Thursday, December 20, 2012

Horton Hears a Who

Darlings, holiday shopping is simply my favorite.  There is simply no better photo opportunity than in a store full of expensive things.  And you can write about them on your blog and call them "cute" and encourage everybody to buy them, while you quietly giggle over your tea and imagine them reading the prices.

This lovely diary is perfect for everyone on your list!  Available here.   I bought forty for all my friends.
I simply adore all the quiet, tiny boutiques I find.  Naturally, they're all terribly exclusive, and the prices drive away the unwashed masses, so I feel right at home.  Occasionally tourists wander in, but the salesgirls are usually very good at withering glances.  Don't you just love the peace and goodwill of the holidays? 

Now, I really need a pick-me-up.  The mania of this morning's pill has worn off.  I'm going to rest here until Spencer Haughtingsley-Pickton can come bring me some Christmas snow. 

Cheers, darlings.


Holiday Party!

Last night Fiona's new boyfriend Paisley hosted a little do at his flat for all of our friends.  He was really trying to butter up Fi so she'd forget about that whole unfortunate buggering-the-stable-boy incident.  I don't think it worked, but the party was super fun. 

Pais has a terrible flat, and by terrible I mean of course fabulous.  It's simply stuffed with horrifying art, the focal point being a giant, big-headed portrait of his former girlfriend, Millicent Maitland-Clottingsley.  Fi is not happy about the piece, but it is apparently Important Art by an Important Artist, and so she allows it because it makes Paisley seem as if he's cultured and aware instead of simply being pissed all the time and snorting coke in loos.
Poor Milly.  Truly.  Poor, poor Milly.  Just look at those absolutely immense thighs.
Naturally, Sinjun was there in purple socks and red trousers, which I might have taken the piss about except that I was wearing leggings as trousers and as such endured lots of camel jokes all night long. 

And Sinjun's mum showed up in a red silky blouse and did a dance on the reclaimed refectory table and broke a seventeenth-century snuffbox, and Paisley went into a snit about it because it held a gramme of coke and so we all spent a few minutes under the table like bloodhounds snorting it off the floor. 

Truly, a grand party.  I hope you've had as many joyous times!  I do love the holidays.


Thursday, December 6, 2012

Holiday Style

I WAS going to make this about things you people could afford to buy, but that is just SO tiresome, and I cannot possibly be bothered to look things up on sites like ASOS, and look, I KNOW the Duchess shops at Zara, but clearly she is utterly insane.

So I thought I would instead just show you what I plan to wear to a little holiday do coming up in the next few weeks.  My clothes are far superior to yours, anyhow.

This look I call "Pimms With A Dash of GHB."

Dress, alice + olivia, available here , £621
Happy holidays, my poor little foundlings.

A Commoner Christmas

Do you know what I love, darlings? 

Common people. 

I mean, not in actual practice; but the more twee concepts, I adore.  Street festivals!  Carnivals!  Horrifying foodstuffs on a stick!  Terrible music!  Sometimes you absolutely must get down and dirty in order to remind yourself that you are, in fact, several levels removed from these cretins and therefore have every reason to feel better about the fact that Cousin Niles has apparently been shagging AUNTIE GERTRUDE, which frankly explains quite a lot about her excitable reaction last Christmas.

At any rate.

I called Geoffrey, because I knew he'd be willing to accompany me.   He was almost desperately grateful, as his father has somehow picked up on the fact that Geoffrey spends an inordinate amount of time with his "roommate" Bertie, and is threatening yet again to cut him off without a sou.

We went to a "street festival" in a rather seedy little neighborhood.  These always seem wonderfully adorable when you think of them, but the reality is sadly removed.  The streets were full of dirty, lower-class types in brandless denim and cheap M&S jumpers and cardis.  The only solution was to get totally pissed, and quickly.

Drowning my sorrows.
 Afterwards I made Geoffrey spend 80 quid on those ridiculous games in order to win me a teddy.  It just doesn't count if you buy it flat-out.  The teddy was tainted with commoner germs anyway, so as soon as Geoffrey handed it to me I immediately put it in the nearest bin.

All that exertion makes a girl rather hungry, so we went to get the most disgusting thing I could think of, which is of course a massive hamburger, a photo of which I will post below so you think I ate the entire thing and did not ONCE run to the loo to purge, or ANYTHING.  I am just naturally thin and perfect, darlings; try not to hate me for it.

I ate this in its entirety and did not gain an ounce.  So what if the plumbers had to be called?

I am back home now in my posh little flat, pondering life's great mysteries, such as, "Are my boobs inferior to Auntie Gertrude's?" and, "Are there calories in toothpaste?".  Being such an urban adventurer is so terribly taxing on the mind, but such a worthy enterprise.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Weekend in the Country

If there is one thing that separates man from beast, it must clearly be the simple fact that man can put on insanely-expensive, trashed-looking boots, tromp out into the countryside, and blast beasts from the sky using shotguns for sport.

Honestly, is there a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than asserting one's right to the top of the food chain, both proverbially and quite literally?

For only $500 American, these declare, "I can afford to buy things that look previously worn."

Saturday morning we all headed out to the countryside to pay homage to pre-1950s gender roles.  The men all swaggered and guffawed and acted manly and wandered off to get absolutely pissed, and the women got dinner together in the hunting lodge.  Which naturally means we lounged about looking glamorous and horsey, sipping champers while the servants catered the affair and set the table with middle-class checked tablecloths.

After lunch, we all went back out into the countryside, as this is the point where the women are supposed to join in and assert their own dominance over God's creatures, or whatever.  I took the opportunity to duck into a potting shed with Winston Covingston-Bishop and Sir Harold Mincepie-Doddingsley.  Sir Harold is getting on a bit in years, but a girl's got to compromise as best she can when she's on a trip with nearly all family.  Particularly since apparently Cousin Niles is off limits.  (At least for now.  I've a plan for Twelfth Night that involves a cat o'nine tails and Rohypnol.)

One of my uncles tried to lure me into the back of his vintage Daimler by showing me a puppy, but thankfully I was able to dodge him and grab the dog, which I then spent all afternoon hogging, despite the begging, whining children at my feet.  Ugh.  Who would think to bring children to a family party?  I mean, honestly. 

Not yours
After the afternoon's hunt we all went back to the lodge for tea, though really all of us were truly ready to run screaming from the exertion of being around one another for this long.  Dad had already pulled Uncle Dudley off of Great-Uncle Tarquin once by threatening to fill him full of birdshot. 

In short, country shoots are delicious darling; just don't forget to bring a blanket for the potting shed.

Cashmere blanket I used is from here.

Happy hunting!

Friday, November 30, 2012

Cooking Up a (Hash) Storm

I haven't forgotten about you!  The title is a misnomer, of course.  I don't cook anything personally.  I have people for that.  But I wanted to drop in and let you know that I'm supervising some "fun" "party" recipes for your next little do.   It requires some rather exotic ingredients, but the end result is absolutely brilliant, I think you'll agree.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Alfie's Hunting Hutch

There's a lovely little club/restaurant I adore, called Alfie's Hunting Hutch.  Like a lot of other Sloaney establishments, it relishes and exploits old-timey sport and endlessly mocks those poor sods who must go to work in fancy dress.  I cannot imagine the shame of wearing leiderhosen on the Tube, but thankfully, I'll never have to.  I will, of course, immediately lose interest in Alfie's once the novelty wears off.

Alfie's is scrumptiously decorated like an old-fashioned hunting lodge.  There are all kinds of dead things on the walls.  Alfie once told me that he sent out a squadron of waiters to go gun down animals found on properties around West Hampstead.  It was on the news and everything, though thankfully nobody was harmed.  Still, Alfie had quite a bit of explaining to do, what with all the piles of dead terriers in the alleyway.

Only a few pets were harmed in the making of this photo.
At any rate, Alfie's is first-rate dining.  It's all game meat, which tastes terrible, but the concept is so delightfully twee that nobody can resist it, not even old Fiona, who insists on tagging along to all these things and refuses to do anything but a melancholy duckface in all the photos.  Cheer up, Fi!  I'm sure your landed-gentry fellow isn't really buggering the stable manager.

If you find yourself at Alfie's, do order the Anti, which is the biggest drink they offer.  Enjoy it with a group of friends.  It will, as the name suggests, turn you into rather a saboteur, both of your good time and your sex in general.  Though it will also, as the hunting lore indicates, make you as biddable as a pack of checked hounds. 

That's Alfie in the middle.  Later on, he shagged Fi in the ladies'.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Day Three in Paris

Today is our last day in Paris, and Mum was all, 'Maybe we should see some paintings or something,' so we ate breakfast and went to the Musee d"Orsay, which was okay but increds boring. And then we went to lunch at Hotel Coste (I can always spell the names of the expensive restaurants correctly, have you noticed?), which is where I always go when I'm in Pareeee, and we had exactly the same thing I had when I was here last year with my boyfriend Cousin Niles, like, exactly -- the pepper steak and the langoustine risotto. I am so cosmopolitan that I can take things in Paris for granted. I am perfection.

I think I remember "Coste" because it sounds like money.

Mum noticed that I was tittering through the risotto and raised an eyebrow and said, 'Goodness, Jonquil, I certainly hope you don't intend to make a spectacle of yourself this year at Christmas,' and I said, 'Oh pipe down, you old bat; the only spectacle I see here is your haircut,' and she sighed and paid the cheque and I just love my mum.

And then we went back to the hotel so we could pack up and so I could nick all the soaps and the bathrobes and the lamps. I highly recommend the Hyatt Vendome, it's super pricey and exclusive and you can get excellent coke there. Just tell them Jonquil sent you, but also be aware that if you say this, Jonathan in the hair salon may expect a blowjob. Swallow, darling; spitting is declasse.

Days One and Two in Paris

This weekend Mum took me to Paris! I was told it was a shopping trip, but really it was supposed to be a scolding for that pesky interlude I had with Cousin Niles last Christmas. Honestly, do second cousins really even count as family? It's not our fault Auntie Gertrude was wandering down to the wine cellar in the middle of the night.

A little chilly, but decidedly worth it.

Anyway. Mum went to the Louvre to 'draw', which is what she tells me when she goes to have a consult with the French plastic surgeon (hopefully he will find a way to surgically remove all that tartan plaid). I went down in my slippers, because I am a delightful, artless ingenue, to the hair salon where I paid a man $250 American to do my hair exactly the way I do it every day. But it was world famous, and also, he sold me a gramme of cocaine, so it was worth it.
Super high quality!  Thanks, Hyatt!  And Jonathan from the salon!

Later, Mum and I went shopping at the Gallerie Lafayette, and also along the Champs-Elysees, which I cannot spell, even though I have presumably been to France at least two dozen times. Oh well, that's what the hired help are for, n'ess pah?

Mum bought a slew of anti-aging serums made from secret Tibetan placentas, and I bought some naughty lingerie on the sly and covered it up with a fur coat so Mum wouldn't notice. Mum loves fur, so she didn't mind that I bought a coat for $56,000. I'll likely never wear it anyway, since it was only to hide the crotchless panties made of platinum thread; but perhaps I can persuade Cousin Niles to fuck me on it in front of a fire on Boxing Day.

All in all, an excellent trip.