Well bless Lisa & Lucy at Stylist, who far from taking offence at what I wrote asked instead if I would pen a follow up piece to the original article. It is published today (20th August) and you can read it here.
In response to this.
The editorial team at Stylist magazine should stick to reviewing handbags and make up – whenever they try and tackle feminist issues they always manage to go about it in the most heavy handed way. This week’s piece on female sexuality is a case in point, written by “controversial” author Alissa Nutting the articles gender stereotyping, about men mostly, is staggering.
No restaurant recommendations for you this week as I am in the process of moving house which has meant that evenings have been spent putting my meagre belongings into boxes and getting angry. However what I do have for you is the best pizza topping recipe ever (which if you to happen to be angry will, I guarantee, make you happier).
I’m fed up of Gatsby. I was fed up before Baz Luhrmann got involved, before the Carey Mulligan magazine covers – this 1920’s craze is a plague that has slowly been stultifying London life over the past five years. The current Gatsby infatuation is symptomatic of our culture’s obsession with looking backwards, of not tackling any of today’s issues in a constructive or original way – and ultimately about missing the point – Gatsby is a warning.
What people appear to miss is that Fitzgerald’s tale is a cautionary one, of excess, recklessness and tragedy – of the dark side of the American dream (and more broadly: corruption of youth, money and idealism). The characters are not to be emulated, there are no heroes – only accidents waiting to happen.
Earlier this year, in the depths of winter, I went down to Whitstable with the gorgeous Miss A. We went partly because I had had ambitions for a while of eating at The Sportsman, the tales of a run-down pub by a caravan park, wind swept with an outlook of marshes; romantic or desolate depending on your own personal outlook – was enough to get us wrapped up and on the train to the Medway. Being from Yorkshire, and with the woman of my dreams with me I was inclined towards the romantic, and it didn’t disappoint. It was one of those wonderful lunches, where space, time, food, drink and company coalesce – it’s an odd place, slightly surreal, but on a bitterly cold Friday in February, clouded by wine, and the blossoming of love it all made perfect happy sense.
If you choose to set out along the path of internet dating, you must be a careful for it is a journey beset with difficulties (and dreadful writing). The best way to negotiate yourself to a date with someone genuinely interesting is to set some ground rules early on. Rule A: simple, ignore any profile with lists of random things that that person likes doing. Rule B, click next if anyone starts their profile with, “I’m new to this”, “I’m not sure what to write here” or has a strap line that reads “We’ll tell people we met in a bar” (or similar). Rule C: if all their photos show them in some far flung, impoverished, cum-stain of a country which is now considered hip doing something mildly dangerous, think sky diving, just move on. What does that picture tell you? It tells you that you’ve seen and heard about it all before.
Now firstly I must declare an interest, what follows is far from un-biased, you should know staright off that I hate Paul Weller; I think he’s a fucking bell end. I hate the music, from The Jam, to the Style Council, to Stanley Road, Broken Stones and his latest incarnation as some Syd Barrettesque psychmanofthepeople with his cod State of the Nation addresses; I hate the style, the myth and the legacy.
Introductions are supposed go at the start of something. This is technically the start of something, it just happens that that something has been going on for a while. Also I am a contrarian so the introduction can go where ever I want it to.
The question must be asked: Why have they been doing this? Surely their time would have been better spent doing something a little more worthwhile? Deciding which brands are cool (and which aren’t) is fucking pointless. There appears to be no reason for doing this other than self-congratulatory back slapping. It is all so fucking moronic and Carl Barat is involved (yeah that’s right he used to be in the Libertines).
In case you care what is cool and what isn’t here is the list for 2012 (plus explanations of what everything is):
Many of you will know doubt have seen the posters on the tube and the press around the latest terrifying diet plan book Six Weeks to OMG: Get Skinnier than your Friends by a demented looking shit bastard called Venice A Fulton (which is a pseudonym – if people really knew who he was they’d want to kill him).