Total Shite; or, How to Effect a Cleanse With Grace

Darlings, when you spend as much time as I do simply indulging yourself in all manner of hedonistic/fetishistic endeavors, eventually it does catch up to you.  At some point, there is within you a buildup of toxins that nothing can cure.

At those times, I turn to an old friend.

Gwyneth Paltrow.

No, honestly, I'm taking the piss.  I'd never turn to her for anything, not since I was at a party at Camilla Tamblin-Gogginsworth's and had Gwyneth Paltrow quite bold-facedly tell me something was "bollocks."

So let's leave Gwyneth to her piss-poor excuses for cleanses, shall we?

This cleanse of mine will have you sparkling new again in a matter of days, peasants, guaranteed. 

Ingredients:

Condensed essence of oat bran, 2 cups

7 ounces pharmaceutical-grade Brazilian cocaine

Raw kale, 2 bunches

Syrup of ipecac, three drops

4 packets Normacol Plus laxative

Orange juice, for taste

Mix all ingredients in the blender.  Pour into a chilled glass, and garnish with mint.  You should really wait to drink this until you're sitting down, comfortably, in dark-colored clothing on top of a rubber sheet no more than four steps from the loo. 

At first it will seem awful; but you will learn to love that desperate, ominous rumble and the giddy the-world-is-fucking-ending adrenaline simply pouring through your veins. 

If you can get out of the ladies' in the next three days, you will find you are several pounds lighter, several sizes smaller, and possibly a bit pruny from the severe dehydration.  Sip some water and slip into something fabulous, darling; you are ready to hit the streets for some eggs and streaky bacon.  And remember, it's not a diet.  I call it the Un-Diet.  It's a lifestyle.  Embrace the horror.

Love,
Jonquil

Happy New Year, Darlings!

Oh, I've so much to cover.  It has been a whirlwind of gin and tinsel, my lovely peasants, and I'm only now beginning to sober up. 

Naturally, I spent the hols at home, with Mum and Dad.  It's so quaint to cuddle up next to the homey old Christmas tree.



Isn't it too sweet?  This is the informal family room.

 Christmas at our house is low-key, we just exchange little things and enjoy each others' company.  This was my haul this year:

Then we all played drinking games and tried not to notice when Fi hit on my brother, my mum's friend's son, and my father, respectively, as she became more and more inebriated.  I may or may not have overheard her propositioning the chef who made the bourgeois mashed potato and parsnip dish.

New Years was lovely.  I'm SO not a party girl on New Years, so I decided to keep it low-key.  You know, darlings, like staying in and watching Love, Actually on the telly.  Or, rather, squeezing myself into one giant smacker of a bandage dress, hiking up the old girls, and partying all night long at a nightclub.  Low-key.

The next day, inbetween calling the local constabulary to rid my apartment of Fiona's gentleman caller from the night before and emptying said gentleman's pockets of my watch, wallet, and two serving spoons from Granny's silver chest, I spent some time thinking about the past year.  Do you do this?  Reflect on the year past as a way of staving off that insatiable nausea/hunger that happens after you've drunk four bottles of champagne the night before?

And really, 2012 was a delightful year.  It began so terribly, with the dissolution of an unspeakable relationship.  Never, ever date a reality television star, peasants.  Truly, I should have listened when Niles informed me that Spencer Matthews looked like a Hobbit, even if Niles was simply jealous. 

I remember Mum pulling me aside one night last March, when I was feeling especially bereft.  She brought me into the keeping room and sat me down on the expansive leather divan.  And in front of the fire, she affectionately tucked my hair behind my ear and gently said, "Jonquil, my love, stop being such a goddamned cock-up, you're depressing my houseguests."

It was truly then that I knew things had to change.  I mean, aside from my living arrangements; Mum kicked me straight out that night until I learned to be more cheery.

So I packed my bags and traveled the world.  Spencer called in mid-May, and I told him to sod off and called him a foul-chested, stumpy wanker.  I found solace and ultimate heartbreak in the arms of Cousin Niles, in whom I had confided the previous Christmas and who proved to be a most ardent comforter.

In short, 2012 began in shambles, and ended, as things always do for me, in glittering, brilliant perfection.  I'm like a miniseries, darlings; the road may be long, the cast may be B-rated -- but in the end, I'm purely untouchable.  And nothing stops me from having lovely hair.

Happy 2013, my little rustics.  I adore each and every one of you, even if you are rather dirty and unkempt.

              Love,
              Jonquil

               P.S.  And darling, especially you -- do not ever doubt your
                       muchness, regardless of what your mother says.