Many moons ago, in my first year of uni, I was all about the heels and the dresses. Night after night I would go out dressed to the nines, wearing heels that made me look like an unsteady baby giraffe and more make up than you could shake a packet of face wipes at, only to inevitably come home, shoes in one hand, wadge of toilet roll in the other desperately trying to mop up the tequila and shame from my skirt. These nights out were a meat market, a cat walk without the glamour, during which time the sole aim was to be considered ‘fit’ by the dribbling masses slurring into their jagerbombs and forgetting your name every ten seconds. I shiver now when I think of the money I spent on these dresses, the time I wasted convincing myself that I would totally wear those heels all the time and the smiles and fake laughs I wasted on those mugs in the smoking area who didn’t give a fuck what your favorite Kubrick film was as long as they could tongue you.  I remember the significance those nights out had, how important it was to look good, to look like everyone else, to dare to wear the tiniest skirt, the highest heels, to pull off that quiff and why? Because it gave you some sense of self, some evidence that you exist in the eyes of others, and you know, since I stopped giving a shit, more people have been interested in talking to me. Gone is the girl who would get too drunk smile and laugh and play along, she has long since been replaced with a more superior model; the girl who is quicker than you, funnier than you and can take an insult better than you. Beware, females, your doe lashes and hair extensions will only take you so far, but what happens when they come off and all you have is you, and you’ve forgotten how.


As I take the final pull on my cigarette before extinguishing it against the side of TGI Fridays, I see the hoards of girls begin to flock by in a milee of tiny skirts, huge coifs and heels that could kill a man. Inside ten female traipse in, each wearing heels and dresses that would make a drag queen blush. There is a sense of competition in the air as she who dares will surely be carried off over the shoulder of some hulking rugby player who has replaced his brains with biceps and foregone having a neck in favor of having pecks like dinner plates. This competition is at the centre of it all, the push up bras, the heels, the holding in tights, the false eyelashes, the mesh skirts, the see-through tops. I saw a girl wearing a white pencil skirt which was all but see-through throw shade at this girl for wearing a tiny black dress displaying both T and A. Hilarious, pot kettle slut! This is it though, these girls are going out dressed like they’re going to some horrendous TOWIE party, they work all week in jobs they hate, developing no real interests or hobbies focusing everything they are on how they look, the clothes they wear, the next color to dye their hair and literally living for the two nights a week they can put on a costume and pretend to be like the people they see on these horrendous shows (The Kardashians, Jersey Shore, The Valleys) when these people do fuck all with their lives. Oh look, Kim Kardashian posted another selfie online, why? Because she has no fucking life, she spends money, she has her picture taken and she goes home wondering why she still feels empty inside even though there is a generation of girls coming who want to be just like her. Forget Ellen Page and Michelle Obama because Jordan just released another autobiography about her life, oh, Emma Watson did a nice speech at the UN, that’s cute but look Rita Ora just dyed her hair pink, I wonder if  I could pull that off.

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Meanwhile, in my leggings and t shirt I tuck into a burger the size of my head, having already tucked into two starters waiting for the rest of the group to arrive, I have no shame. We all meet for dinner and head our separate ways to get ready for our friends’ birthday night out, for some this means taking out the rollers they wore at dinner, applying fake tan and picking one of the ten dresses they brought to wear. For me it meant having a shower, sticking me face on (and attempting contouring) and pulling on my jeans and top. Boom. Low maintenance. Ready. I even have time to roll a joint which I will share with the only guy in the group before we brave the land of spanx and blisters.


As we head out, most are already drunk, girls walking around looking like Bambi on ice in heels that will doubtless be worn for an hour to deliver maximum effect when strutting into that first bar, to show in the split second that less than half the eyes in the place will be on you, that you take care of yourself, you make an effort, you’re a hottie.  Meanwhile, yours truly draws looks all night wearing black jeans, doc martens and a  nondescript black strap top. How upsetting for those who spent hours on their hair and make up to be ignored in favour for she who made the most minimal effort possible, and isn’t even remotely drunk when she cracks out her best grunge dance moves (all knees and face). I should point out now that it is not everyone’s fault that they are so drunk, the drinks in Swansea are hilariously cheap, at one bar I got a sizable cocktail for £6, a tequila for £2 and a Disaronno Cranberry for £3, so its no surprise that at one point I see a woman in a pencil skirt cuffed and escorted by police still holding her stilettos.  Also, tits. Tits everywhere in Swansea, little tits shown off with a plunging neckline in a backless number, tits propped up by so much foam they’re popping out of the tops these girls shouldn’t even bother to wear and the sheer amount of fake tits about was staggering. The rest of the night was harmonious, we kept to ourselves, danced like we were the Supremes, Michael Jackson and Beyonce all rolled into one. One of the girls in heels disappeared and returned triumphant and smug in flip flops and I have never been so proud.  It was traumatic for me to be confronted with the types of people I thought ceased to exist after 2009, but I feel secure in the knowledge that eventually they will go, fuck this, catapult their spanx out the window and opt for something comfy and let themselves be themselves rather than the girl who’s face they put on to go out in.



Bestival 2014 “Survival” Tips

As summer merges into autumn and bikini panic begins to ebb away along with the cares you had about your ever growing leg hair, the strange month of September rolls around, signalling the end of Summer. A time which over the years has had so much significance now does nothing to remind you that you know longer have Summer Holidays and are a fully fledged adult. This time signals the end of summer festivals and daytime drinking and reminds us that the sun cannot last forever…But just when you thought it was all over, the last festival of the season approaches with gathering speed. Thanks to the genius that is Rob Da Bank and his empire, Sunday Best, we are lucky enough to have Bestival. For four days Robin Hill Park on the Isle of Wight is overrun with nutters dressed up to the nines and dancing their little wellies off to some of the biggest names in music at the UKs biggest fancy dress party. And there are only two days to go!!


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Now, at some point, everyone has to lose their Festivirginity, and I am no different, I spent weeks before Bestival 2013 googling ‘Festival Survival Tips’ and honestly, its not about surviving, its about giving in to fun for four straight days, dancing your little socks off and wearing more glitter than you could shake a Drag Queen at! So here are my three top tips for the Best(ival)

  1. Stop giving a shit about needing to shit. Yes its number one on my list (hilarious) and it seems it is the thing that bothers festival goers the most. So let me lay it out on the line for you. You will wait awkwardly in line to take a shit in a foul porta-loo. There will be pee on the floor and the seat, you may even find a little excrement art to admire while you do your thing. You will then come out into what will hopefully be glorious sunshine looking a little ashamed. But so does everyone else, so don’t worry about it. Everybody Poops, and it is never more apparent than at a festival. Just deal with it. TOP TIP: There are sawdust toilets in less crowded areas where you take a cup of sawdust in to cover your business like a cat, fun and eco-friendly, what could be better!
  2. Make friends. Everyone is there to have fun, get fucked up and dance like a lunatic, so make friends with your camping neighbors because in the battlefield that is the campsite, its always worth having an ally to watch your shit. TOP TIP: give them a ciggie or a toke, offer a beer or some brioche, do their glitter for them and help them set up camp, because when you stumble into the wrong tent at 4am in a whirlwind of beer farts and sequins, its better to have someone say “oh babe, fucked it”, than “get the fuck out”.
  3. Do not as “is this too much”. Bestival is, as I said, the UKs biggest fancy dress party, you are there to be outlandish and look fabulous. Plus, I have a theory; after four days of sweating and smoking you will stink, your hair will be greasy and your skin will suck, therefore we plaster ourselves in more and more glitter, wear flowers in our hair and wear ridiculous clothes to mask our putrid scent. Don’t worry, its not just you. Plus with its own carnival style parade, you will never be the sparkliest girl at the party. TOP TIP: Use vaseline to secure glitter, comes right off with a face wipe and keeps you well moisturised. Use eyelash glue for pompoms, feathers and gems (you’re welcome)

Thats it. Go out and have fun.

Oh, and if you see some fuckhead wearing this, you found me!

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