The Hate Can Weight.

Now I will not pretend to be a Lady Gaga superfan, or one of her "little monsters", but I have to get this off my chest... Leave Gaga alone.

The tabloids have erupted in a storm of Gaga slandering. And why, you ask? Well, the madwoman has gained a few pounds. What a disgusting pig.

It makes me feel sick to read some of the truly awful articles published about a the "decidedly meatier" singer.  Led, of course, by The Daily Mail's addictive gossip website the press have been ripping Lady Gaga to shreds, blaming her weight gain on her drug dependence (huh?) and suggesting she has piled on a whopping 30 lbs.

The aptly nicknamed Daily Fail (christened by the goddesses at The Vagenda) have published a series of appalling articles. They suggest she "hides fuller figure under an oversized coat" and, most shockingly of all, that "despite her recent weight gain, Lady Gaga was polite to fans." And this is journalism?! Give. Me. A. Break.

Lady Gaga has responded by posting pictures of herself in her underwear, standing up to these bullies as only she knows how, and has bravely got on with it, despite this horrible abuse.

I'm not suggesting that Gaga does not expose herself to such criticism. She is a worldwide celebrity and is of course going to be subject to tabloid gossip, but what really gets me about this article is how it portrays "fat" as a terrible thing, something to be ashamed of, something that actually turns you into a nasty person.

This is the problem with modern media. Articles about severely anorexic girls are published alongside this vitriol, yet not a peep is uttered about how these "fattist" attitudes affect young women and men. Yes, Lady Gaga may have gained a few pounds but she has no obligation to be skinny, if she is happy and healthy then so be it- it is none of our business and I don't doubt for one second that the vile "journalist" who sat behind their desk typing up these ludicrous taunts will have been a good few pounds heavier than Lady Gaga. Not that it matters, of course.

The fact of the matter is that our beauty ideals are narrowing even further. The recent airbrushed images of Karlie Kloss, where her skeletal ribs have been smoothed over, shows that we are being fed a false image of perfection. Her emaciated body has been concealed, suggesting that you can be so very tiny but still be "healthy", with no savagely protruding bones. It is truly shocking.

The final straw in the whole Lady Gaga debacle is that Lady Gaga is a recovered bulimic. Everyone knows it, she has talked about the harrowing effects of this eating disorder, yet still the tabloids decide to rip into her for gaining a few pounds? If they had even an inkling of decency, these articles would not have been published, but still, they were and the subsequent media storm has drawn even more traffic to the trashy Daily Mail website. Bulimia is a truly horrible illness, a slippery slope that it is devastatingly hard to break away from. When you begin to purge, it is extremely difficult to stop, and before you know it you are sneaking into bathrooms after dinner, tears streaming down your face, feeling like there is no alternative.

I completely support Lady Gaga on this, and I think she still looks great. I could not care less about her gaining a few pounds, and nobody else has any right to attack her for this. Get a grip, there are far more important things than being thin.

And, on that note, i'm going to go lust over the Nutella pizza i'll be indulging in at Ping this evening. Because I can. Take that Mail Online writers, feel free to comment on my meatier frame if it makes you feel THAT much better about yourselves.

Six Weeks To 'Are You Kidding Me?'

Brekkie? I'll just have my porridge, thanks.

Let us not lie, we are all obsessed with our bodies. Too fat, too thin, whatever, we are a bunch of body obsessors and it's getting cray-zay.

Alas, it is not our fault! We are a nation fixated, nigh on infatuated, with being slim. We are conditioned to view ourselves as inadequate with every front page declaring a size 10 singer curvy or, worse, fat. "Why don't you look like Miranda Kerr you lazy brute? It's probably all those pizzas, have a salad instead, without the dressing. Stop enjoying yourself: BE THIN."

Perhaps the media are a little slyer than that, but increasingly they are starting to sound just like the anorexic minx that plagues every sufferer's mind. "You could be skinnier than all your friends... Just skip breakfast and get your energy from espresso. It's easy!". These are genuinely the principles of a diet that has seen a huge amount of coverage this summer: the totally tragic "SIX WEEKS TO OMG!"

It is the first diet to promote skinniness rather than health, a skinniness that is unattainable if it is not your natural build. It is promoting excessive exercise, skipping breakfast, dipping into a freezing bath to shock your body into fat burning. It is, quite frankly, sickening and I can't believe that it is receiving so much attention, as well as topping the best sellers lists, confirming what I had feared- we are no longer a nation obsessed with being thin, we are now a nation obsessed with being skinny. Great.

You can argue, of course, and please do let me know your thoughts, but it feels like our perception of what is healthy, and what is beautiful, is becoming even more skewed and, ultimately, detrimental. "SIX WEEKS TO OMG" first hit the shelves just as the beautifully slender Kate Upton was being labelled "fat". A size eight, guys, a SIZE EIGHT.

No, Grazia , she is not curvy, no, Daily Mail, she is not voluptuous, SHE IS TINY. She looks like all women should wish they did and it scares me that we no longer want to look like a goddess with boobs, a bum and a flat stomach and instead want to mirror catwalk models, coveting their thigh-gaps, protruding clavicles and xylophone ribs.

It is horrifying and I cannot for the life of me see what can be done to change this. It scares me, what actually needs to happen to make us wake up and realise that skinniness is not always attainable and for the masses is not healthy?

How on earth are all the boys and girls suffering from eating disorders supposed to beat them? It's an uphill struggle and it is becoming even harder these days. Something desperately needs to change.

The skinny obsession is everywhere now. On the way to the hospital last month, I held my head in my hands, desperately dreading my imminent weigh-in. I then looked up as my Bakerloo line train pulled into a station, and was greeted by a gigantic poster for "SIX WEEKS TO OMG" Helpful, TFL, thanks.

Part of me feels, though, that it is too late for things to change.

Please let me know your thoughts.

PS

Apologies that this post is a bit out of date... I found it on my iPad, which I have only just bothered to charge today for the first time since Barcelona!

PPS

If you really insist on shaping up try this approach. Much healthier!

A Feminist in Pyjama Pants

From The Vagenda

I AM A FEMINIST. Caitlin Moran told me so. In fact, she told me and the millions of other readers of the brilliant How To Be A Woman to stand on a chair and shout it out at the top of our voices. A BIG FAT FEMINIST. That's me.

You are probably reading this and sniggering. Admittedly, this post feels rather incongruous alongside the the rest of SW Fashion. A feminist? Who writes about self tan, post-cupcake guilt and how to wear neon? Nah.

Well, my cynical friend, I have had an epiphany. This sun soaked fortnight in Spain has confirmed what I have spent months speculating. How so, you ask? Did all that €1.45 Cava (with brekkie, lunch and dinner obvs) go to my head? Well, not quite. Alongside the numerous glasses of fizz and pans of paella consumed, I have also digested every last word of Moran's iconic book.

This book is essential reading. It ain't pretty but it's honest and it is the funniest thing I have read in a long time. It is the best book I have read since The Bell Jar and it is a tad more uplifting.

How so good? Well, Caitlin has redefined feminism and has kick-started the new wave of feminism. One for the normal woman. Women like me.

Granted, I'm not your average woman. In fact, I'm a total loony. I'm obsessive, I'm unable to sit still and I'm trying with every scrawny bone in my body to break into the already over populated fashion industry. But, in many respects, I am as ordinary as they come. A plain Jane... Just one who likes a nice Mulberry and her Jeffrey Campbells.

Back in the day, the feminists were to be feared, but this new age feminism has been a very long time coming. It isn't about man hating, or about not shaving or burning bras, it's about not putting up with any of the nonsense we face on a daily basis. And boy, once you start noticing the nonsense we ladies encounter, it's hard to ignore.

If you need further confirmation I urge you to visit the cutting Vagenda blog. Even though some of their articles are controversial, and I don't necessarily agree with all their comments, I do find it to be the best thing on the Internet. I feel like a total hypocrite for reading it before I read, and enjoy, Grazia (the magazine which the Vagenda ladies rip to shreds on a weekly basis) but they talk a lot more sense. They simply point out the glaringly obvious: magazines are not really our friends anymore.

Of course, there are exceptions, but by large magazines aren't as uplifting and empowering to women as they really should be. I hope that this can change over the next few years as a new wave of journalists storm Bauer, Hearst and Conde Nast with their lady-friendly articles. Writing that is a million miles away from the shocking nonsense that occasionally finds its way to our weekly magazines and plagues that god-awful (but rather addictive) Daily Mail website.

I do not want this to come across as slandering all current magazines as I do still love to read what The Vagenda mocks. I love pyjama pants, hell, I'm wearing them right now. I love fashion and I love preening myself for cocktails or a night out, but what I have come to realise is that I do all this stuff for ME and for no one else. I have also come to realise that many magazines are depressingly derogatory, pressing women to change when they do not need to. It's taken me 18 painstaking years to realise that, actually, I'm fine as I am. I do not need 6 WEEKS TO OMG, I do not need to have it all and I do not need a magazine to tell me that "Hey, It's Okay" to eat tomato sauce and Lurpak sandwiches or drink with breakfast occasionally. I'll do what I fancy, ta.

This, my friends, is an exciting time for women (and men, you can be feminists too!). I do not urge you to burn Grazia or Cosmo, read it and enjoy it, but remember not to take it all to heart. You don't need a gap between your thighs to be beautiful, or a collection of LBDs to get a man. You need to be yourself, coz you're great.

Posted with Blogsy

PRIMROSE Magazine

I just thought i'd share with you my work over the past two months. It's been some serious blood, sweat and tears (two weeks ago I entered into a zombie-like state induced by InDesign) but I hope you will agree that PRIMROSE magazine has been worth it.

PRIMROSE is a result of our "London Calling" assignment. We had to create a magazine for a fashion tribe in one of London's fashion villages, so naturally I chose my beloved Primrose Hill... Our tribe? Read it and see!

So many people were keen to be involved, and it really has been a learning curve! Thanks to:

Tom Johnson Photography
Photographer on our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Sheena Bulsara
Bespoke jewellery designer

Cheyenne Raymond
Hair and Make-Up on our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Primrose Hill Interiors
Location and jewellery for our 'Bitch Please' shoot

Waggin' Tails
Dog accessories for MJ

Julia Caesar
Our beautiful model and cover star

Monsieur Jacques and Yvonne
Our other cover star and his lovely owner

Stay tuned for future projects, as I feel i've got a bit of a taste for magazines now... 

Please do let me know what you think, and I really do hope you like it. Love it even!

Open publication - Free publishing - More beauty

Baby Steps

I wrote this piece, again, as a possible personal reflection article for theVogue Talent Contest, and felt there may be some of you who would be interested. Hope you enjoy, and hope it gets you thinking.

There are defining moments in life. Those little events that change everything, be that for the better or for the worse. For some it could be exam results, for others a first kiss. For some people, though, defining moments in life become worthless, and instead they live a life overshadowed by their mind.

The taboo of mental illness is one that has plagued society for so long. It is their own fault, say unknowing cynics. Self indulgent, say others. These comments, cruel and narrow minded, just add to the softness of the topic. No one wants to talk about it, because it is difficult to understand until you have witnessed it first hand.

Anorexia is the mental illness with the highest death rate, yet so few people actually understand it as such. “Eat a pie!” they cry, as if buttery pastry will block out the vicious voice within. What we do not realise is that this crippling illness destroys the mind as much as it does the body. It tears apart families and scrunches up potential, all in the pursuit of warped beauty.

Nowadays there is a wealth of writing about eating disorders. It ranges from seemingly innocuous comments about skinny models, to full reports examining the effect of the media on body image, but rarely is this writing sympathetic to the emotional turmoil that a sufferer faces. We hear of the deaths, the dark physical effects of malnutrition, but we do not scratch the surface of this maddening condition.

I did not, until I slipped into an obsessive cycle of skipping meals and pushing my body to its limit. Substantial meals would immediately be expelled from my body to avoid the incessant guilt, and I would wear my protruding ribcage like a trophy as I deteriorated into a childlike state of fragility. So far, so standard, and with each pound that dropped off, I became increasingly unbearable.

This is not merely a record of how it felt to live each day ruled by hunger. This is not a sob story, or a generic attack on fashion magazines; this is an empathetic account of anorexia, just as I try to escape its clutches.

Breathlessly pounding the treadmill days before my leavers dance, I glanced in the mirror. The thinnest in the hall, pointed elbows and sinewy arms, I would finish these forty minutes and then it would not matter that I had eaten ten grams more cereal than usual. I would walk back from the gym, before writing a blog post and completing my hundred crunches. “It will stop in a few days,” I told myself, “just once prom is over.”

Hair done, and just an hour before the dance, I began my make-up. A mask of foundation to hide my blemished skin and swirls of blusher to add the colour that starvation drained, I then unsuccessfully attempted to apply my false eyelashes and broke down. I sobbed, useless and ugly, longing to scream. Too much pressure and stress, I presumed, avoiding the blatantly obvious fact that this frustration was nothing but hunger.

The elegant Max Azria dress was bought months in advance and it fit beautifully, softly shaping my waist. Minutes before leaving, I carefully zipped it up, thrilled as it gaped at my hollow chest. This disturbing thrill should have been enough to make me stop but, of course, anorexia was ingrained in my mind and anything resembling common sense was gone. At the leavers dance I just drank, and did not eat, before avoiding an after party and retiring to my bed.

It should have stopped there, simple as that, but it did not. I ate less and less before being admitted to a specialist doctor for psychotherapy. I sat on the torn sofas, waiting to say all the right things and trick them into thinking I was fine, and then I saw the patients. A girl, younger than myself, hobbled past, leaning on a walking stick. Her matchstick legs looked ready to collapse as the veins throbbed on her hands and feet. Her head down, her expression was of heart-breaking misery. I felt sick. Another passed, her leggings gaping, clumps of her hair missing as she shivered, clinging to a cup of black coffee. These women had become manifestations of the demons that ruled their life and I could not bear to live my life in the same vain.

An eating disorder is all pervading. Every day I count myself lucky that I am working towards recovery. These girls, fading away, are no longer themselves, they are defined by an illness with no cure. If they do not want to recover, they wont.  It is a poignant, heart-breaking thought, but there is more to anorexia than wanting to be skinny. 

Breezy Sunday Reading

The lights dimmed as the purr of gossip and chatter drew to a halt. Glossy haired girls fixated their eyes on the catwalk in anticipation, occasionally glancing towards the trophy celebrities adorning the front row. The photographers clicked their cameras into place as fashion’s elite clutched their iPhones, hash-tagging LFW, poised to make or break this collection with a hundred and twenty characters or less. The first bars of the electro soundtrack pounded alongside my heart as I looked around the spacious venue. This is where I had longed to be for eighteen years, day in, day out, and as the first delicate model emerged in a bold, botanical print I sat upright and watched, every little detail was magical and the entire experience surpassed my already sky-high expectations.

London Fashion Week is a mecca for the countless British girls longing to make it in the industry. It is the be all and end all, and I have always seen it as something of a fantasy. The chic sorts who create the glossy magazines we devour every month emerge from their pristine offices, heels clicking fiercely, and descend on Somerset House. They casually pose for the bloggers, hands in pockets, showcasing new season McQueen like it was made for them, before taking their front row seats at the ‘it’ shows, deciding who to make or break.

By some divine miracle, I had ended up among these glamourous creatures, elated and nervous in equal parts. Carefully considered ice blue jeans were my nod to the new season and I held my trophy mini-Mulberry, as if a designer bag might boost my credentials. I am hardly Olivia Palermo, but I secretly hoped for the bloggers to adore my style. A couple of snaps later, one of which was simply of my Panda phone-cover, I felt a less of a misfit. There are aspects of London Fashion Week that are unlike anything else in the world, it is at first uplifting but above all inspiring.

Clueless, a friend and I walked into Somerset House, brandishing LFW Daily and watching the seasoned fashion folk that passed us by. A svelte blonde woman darted past in distressed denim and a zingy fluorescent jacket, my head zapped round, helplessly attracted to neon, and immediately it was clear that this was unknown territory. Used to admiring the London fashion scene from afar, through the window of my laptop, I was used to a much tamer version of fashion, where a dark lipstick is groundbreaking. By contrast, anything goes in London. Sheer palazzo pants are greeted by admiring glances, vivid Katrantzou-esque prints are standard and you could wear a fascinator on the underground without so much as a perplexed stare. It is a place where individuality is welcomed and whole-heartedly embraced. In all sincerity, where could be better?

Fashion Week is where London’s darlings come to flourish. You have the long limbed Alexa Chung brigade wearing what could be their grandmother’s cardigan and grandfather’s slippers, yet still looking unfeasibly stylish. You have the street-style magnets that wear a bare minimum of four trends at once, carefully executed and styled to perfection. Then you have the ones that try too hard, almost clown-like in their attire, yet still they exude the vivacity and fearlessness of London style. They look ridiculous, but fabulously so.

Standing in the queue opposite those holding their invites, one cannot help but feel a little disheartened. A number of us stood shivering, hoping that somebody would have a devastating clash between shows, or that they would encounter a frustrating underground delay forcing them to miss out so we could get in. I just longed to know what it was like, to sit at one of the catwalk shows I would spend hours dissecting, writing out detailed reports that only I would read.

The deceptive February sunshine was little consolation as we stood in the icy shade, waiting to hear our fate. A few everlasting moments later, I could not believe my luck as the tall man standing by the doors ushered us in, the first ten. We navigated through the crowds before finding a gap on the second last bench and taking our seats.

For the lucky ones who frequent fashion week, gliding from Milan to Paris, this undoubtedly sounds silly. The thrill of my first day at fashion week is madness. For them it is stressful, too many shows and too little time. The champagne reception here, the after party there and then there are the droves of budding designers that want to impress them. During fashion week, their time is as sparse as their wardrobes are full.  Nevertheless, I envy them. That one day I spent at London Fashion Week, albeit sans invite, was a dream come true, and nothing can compare. 

MORE ABOUT MY FIRST LFW HERE.

PS

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this post, or any others :) Please don't hesitate in letting me know what you think! 

Is It Really Worth It?

Impossibly long limbs, honeyed skin and taut torsos; Victoria’s Secret models are modern day goddesses. Not too skinny and not too athletic, with soft curves where they ought to be, these flawless models have come to represent the new bodily ideal. The childlike waifs that ruled the nineties, noughties and beyond have been replaced by glossy and classically beautiful women that are more than a little bit desirable, and their bodies are the piéce du résistance.

A Victoria’s Secret Angel is more than a model- they are at the top of their game and have become aspirational for many. It is an honour to be graced with the wings that accompany the delicately seductive lingerie, and it is one experienced by a very select few. Glamourous women like Doutzen Kroes and Miranda Kerr are seasoned walkers at the spectacular Victoria’s Secret shows, and for many years their toned and tanned physiques have been their livelihood.

Though the Angels may not represent the skinny fragility that has been the norm in the fashion industry for many years, their physiques are every bit as unattainable. Even more so, perhaps. While it is relatively easy to avoid biscuits and cakes or to swap a sandwich for a salad, it is less so to incorporate a tailored four-hour workout into the working day. Long and lean, these bodies are the glorious product of personal trainers, strict diets and immense dedication, and have been christened as “designer” bodies.

Surely, though, a body is a body, and it should not be so fiercely controlled. While there is no denying that these models have been rather lucky genetically, they still work tirelessly on their bodies to ensure total, unrivalled perfection. When every inch of their body is under scrutiny, every inch must be without fault. The Angels represent the new wave of supermodels, matching the income and lifestyle that made the eighties supers so iconic. For them the hard work has paid off, and they have come to represent the new female ideal. However, in reality, is it really worth the effort?

Getting a body fit for the multi-million dollar Victoria’s Secret show is a full time job, and undoubtedly leaves little time for a social life. While no man would be complaining to have an Allessandra Ambrosio-esque beauty on his arm, he may grow to detest her true soulmate: the personal trainer. Though the physical results may be dazzling, adopting an Angel’s approach to diet and exercise could become exhausting, a damaging pursuit of impossible perfection.

Essentially the body of a Victoria’s Secret Angel is not natural, and having this image thrust forth as the new feminine ideal is not healthy. It goes without saying that the perception of beauty has evolved over time, and will continue to do so, but the real issue is that the aspirational is becoming increasingly unattainable, and the army of Victoria’s Secret Angels are strutting further and further away from reality.

EDAW2012

Yes, yes I know it's fashion week, and that is utmost in my mind, but this week, as you may be aware, is also the national eating disorder awareness week. This is something quite close to my heart, and I just thought I would write a little something.

Just a few days before fashion week, a hilarious video went viral and had fashion folk in hysterics. With witty observations and mocking comments, the amazing "Sh*t Fashion Girls Say", starring fashionista P'Trique and his industry musings, gained a cult following and had even the most severe of fashion's elite cracking a smile. A sequel followed, and the latest video is a based on P'Trique at New York Fashion Week, every bit as #totesamaze as the first.

While the videos are comic genius based on some of the truly ludicrous comments by "fashion" people, some of them are worryingly accurate and say a lot about the state of the industry. Sitting front row, P'Trique quips: "Oh my god, she's so skinny... I love it!". While the sane among us would laugh at the idiocy of this comment, it is sadly not that far from the truth. Stereotypical and stupid though it may seem, fashion is still obsessed with a childlike state of skinniness.

It is a very difficult topic to address. It is undeniable that beautiful clothes do look better on skinny models, which is all well and good when you are naturally built like a ballerina, but when you are not so lucky, it becomes very difficult to achieve that body shape. It also becomes destructive and dangerous.

I am not for one second suggesting that every single model is anorexic or bulimic. There is no way it could be possible. Most are simply naturally slender and control what they eat to keep their slight frame. However, if you are naturally a size twelve, and strive to achieve Natasha Poly-esque proportions, it is likely you will be doing your body irreversible harm.

I shall still jump to fashion's defence on this one, though, as I know that the number of young girls across the world who suffer from eating disorders are not so fickle as to look at a skinny model and go "WOW I want to be that thin, i'm going to stop eating." There is much more to it than that, and the fashion industry is not to blame, just a contributing factor.

It doesn't help that some people in fashion feel the need to fulfil that "Devil Wears Prada" stereotype of "I don't eat. I live on coffee and cigarettes." It is, quite frankly, pathetic. The fashion industry is based primarily on the artistry and the beauty behind clothes, not on the skinniness of the editor. Hearing comments, as I have in the past, like "you can never be too skinny" infuriate me, and above all terrify me. I have watched a desperately ill girl limp past me, her legs so frail they can hardly carry her miniscule weight, I have seen women in their late twenties who weigh less than a child. From these heartbreaking images, I can safely say you CAN be too skinny.

Beat Eating Disorder Awareness Week strives to increase understanding of eating disorders. I know how easy it is to shrug it off, but what most do not realise is that anorexia, and increasingly bulimia, are demonic mental illnesses that are so hard to cure. The worse an eating disorder gets, the more it takes hold and it soon defines the sufferer. Anorexia changes a person, they become introverted, obsessed with food, vulnerable and often angry. This is not glamourous and it is not beautiful- it is truly devastating. Often, as much as the sufferer wants to change, they can not, as the guilt is too much to deal with. There are anorexics who have suffered from the age of sixteen into their late thirties. Their bones are brittle, their hearts are weak and they live a life defined by their eating disorder.

So many people have little sympathy, and disregard anorexia as self-inflicted, but society does not help. It takes a great deal of strength to fight the illness, and if people were more aware of how it can take hold so unexpectedly and completely destroy a person, they might acknowledge how being severely underweight is the opposite of glamourous, it is fatal.

Now, this isn't an appeal for plus sized models to replace beauties like Lindsey Wixson on the catwalk, or for Lagerfeld to stop with his incessant moaning about "fat"people, it is just an appeal for fashion to see sense and stop with this dated and pathetic notion that you can not be fashionable unless you are thin.

Read more about eating disorder awareness week here.