing and tutting from your catwalk in they sky in abject disgust at what we have become. He goes on, “you lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.” Something like that, Karl. Something like that. After a whole revolution around the Sun of unmatched slovenly-ness, which has successfully pushed to the extreme our inventive means of fashioning ‘loungewear’ (code for all things elasticated) consider us all, according to the sartorial diktats of the Kaiser, well and truly CONQUERED, indeed. Scrolling through anymore Insta-hits of ribbed pistachio palazzos,...
What your ZOOM mis-en-scene says about you
These are rare times; rare times indeed. Frightening, Orwellian. UNPRECEDENTED. To borrow from a favoured Times journalist, how I positively long for precedented times. No no, ’tis not Corona of which I speak. Yawn. That old chestnut. For never before in the history of, well, history, shall we ever again (God willing) suffer such intimate glimpses into the familiar home comforts and at times ghastly surrounds of friends, family, VIPs, very VIPs, and some not so very VIPs. It is in these curious times of WFH ZOOM ubiquity the critic in me is giddy with curiosity and gleeful scorn in equal measure. I can’t help it, my inner Llewelyn-Bowen has been spying ‘Changing Room’ candidates a-plenty. The last few days in particular have tossed up the...
Tired? Take a number.
How’s it going? ‘What’s news?’ ‘How ARE YOU?’ Polite and perfunctory daily salutations from friends, acquaintances and colleagues, innocuous conversation starters are the social lubricant of our days, not necessarily invitations for a narrative on one’s inner psyche. So for every ‘tired’ I hear I can’t help let out a subtle inner groan. Cue inner eye roll. (INNER. You see.) Of course you’re tired. Welcome to parenthood, adulthood, adolescence, LIFE. It’s predictable, boring and just bad chat. Sits up there with ‘I’m so busy.’ Course you are. We all are. Newsflash: NOBODY. CARES. I’m only too aware of this and being a rather ‘glass half full’ sorta...
C’MON ENGLAND! … err, hang on?!
There’s a seismic shift in the air, a levity, optimism, wilful abandon of merciless mocking and eye-rolling ennui, for I am, hold the phone… slowly, gently, softly with a side of trepidation, kinda, maybe, sorta beginning to almost back this England side. How VERY dare you?! Why of COURSE you shall be supporting our Three Lions! Well, yes, but no but, and well ok here goes. Let me explain. To give a bit of context, I arrived on these fair shores in 2001 and for seventeen glorious years have enjoyed being a true Anglophile-American abroad, embracing the crumpet, PG Tips and Britain’s endearing pre-occupation with the weather. (Not cricket. I will never get cricket.) But every four years I have observed with head-scratching bewilderment and...
