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.

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.

XXOO

J

 

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.



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. 

Mine
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!