What A Man Did.

 Sorry that i've been so shit at blogging for the past two weeks. I'm interning in London, (and going out most nights with friends I haven't seen in a year), preparing for my graduation year of university and am acting fashion editor at a magazine which goes into production this week. 

Lots to follow, I promise.

...of the winter coat proportion kind (a financial dilemma also, but as a student with a taste for luxury, that's perpetual, and a given). 

In the long corner, we have a black belted coat from Armani Collezioni, which I bought, well stole, on ebay. It's beautiful, but maybe just not right for me, so I may resell it. But it's a bargain, so maybe i'll just keep it. But I am trying to be very selective with everything I own, so maybe i'll sell it. MY LIFE IS SO HARD.

Then we have the Louis Vuitton belted camel coat which is #4 on my wishlist. It's too beautiful for words but, alas, I can't afford it. I've found a similar and affordable coat at Reiss, but hmm, i'm at the stage now where I always want the real thing, and if I can't have it, i'll wait until I can. 

Then we skip the mid-corner, because I have too many mid-length coats. Ahem.

To the short corner, where shapes get interesting. Wishlist cert is the Balenciaga structured wool jacket. It's just affordable (if I eat from the bins at Waitrose for a few weeks). A Fashion Forward Man is telling me to buy this, because I have quite a few lovely, but standard coats, and this is a standout piece. Oh, and I don't have any Balenciaga *takes knife to inner thigh*. 

Tonight, the short corner is ahead, but it's all subject to change as the collections continue to pile in. What do you think?

When it comes to hospitality, American hotels do it best. Upon arriving at the Montage pool, I was greeted by huge, iced tanks of lime, lemon and cucumber water, chilled fruit, and plush towels. Every time my glass neared empty, or my towel got wet, one of the pool staff brought me a new one. The club sandwich was a bit dear, but with the view, and the service, I honestly couldn't give a shit.

I was slightly put off by the woman who was obviously recovering from a recent surgery binge, but hey-ho, this is Orange County.

At the age of fourteen and fifteen, I was desperately trying to grow up, and ruin my mum's life in doing so. Of course, MySpace was the easiest place for me to organise and talk about my hedonistic escapes from the nest (the less I say here, the better). 

So you have me, an angst ridden teenager, locked away in my bedroom on a computer. Then you have my mum, a head-teacher at a boys school which was so rough, she needed a police escort. She wasn't taking any shit. Net Nanny was installed on my computer, and my mum rocked up to my favourite club, The Zoo Bar, and parted the crowds like the red seas. A few weeks later, when I had snuck out again, the police raided the club. Fuck The Police was of course played, and a riot ensued. 

...Anyway, reminiscing aside, I think I may, once again, need Net Nanny. My love for ebay has reached a worrying climax. Six, yes SIX parcels arrived this week, including trench coats from Lanvin, belted virgin wool coats from Armani Collezioni, and silk embroidered tops from Dries Van Noten.

I cannot afford any of these things, and I know I can't, so i'm worried. Each additional purchase is another shot into my already blackened veins (what a lovely analogy). But my irrational love for a bargain overrides any rational sensibilities I possess...

A rational man: "I can't afford it"

An irrational man: "That would have cost £1000 when it was new...AT LEAST"

A man "OKAY. BUY, BUY, BUY...ONE CLICK BUY...ONE CLICK FUCKING BUY I TELL YOU"

Of all the arguments that rational man and irrational man have with one another, rational man may as well not even bother with the one regarding bargain fashion hunting. 

Hi, i'm A Man, and i'm a bargain-a-holic. 

Recently, I realised that I hadn’t bought a men’s lifestyle magazine in an age. As an impressionable teenager, there was always at least 1912318 one in my bag, and I only read the fashion sections. Now, as a wiser boy-man hybrid, I forget the fashion section and go for the features. Yes, my interests have grown, but it’s more than that: I avoid the fashion section. 

Why? It’s part boredom, part loathing. Not only does every fashion section in every mainstream men’s magazine feel to read the same (minus the odd exception like GQ Style and Vogue Hommes Japan), I think that they combine to create a rhetoric which sits at odds with an essential attribute of journalism in general, and also with my reasons for loving fashion in the first place. 

I’m talking about the prescriptive tone which underscores the ‘Guides’, ‘Rulebooks’ and ‘Manuals’ of men’s magazines: which rams an archetypal ideal of what is and what is not to be a well dressed man, down the reader’s throat.

‘Never wear shorts more than an inch above the knee...never carry a man bag...never wear a short sleeve shirt’ (paraphrased from some of the most recent issues of the biggest men’s magazines).

To me, an essential attribute of journalism is that it reports on things I, as a reader, am unaware of, or gives me insight into an alternative outlook on things that I am aware of. Whether it’s politics, fashion, music or sport, I don’t pay £4.00 to read the same BS month in, month out. 

This is where, in my opinion, mainstream men’s fashion journalism has gone wrong. Its journalists choose not to report on the designers which challenge and refresh, or the explorers of the sartorially less trodden road: they choose not to sew a view of menswear which reflects its modern, changing and diverse existence. Rather, they choose to regurgitate and recycle an uninspiring, threadbare and flaccid view of menswear, which is as relevant as an article on health which champions the eating of fruit.

In doing so, they risk causing their reader to forget how to explore fashion as a way to express themselves, rather than as a way to sartorially bleat along with the rest of the herd. 

I sound like i’m going to piss on the clothes and skin the pets of all those who work at the ominous sounding mainstream men’s lifestyle magazines. No. I’m not against advice, or trend reporting. What I am against is inflexible rules in what is an essentially creative arena. Oh, and bad journalism. It’s simple: I don’t pick up a magazine to read what I’ve already read, especially in the same magazine, and I like what I do read to spur me to form my own ideas about the subject. 

...I also have a pair of Gucci shorts, a pair of Peter Jensen shorts and a pair of Carven shorts, which are all more than an inch above the knee, and I think that I look bloody good in them, especially with my man bag, you tossers. 

P.S I start an internship at one of said mainstream men’s lifestyle magazines at the end of the month...I have dreams of reciting this article in a fancy boardroom, and vomiting colour all over their grey world. Reading this P.S over, I realise i’m completely delusional...i’ll be brown nosing for a few years yet (in my short shorts). 

I spent the past ten days in Marrakech. The temperature was over forty degrees, and the hotel had a Clarins spa...needless to say I spent most of my time in a gin haze, wearing only swimwear or a robe. In all truth, it was scarily similar to Patsy and Edina's trip to Morocco. But of course that made me feel guilty to the extent that I had a lengthy conversation with myself.

'Don't pretend that you'll enjoy trawling through a sweaty hot market that reeks of piss and raw meat. You like wide streets, green spaces and fixed prices.'

'But you can't come to Marrakech and not leave the hotel with a clarins spa, amazing food and a pool.' 

'True. But once you've been to one tut market, you've been to them all, and i've been to PLENTY...plus the fifty pounds on tut could get me another Clarins massage'.

It went on until I gave in, to myself, but not completely. I found a man who could show me the best shops, told him I wanted to be in 'n' out, and ventured into the real world. 

It started badly...a factory shop with a man ramming fake 'Deisel' leather jackets and shitty wooden boxes down my throat. Then it got better, I went to a spice shop and bought some tagine spice, some saffron and some tea. Then it got best; I was taken to Maison du Kaftan. Pictures of the Jaggers' visits were everywhere-what more verification could you need-I had found THE shop for the luxe-bohemian traveller (that last sentence sounds a little bit twattish, I know). I bought a beautiful blue linen hand embroidered jacket, and an embroidered off white top made of the softest cotton ever. 

I debated wearing them on the flight home, but reminded myself that there is nothing worse than those idiots who travel home in their hippy holiday finds. It's a slippery slope to shell ended cornrows, hemp BO, and tying your baby to your back with a sari. YOU CAN AFFORD A BUGGY.