tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-612086558123294422024-03-04T21:36:32.714-08:00Tales of a Sloaney RangerAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-70932024908235393082015-07-14T13:32:00.003-07:002015-07-14T13:32:51.274-07:00Ooh, dumpling.<i>Sad for you, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/kristen.adam.779">Kristen Adam</a>. </i><br />
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<i>I realise we can't all be glamorous lovelies like myself, but must you resort to common thievery and, frankly, out-loud hilarious hyperbole to make yourself feel less common than you clearly are?</i><br />
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<i>Professor at London University. Pfft. As if anyone worth her salt would ever ruin a perfectly good manicure studying heart surgery.</i><br />
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<i>As a special pressie, I will give to you the advice The Old Bat gave to me back in my terrible, dark Spencer days of yore.</i><br />
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<i>Get your SHIT together, girl.</i><br />
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<i>Love,</i><br />
<i>Jonquil</i><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-45919528378456883952015-02-03T13:17:00.000-08:002015-02-03T13:17:11.687-08:00Brunch of a Brunchness<b><i>Darlings. </i></b><br />
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<b><i>It's been a while, I know, and I'm sure you've all just been <u>pining</u> for me, really. I've been far too busy exploiting friendships, selling my soul and going back through old posts to add links so you too can buy useless shite (and I can get a cut, sweetie; cocaine doesn't buy itself, you know). </i></b><br />
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<b><i>Yesterday we went to brunch. Brunch isn't worth it unless you truly splash out, and plus, if you go early enough, you can jot back to your flat and spend the rest of the day on the treadmill to negate all the calories you couldn't hork back up afterwards. It gives you a full day to <strike>mend your gluttonous ways, you podgy slag</strike> relax and catch up with a good book.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>For brunch this week, we went to an absolutely darling little hole-in-the-wall place in Lewisham, which truly isn't so bad as you are automatically the thinnest person there the moment you arrive. I'm sure they all appreciate our attempts to gentrify such a dump of a borough. </i></b><br />
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<b><i>Anyhoo, the place was called Fats, and our spread was utterly delish. I simply cannot illustrate how totally outlandishly luxe it was, so a pic will have to do. </i></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I mean, HOW SCRUMPTIOUS. </i></td></tr>
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<b><i>Our group simply devoured the entire spread, and then we even had pudding for breakfast! I mean, if you're going to <strike>binge</strike> <strike>God, you obese whale</strike> indulge, you may as well go all in, yes? </i></b><br />
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<b><i>Pudding was a hectare of ice cream. My boyfriend TJ took all the photos today, but I wouldn't allow him in the frame. I've given him a stand-in. TJ is delightful to have someone to take me to excellent restaurants and he's a pal at taking photos of me and not remarking on obvious thigh Photoshopping, but I fear his sweaters are simply not up to snuff, and thus I have assigned him a secret double I can use whenever we go out. This way TJ gets to <strike>Jesus, hide that terrible face</strike> preserve his privacy, and I can have photos of a <strike>handsome, finally</strike> couple. </i></b><br />
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<b><i>TJ doesn't mind. He says he doesn't want anyone knowing he's seeing me. Silly. I can only assume it's because of my blog fame. Right? </i></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not TJ</i></td></tr>
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<b><i>Ta, darlings. The old bat is ringing and cripes, Mum, DO something about those silver wings already. You look insane. Also, I do not care in the least that the Wellesley has changed their Earl Grey blend. I know fuck all about actual tea. God, would she just die already?</i></b><br />
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<b><i>--Jonquil</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-20391693146464337952014-01-03T11:40:00.000-08:002014-01-03T11:40:29.869-08:00Of a Muchness / Paris and Beyond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<i><b>Mum decided we needed a trip to Paris. It's now a "thing," our "annual thing," though really it's entirely meant for Mum to get me away and bellow about whatever nefarious scuffles she thinks I've got up to over Christmas. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>Unfortunately for the old twaddlebrain, she's no Eleanor Shaw and no amount of brainwashing or browbeating will convince me that it wasn't entirely appropriate at the time to introduce Cousin Niles's new girlfriend to the family by sneaking off with her to the stable and leaving her there. Locked in. For two days. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>Sod off. It wasn't even that cold. She was FINE. There are BLANKETS there, for the horses and such. It's hardly my fault that she's so milquetoast nobody even missed her. </b></i></div>
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<b><i>And anyway, maybe it was even more Christmassy to spend the night out there instead of in with us sipping spiced cider and singing carols around our quaint living room. I mean, Jesus WAS born in a stable, right? Chuh, the whole thing is totally spanking ridiculous, and I got an earful about it, but at least the old twat managed to buy me a fur while prattling on. </i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This one is mine. Mum also bought one for Dad, who may be closeted, I'm not sure.</i></td></tr>
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<b><i>Anywhozits, the lecturing aside, it was a delightful trip aside from the part where Mum tried to climb the flying buttresses of Notre Dame shouting, "Quasimodo! On y va!" and they had to pull her down.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>So now we're at New Years, which was typically understated in that I showed up tits-out to a fabulous do held by important people, though I did wear opaque stockings with a strapless dress which seemed an odd choice. The important thing is tits-out though. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Reflections on 2013. Loves lost, 0 really. I also gained zero pounds, though I did have to have several fillings in my teeth and the plumbing entirely redone in my flat. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>As for the rest of it, ah, who cares? Introspection is for the masses, darlings, and I've simply too much fun to be having to bother. So keep on reaching for the stars, and those of us who live among them will keep dropping little bits of stardust for you to catch in both hands. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>.....Oh, goodness. I'm SUCH a good writer. That was EXCELLENT. It is utterly BRUTAL that I haven't a book deal yet, though to be frank just the word "deadline" makes me reach for the wine glass. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Many happy tidings, my peasants, </i></b></div>
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<b><i>Jonquil</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-6584874376657556042013-12-03T08:23:00.001-08:002013-12-03T08:24:54.813-08:00Oh, Dear Miss Laycock:<div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=61208655812329442" name="_GoBack"></a>Oh goodness, my little dollymops. Not a day goes by that I’m not unfairly
targeted by holier-than-thou arseholes armed with truly awful costume jewelry. I will say I find it rather delightfully
amusing when someone speaks of bloggers creating “unrealistic lifestyles” in
one breath while buying three pairs of Louboutins at a sample sale in the next.<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Quite frankly, one’s entire self-righteous rant is
automatically negated the very minute one begins narrowing one’s eyes at others
in a public forum. Thankfully, I’ve
never claimed to be holy or righteous or anything other than -- well, better
than you, so I’m under no such obligation to remain consistent. About this, or about wearing fur coats as a
veggie, <u>but it’s okay</u> as long as the
animals were tortured sixty years ago and not yesterday. Distinction, ducks. It’s all about distinctions. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Don’t hate me for being able to eat deliciously fatty
burgers while you have to spend days at a fat farm ingesting nothing but mushy
peas and vitamin injections <s>to stay thin</s> for “exhaustion.”<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i>And don’t expect me to create any sort of realistic
expectation for anyone. My lifestyle is
glam and fab and if things are sometimes comped for me, who honestly
cares? If anyone is reading my blog
strictly for the reviews, they’re barmy anyhow.
<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i>Lastly, sweetie, go get a blowout. Your hair is unspeakable. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i>I’m off to go Christmas shopping.</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><i>Ta, </i></b></div>
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<b><i>J.</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-17208586382476417702013-11-26T11:27:00.000-08:002013-11-26T11:33:02.619-08:00Several Small Things<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i>I'll do this in list form, so you peasants can keep up. Do try to comprehend what I say. Part of the reason I no longer hang out with old Fi is 1, she kept insisting she wasn't watching what she ate, which, chuh; but also 2, she'd been stuck on level 23 of Candy Crush for like a week. Level 23. Darlings, I barely got through university, but even I'm on level 145. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>1. I've had a few questions about why, when I recommend products to you peasants, I don't use affiliate links. </i></b></div>
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<b><i> a. They require you to post a certain amount per week or something, which, sod off, sponsors; don't tell me what to do. and also, </i></b></div>
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<b><i> b. affiliate links are for the poor. I don't request a commission every time someone buys a goddamn jumper from M&S because I don't need your meager coinage. If you'd really like to do something for me, come see me when I'm out at the Box and buy me a whisky. I'd go to Boujis but Fi's gross old boyfriend is the business manager or some such nonsense and they've barred me for life. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>2. I plan to do a style post at some point in the future, but I'm running my ideas past my housekeeper to make sure I post things normal people can afford. In a rare show of affection for you. </i></b></div>
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<b><i>3. I may start an Instagram account at some point this year, but the plain truth is that the people I hang out with are far too good for you and sometimes like to be shielded from the prying eyes of the proletariat. If you want to know what our lives are like, truly, I suggest you go view Rich Kids of Instagram, add about five years, and take away some of the bling because we're far classier than that. </i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>So terribly gauche, darling. Though I do own most of these pieces.</i></td></tr>
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<b><i>4. And lastly, if you want to turn your kitchen into the Swiss Alps, a recipe for macaroni and cheese won't do it, but six ounces of pharmaceutical "snow" certainly will. You don't even have to misspell "envelop" to do it. And you'll feel far more comforted without all those fucking calories. </i></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyt8iNNx-UYMo6GdYf2fa07tWppjkRFlsJWDO49ah1I1QZH0ZQ7a4tRwN5rrP8SpYDVQ3ksjmZMjSNzm8eGNxN0kCnkq4fDb93Vu4T17eQWXovnVMd_sqgumcCOV2zynsK1CQQctwxGXc/s1600/Shamorel+Moore+Drug+Bust+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyt8iNNx-UYMo6GdYf2fa07tWppjkRFlsJWDO49ah1I1QZH0ZQ7a4tRwN5rrP8SpYDVQ3ksjmZMjSNzm8eGNxN0kCnkq4fDb93Vu4T17eQWXovnVMd_sqgumcCOV2zynsK1CQQctwxGXc/s320/Shamorel+Moore+Drug+Bust+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Added bonus: Your old crone of a mother who unexpectedly shows up will think it's flour and you<br />can laugh at her while high out of your mind as she tries to make cookies.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Ta, rustics.</i></b><br />
<b><i>J.</i></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-26490721115107321112013-11-22T09:18:00.001-08:002013-11-22T09:18:36.500-08:00A Sojourn of Sorts<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>Once upon a time it was a Wednesday morning
in London. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>Most of the city woke up and went to work, but there was
one lovely, nubile young maiden who scoffed at such things. “Fuck work,” she said petulantly, her
perfectly-glossed lips pursing peevishly. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vAETcdWhNKMSQuQ_8zCDkj9jE6m8pL_ZLq5s4orFs_cM-aCGmV8jH-hf028YO8_nMzPjznXw2I_eQZdNBhwyVi3WYKAmfKvtR8H7ps777yqBpZFbrUhHfarTbHesosiTZ8qjDxi0jFs/s1600/P1010082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vAETcdWhNKMSQuQ_8zCDkj9jE6m8pL_ZLq5s4orFs_cM-aCGmV8jH-hf028YO8_nMzPjznXw2I_eQZdNBhwyVi3WYKAmfKvtR8H7ps777yqBpZFbrUhHfarTbHesosiTZ8qjDxi0jFs/s320/P1010082.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>Luckily, her wizened, old, wrinkled, hunched-over,
Quasimodo, 25-year-old friend AJ was there to save the day. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>“Let’s go hiking, damsels!” he said brilliantly,
brandishing hot mugs of tea and leaving me wondering just how in the blue
blazes he managed to break into my flat. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>And so we went. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>By “hiking,” of course, I mean we got all dressed up in
appropriate hiking clothes and spent an hour at the bottom of a very small hill
taking pictures that make my ass look good.
<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>Afterwards we spent a few hours at the Fox and Tassel pub
drinking appletinis and eating kidneys on toast, and then had a lovely old
afternoon photoshopping all the pictures inbetween threesomes with my newest
best friend Victoria. Who, aside from
being far more attractive than old Fi, also brings to the table a large country
house, two trust funds and remarkable double-jointedness. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<b><i>TAKE THAT, FIONA.</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-74700205711741144352013-11-01T09:23:00.000-07:002013-11-01T09:23:13.946-07:00Psst: <div style="text-align: justify;">
Only the poor are crazy, darlings. The rest of us are just eccentric. If you must make sport of the costume party I attended at the nuthouse, make fun of the hors d'oeurves, which were unspeakable; and my <strong>ex</strong>-friend Fi, who drank a Methuselah of Cristal and let Prince Harry's PR secretary do unmentionable things to her on top of the banquette.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I wore this as a costume, which allowed for all sorts of interesting access.</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEu9NHwc2aIxLgARwFxFRJ16y7Fh6aoIgtDJFO1WNPFBD8NxNVfE8Ebcp4EVbJtkb44H2aM85VT8cDLGB_10QNQmAZike5S14xpqBe6brISTVREXx9QVd_ACWJXIItT9et33GuS8sU4_4/s1600/$(KGrHqQOKp0FIoKUlFI9BSOPWzRpBQ~~60_35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEu9NHwc2aIxLgARwFxFRJ16y7Fh6aoIgtDJFO1WNPFBD8NxNVfE8Ebcp4EVbJtkb44H2aM85VT8cDLGB_10QNQmAZike5S14xpqBe6brISTVREXx9QVd_ACWJXIItT9et33GuS8sU4_4/s1600/$(KGrHqQOKp0FIoKUlFI9BSOPWzRpBQ~~60_35.jpg" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Look, some might find the whole thing in poor taste; but like I said, only the proletariat can be truly crazy. We are above such things. For example: Mum. Someone should have locked that old Bertha in an attic long ago, but as she's wealthy we simply smile and dump Valium into her Scotch. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-45696393467754653722013-08-13T09:10:00.002-07:002013-08-13T09:10:41.605-07:00It's Just a Bloody Hat, You Ingrates<i><b>Oh, the peasantry. Goodness, you little biddies are all up in arms over absolutely nothing these days. Haven't you anything better to do? Aren't you all too busy lazing about on the dole to bother with what the upper classes do? </b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>If you haven't been keeping up, apparently the world is all totally insane over this teensy, super innocent photo I posted on Instagram. Darlings, it was a <u>fancy dress party</u>. Chuh. Naturally evil costumes are permitted. Do not get all riled up. Not only was it just fancy dress, it was clearly a <u>very expensive and rare piece of memorabilia</u>, because obviously I would not put just <u>any</u> WWII German hat on my shiny locks. Also there may have been cocaine and prescription painkillers involved. Might have been. I admit nothing. But if I <u>did</u> admit anything, you can be sure it was pure pharmaceutical and bloody brilliant. I'm not saying there was, you understand.</b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>But <u>if there was</u>. </b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Also, I completely know Jewish people and they were not offended in the least by this photo. My mum's accountant said, "What photo?", and the Hollywood agent I met that one time at Fi's house said, "Jonquil, I could not give less of a shit what you do with your time." So there.</b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>That said, I've decided it was probably in bad form. I've come up with a new costume for the fancy dress party Hubert Von Hepplewhite-Blankenship is having Saturday next.</b></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFaU8Q_Cznl8Sb9JlLYoQueqWh9OIx4HV_16ZVBj5ap1GPEtlL1xY0FndB4Tv_UQ2tD8wEhh01WSMK1lf39TMn6JBM8O7BjOXpAcOSpE__Yhj9vOoMFbOdNbmMkm8aNokPC6n-h4HOLE/s1600/s52644887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFaU8Q_Cznl8Sb9JlLYoQueqWh9OIx4HV_16ZVBj5ap1GPEtlL1xY0FndB4Tv_UQ2tD8wEhh01WSMK1lf39TMn6JBM8O7BjOXpAcOSpE__Yhj9vOoMFbOdNbmMkm8aNokPC6n-h4HOLE/s320/s52644887.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><b> </b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-66870731135862721032013-03-25T17:08:00.000-07:002013-03-25T17:08:07.683-07:00Fiji, Darlings.<i><b>The only thing to do when you're surrounded by negativity is to drop everything and go somewhere tropical, ideally on someone else's dime. </b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>I could post a million photos -- photos of how I interacted condescendingly but lovingly with the locals, how imperiously and without thought we donned sacred ceremonial headdresses for an amusing drunken romp on the beach, photos of Fi's truly unfortunate-looking boyfriend with the male-pattern baldness and the paunch but the magnificent bank account.</b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Instead, I'll leave you with minimalism. This is really all you need to know, and all I'm really anxious to show you anyway. Tell me how gorgeous it is. </b></i><br />
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<br />
<i><b>Back home this week, more's the pity. Tarquin's going to dump Fiona because she won't dress up "like a native woman" or something, so I'm sure there will be lots of drunken evenings to clean up and lots of scary men to shoo out the door. </b></i><br />
<br />
<i><b>Ta!</b></i><br />
<i><b>J.</b></i><br />
<i><b> </b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-71271809868070731522013-03-12T10:44:00.000-07:002013-03-12T10:44:21.094-07:00Tales From the Trenches<strong><em>Oh, darlings, I've missed you. You have no idea. Life is so terribly hard when people throw themselves and free things at you. It's so difficult being this discerning. But I do try. </em></strong><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmulwKZkUdfgFTC7J7TlaGO2tQCcDkiY_yhLn-Hd4m7v3TFSVDKZzAqshUhl9R6Ye-nu3pGwdvbQVviYJmwBCIpRG7vJh3EnxiikPOYnEJbH5yIFNPW0nrpM_rGT41aFBgT0DHLOS8so/s1600/demure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" psa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmulwKZkUdfgFTC7J7TlaGO2tQCcDkiY_yhLn-Hd4m7v3TFSVDKZzAqshUhl9R6Ye-nu3pGwdvbQVviYJmwBCIpRG7vJh3EnxiikPOYnEJbH5yIFNPW0nrpM_rGT41aFBgT0DHLOS8so/s200/demure.jpg" width="145" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>This is my demure face.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong><em>Recently, you may have heard through the gossip mill that I've been to Cornwall. I do love Cornwall. Where else can you frolic like children on a beach in your £400 wellies, and two hours later show off your impeccable figure in a string bikini? That is, as long as you're willing to accept the outrageous a la carte prices for such things. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>Look, truly, I am simply fabulous. Do not get snippy with me simply because your hair is decidedly less-than, or because you cannot afford the best Brazilian cocaine, or because you have an actual drudgey job as opposed to something delightfully nebulous like 'web consultant.' I cannot help it if generally speaking I just have things fall into my lap like glorious, perfectly-groomed dogs. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>What I do find utterly unspeakable is when I'm invited to a hotel that looks delicious and find the accommodations -- well, rather like the equivalent of a shoddy blowout. This is not to say that the proletariat might not find the place squeakingly upmarket; I'm only saying there are <u>standards</u>, cupcake, and if you live your life by a different set, it is hardly my problem. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>I do implore you, dear readers, to take opinions from the internet as -- well, opinions from the internet. Should you suddenly require me to have things like journalistic objectivity, I should think this would become the most stodgy, dreary page on the planet. Much like I presume that Liberty person's site must be. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>When I write about somewhere I've been, it's me writing about somewhere I've been, you silly bourgeois sods. And while I quite naturally assume my readers are universally staying at filthy little Travelodges the world over, you must understand that when I vacation, it is with the assumption that I will be informed of any additional charges prior to their incurrance.</em></strong><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJmza8fAZ95PtbO4d5jsDp4AeLq3qoy4fIRwiHRwhen5kFSxbAdKNVEn807Y8UZ0MsmuPeKLCPjGuz2axp4u1_cRoTc4RQNBSUx9fFzoQLBtAdJkiRMAL-ouqSJKM7DJ3PMcnL-ZE7iU/s1600/travelodge-london-ealing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" psa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJmza8fAZ95PtbO4d5jsDp4AeLq3qoy4fIRwiHRwhen5kFSxbAdKNVEn807Y8UZ0MsmuPeKLCPjGuz2axp4u1_cRoTc4RQNBSUx9fFzoQLBtAdJkiRMAL-ouqSJKM7DJ3PMcnL-ZE7iU/s320/travelodge-london-ealing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Oh, dear God. This Travelodge is like something out of a prison movie. You poor sodding bastards.</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>(And also the assumption that the night's catch won't cause me to spend the evening vomiting up everything I've ever eaten. I did manage to lose a kilo, however, and am rather surprised I wasn't charged for the spoiled seafood as a spa service.)</em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>In short, if you'd like to stay in Cornwall and lose some pesky weight, this may be right in your wheelhouse. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>If you'd like me to be more objective, or suddenly to begin revealing all my secrets, well, then, you haven't been reading carefully enough. You don't get to know these things, you whiny little meat pasties. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>Ta, </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Jonquil. </em></strong><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-51832527301048843852013-01-18T09:39:00.001-08:002013-01-18T09:39:16.878-08:00Total Shite; or, How to Effect a Cleanse With Grace<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>At those times, I turn to an old friend.</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Gwyneth Paltrow. </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>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." </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>So let's leave Gwyneth to her piss-poor excuses for cleanses, shall we? </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>This cleanse of mine will have you sparkling new again in a matter of days, peasants, guaranteed. </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Ingredients: </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Condensed essence of oat bran, 2 cups</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>7 ounces pharmaceutical-grade Brazilian cocaine</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Raw kale, 2 bunches</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Syrup of ipecac, three drops</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>4 packets Normacol Plus laxative</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Orange juice, for taste</em></strong></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>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. </em></strong></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>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. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
<br />
<strong><em>Love, </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Jonquil</em></strong><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-39519097276499265792013-01-11T10:59:00.002-08:002013-01-11T11:04:18.365-08:00Happy New Year, Darlings! <div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Oh, I've <u>so</u> much to cover. It has been a whirlwind of gin and tinsel, my lovely peasants, and I'm only now beginning to sober up. </em></strong></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>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. </em></strong></div>
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</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Isn't it too sweet? This is the informal family room.</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<strong><em>Christmas at our house is low-key, we just exchange little things and enjoy each others' company. This was my haul this year: </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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? </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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 <u>was</u> simply jealous. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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,</em> stop being such a goddamned cock-up, you're depressing my houseguests<em>."</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Happy 2013, my little rustics. I adore each and every one of you, even if you <u>are</u> rather dirty and unkempt. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em> Love,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em> Jonquil</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em> P.S. And darling, especially you -- do not ever doubt your </em></strong><br />
<strong><em> muchness, regardless of what your mother says.</em></strong>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-14116119038897260002012-12-20T15:42:00.003-08:002012-12-20T15:42:47.847-08:00Horton Hears a Who<i><b>Darlings, holiday shopping is simply my <u>favorite</u>. 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.</b></i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGQD_UpOuo74-eu5tlV3CFNml5MD3EmuRvVwCWqM8HVsbwl-fMyA7iN_MtI3xgdZv2jWQrZFSZb3L5E0KJlFLlen9XQrFQaimjui4_8M2e_WZwsuD5d_son2V29B2N3iOI3M6ftUZccY/s1600/51457899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoGQD_UpOuo74-eu5tlV3CFNml5MD3EmuRvVwCWqM8HVsbwl-fMyA7iN_MtI3xgdZv2jWQrZFSZb3L5E0KJlFLlen9XQrFQaimjui4_8M2e_WZwsuD5d_son2V29B2N3iOI3M6ftUZccY/s1600/51457899.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This lovely diary is perfect for everyone on your list! Available <a href="http://www.smythson.com/us/women/books-and-diaries/kings-manuscript-book.html">here</a>. </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I bought forty for all my friends.</i></td></tr>
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<i><b>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? </b></i><br />
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<i><b>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. </b></i><br />
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<i><b>Cheers, darlings.</b></i><br />
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<i><b> </b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-49608658594155512882012-12-20T15:33:00.001-08:002012-12-20T15:33:42.373-08:00Holiday Party!<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><b>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. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>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.</b></i></div>
<i><b> </b></i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Poor Milly. Truly. Poor, poor Milly. Just look at those absolutely immense thighs.</i></td></tr>
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<i><b>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. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>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. </b></i></div>
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<i><b>Truly, a grand party. I hope you've had as many joyous times! I do love the holidays.</b></i></div>
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<i><b>XXOO</b></i></div>
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<i><b>J</b></i></div>
<i><b> </b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-33508163292604040842012-12-06T11:58:00.001-08:002012-12-06T11:58:21.077-08:00Holiday Style<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>This look I call "Pimms With A Dash of GHB."</em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Dress, alice + olivia,</em> <em>available </em><a href="http://www.shopbop.com/ona-leather-bustier-gown-alice/vp/v=1/845524441955424.htm"><em>here</em></a><em> , <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: small;">£621</span></span></em><br />
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<strong><em>Happy holidays, my poor little foundlings. </em></strong><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-68173155341215235872012-12-06T11:36:00.002-08:002012-12-06T11:36:37.700-08:00A Commoner Christmas<strong><em>Do you know what I love, darlings? </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Common people. </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>At any rate. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Drowning my sorrows.</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I ate this in its entirety and did not gain an ounce. So what if the plumbers had to be called?</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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 <u>terribly</u> taxing on the mind, but such a worthy enterprise.</em></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-88786370682027029622012-12-03T10:32:00.000-08:002012-12-03T10:32:12.761-08:00Weekend in the Country<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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? </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>For only $500 American, these declare, "I can afford to buy things that look previously worn."</em></td></tr>
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<br />
<strong><em>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.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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.)</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Mine</em><br />
<em>Not yours</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>In short, country shoots are delicious darling; just don't forget to bring a blanket for the potting shed. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Cashmere blanket I used is from <a href="http://www.thewoolcompany.co.uk/geisha-cashmere-blanket.html">here</a>.</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>Happy hunting!</em></strong>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-69811473543614115852012-11-30T10:46:00.002-08:002012-11-30T10:46:49.669-08:00Cooking Up a (Hash) Storm<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-63746415037107302862012-11-29T10:23:00.000-08:002012-11-29T11:40:48.242-08:00Alfie's Hunting Hutch<strong><em>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.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Only a few pets were harmed in the making of this photo.</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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 <u>really</u> buggering the stable manager.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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. </em></strong><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>That's Alfie in the middle. Later on, he shagged Fi in the ladies'.</em></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-84918333035176442312012-11-28T11:02:00.004-08:002012-11-28T11:06:22.313-08:00Day Three in Paris<div style="background-color: white; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">
<i><b>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 <s>my boyfriend</s> 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. </b></i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>I think I remember "Coste" because it sounds like money.</em></td></tr>
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<i><b>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.<br /><br />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.</b></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61208655812329442.post-14145784730365311982012-11-28T10:59:00.002-08:002012-11-28T11:04:31.482-08:00Days One and Two in Paris<div style="background-color: white; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">
<b><i>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. </i></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>A little chilly, but decidedly worth it.</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Super high quality! Thanks, Hyatt! And Jonathan from the salon!</em></td></tr>
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<strong><em>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? </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>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.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>All in all, an excellent trip.</em></strong></div>
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<strong></strong>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10002825502156406555noreply@blogger.com0