Friday, May 21, 2010


I've made a really big mistake. HUGE.

I recently decided, against all better judgement, to move out of the city circle. After years of sloshing about Surry Hills and adjacent city suburbs, the opportunity arose to move into that Holy Grail of Sydney rental real estate: The hundred dollar a week room.

As a gentleman who aspires to many things of greatness, all of which include several years of slaving away with little to no pay (styling, writing, medicine....) the idea of shaving at least a hundred bucks from my living expenses weekly was an attractive one. "Great!" i thought. "I can work less, and concentrate on those things that I'm passionate about, far from the stress of paying absorbitant rent!".

The cruel reality of inner-outer suburban living is somewhat different to the money-soaked nirvana I imagined. With not a slither of a honeymoon period remaining, and a profound feeling of dread and doom each time I walk into "my house" allow me to describe the living situation I've found myself in:


In a really mean coincidence, my new suburb shares its name with the New Zealand boarding school I went to. Unfortunatley for me, there are no slightly curious Dairy Farmer offspring to perve at on the way to the showers after saturday rugby practise. From what I can gather, the only people that live here are Pakistani immigrants and homophobic drunk-driving tradesman. And not the hot kind.

Just to make things that little bit more disgusting, 2mins walk from the house is this:

That's right. A fucking 24hour McDonalds and KFC. You can actually smell the kentucky fried from my front door, and lord knows my skin is going to pay for all those booze-eats at 4am.


Seven bedrooms. Eight flatmates. One bathroom. No Lounge. A bong on the kitchen table. Every single edible thing in the house is labelled in texter with someones name, even the fucking TEABAGS...

The gracious entrance:

the "buzzy" kitchen:


1. The Leaseholder from the central coast:

He has the most annoying voice I've ever heard in my life. At first I thought he was like seriously at least 30, but apparently he's only 24. His Lebanese mother cooks him three weeks worth of food which he keeps frozen so he never has to ever make a fresh meal. It's foul. Oh, and sometimes he waddles around the house naked.

2. The hairy guy:

I still don't know his name and I've lived here a month. He smokes loads of "bush" whatever the hell that means, and says "man" a lot.

3. The HSC student:

She's just turned 18, is doing her last year in high school and IS PREGNANT. No Jokes.

4. The boy from Wollongong:

I do not know a damn thing about him, other than he kinda looks like he has down-syndrome and he studies something and is sharing his room with a guy that used to have his own room in the house, has been kicked out for not paying rent but cannot move till he gets his bond back, which the leaseholder is withholding.

5. The long-locked doofer:

He has legally changed his name to "Meow". He's really into bondage, and he had a foursome with the leaseholder and two skanks. He used to have a pet snake.

6.&7. The doofer couple:

By far the most likeable of the bunch. He has really orange-bleached hair and is an acid dealer. She has dreadlocks. They are both on the dole, and from what I can see take trips daily, and i'm not even exaggerating. They're dead nice but.

All the flatemates have been nothing but sweet to me. It's just well, without trying to be a total snobby cunt.....THESE PEOPLE ARE ON A DIFFERENT LEVEL if you know what I mean.

Everytime my rent payment of a simple Hunge goes out, i'm loving it sick. But I can't live like this. I want out. Gimme a one or two well-groomed, tastefully dressed, employed flatmates to share a falling apart, overpriced freezing fucking Surry Hills Terrace with. I want my life back.


Monday, May 17, 2010


Listening to someone bang on about future tattoo plans is easily the most boring shit on earth.

I love a good tattoo. We all do. In fact, I have been known to base entire crushes on the basis of boys having cute tattoos. It's just that, when cornered at a house party, the only thing more excruciating than a blow-by-blow symbol-by-symbol account of a near strangers "possible" idea for inking themselves is....well.... being hacked to death by rusty razor blades.

Or even worse, realising that that stranger is of the school of the "Deep Hidden Meaning" tattoo. Let me explain.

In the world of tattoo, it's plain to see two central schools of thought in action:

1. The "It's Cute, It's Fun, I Might As Well Get It" School.

This is the best. I once slept with a boy who had a tiny caricature of Mariah Carey on his upper thigh. Nothing beats giving head whilst staring into the hilariously large-headed face of your favourite '90s pop diva, I can tell you. My friend Luke has a little baby on each of his forearms, and "P.S I LOVE YOU" scrawled beside one of them. He said he saw it graffitied on a wall somewhere, thought it was cute so got it tatted...without realising (allegedly) that it is also the name of a feel-good Holiday Season Rom-Com starring Hillary Swank and Gerard Butler:

So Good! The reason this is the best way to view getting a tatt, is because the whole idea is to get something you like looking at, be it funny or sweet or just plain pretty.....

EXAMPLE: Marc Jacobs

(P.S I LOVE HIM...Look at that Bod???)

2. The "Deep Hidden Meaning" School .

I once met this enormous Bull-Dyke at a kick-back one sunday morning. According to her, she had this vision of getting (lol) a one-legged woman tattooed on her upper arm. Real Russian Sailor style. So far, so excellent. Then she boarded a flight to visit her mum in the UK. Apparently, over the duration of the flight, her mamma was involved in an accident where she, You Guessed it, LOST HER LEG. Now, I don't know if this is true. It could of been the MDMA. But fuck me, Noone cares. I do not want to see a full-length sleeve with a moray eel that represents your fathers fight with colon-cancer and a pioneer ship that shows your family's migration from potato famine-struck 19th century Ireland....

EXAMPLE: Angelina Jolie:

(the one on her left shoulder blade means: "May your enemies run far away from you.
If you acquire riches, may they remain yours always.
Your beauty will be that of Apsara. (a celestial dancer in Khmer mythology)
Wherever you may go, many will attend, serve and protect you, surrounding you on all sides"....CHUNDER!!!)

In short, a tattoo is just a pretty lil somethin on your skin. It doesn't need to retell the biblical trials of Sarah and the Red Tent. Trust me, I know. I've managed to follow every short-winded trend in ink of the early noughties, including japanese symbols and "Funky" stars....

My grandmother probably has the best tattoos out of anyone I know. A coloured crane on her hip and a nice itsy rose on her ankle. She's had them for forty years. They have always looked good. She has never regretted them. Why? She kept it simple. She got what looked good. Take a Leaf. Oh, and shut the fuck up about it yeah?


Thursday, May 13, 2010


Everything imaginably possible has gone wrong today.

I found myself in a very dark place, where without even the illumination of the burning end of a cigarette (YES, I WHO INHALES MORE SMOKE THAN OXYGEN WAS WITHOUT FAGS) I struggled to see any semblance of a light at the end of the tunnel. Penniless, food-less, tobacco-less, I figured things could only get better. Boy was I wrong.

Just when it seemed so bad that the only conceivable solution I could come up with was to pop down to Darlinghurst and whore myself on the Wall, shit got even worse.

I have been waiting on payments from several sources for several weeks now. This is fine. I can handle, in small doses, being broke. Lord knows I can starve a little. When stretched, i can usually charm a few smokes from somewhere. Rent money can, generally, be pushed back a little if absolutely necessary.

There is one thing however, that means more to me than anything else, that I CANNOT and WILL NOT live without. You know what it is. It's the first thing I greet in the morning, and the thing I embrace before I sleep at night.

My iphone.

Horror of Horrors, on this day where, had someone thrown acid on my face at Central Station I would not have been surprised, I realised that my PHONE WAS ABOUT TO BE CUT OFF!

Knowing that drastic measures needed to be taken, I did the only thing an independent 24 year old man can do.

I called Mummy.

Like all good happy endings a Hero Came Along. Sometimes, the only Hero at all available is your Ma. What the fuck would we do without our Mamma's Kids?

After that, every other problem started to fix itself. In my blackest of black pit, the universe started giving back.

And so, with a sense of entitlement only those of my generation could relate to, I wanna send out a little wish list for the universe to look over. I figure, after the Nightmare that was today, the least the world can do is give a little back. Hence, as follows is a very short list of Desirable Lovers I Expect The Powers That Be To Send My Way:


He dresses well. He has exquisite manners (polished in swiss finishing schools). He wants to take me to three-hat restaurants. After dinner, when I'm feeling too full of quail and Grange '78 to shag, it's okay coz he has the best grade Colombian to perk me up for a midnight fuckfest on his yacht in the harbour.... then we snuggle and talk about art until dawn....


He's doing his Doctorate in something really boring and works in the library on weekends to supplement his student loan. We live in genteel squalor in a one bedroom in Newtown. When I get home from going out all night he leaves my jockstrap on the pillow with a handpicked flower and a folded note that says "Love You! wake me up when you are home!"....


On Sunday mornings (after a rollicking night of sexual positions only a gentleman of certain years has the confidence to enlist) I put on one of his white business shirts. It smells like Christian Dior's Fahrenheit. He reads the business section of the newspaper, I read the social pages, and then we retire to the bedroom for an afternoon of eye-opening education(s)....


Monday, May 10, 2010


I had a conversation the other week, around dawn, with a dear friend who was going through some personal difficulties. It was the kind of talk where I found I needed to comfort her. I wanted to tell her that it would all be okay. That everything would work out.

Then I realised I didn't believe that to be true. The fact is, everyday life is woven with battle and a sink-or-swim desperation to keep one's head above water. Some battles are small and mundane, others take every iota of strength we can muster. And sometimes we lose those battles. But more often than not, we win, only because we have to.

History has shown us that, given the right circumstances, people are capable of anything. Horrible, terrible as well as beautiful things. Daily we hurt, beat, fuck around on, murder and actively seek to destroy one another. It's hard to forgive others, but in my experience, the hardest person to forgive (warning:cliche ahead) is ourselves.

But we must. We all do things we shoudn't, say things we ought not to, are inappropriate and vulgar and selfish and cruel. I've certainly done things I would not be able to forgive others of. it's important to accept however, that our reactions and responses to situations are in fact unique. There are a million factors at play impacting on how we act and what we say, and there is no calculating what another has gone through in their life to make them act the way they do.

So no, I couldn't tell her that one day everything would be fine. But I could tell her what I know: That one day, I will wake up in the morning, and that will be the last day of my life, and after that....Who knows? I reckon probably an eternity of blissful nothingness, away from struggle and pain. You know what? Don't call me suicidal, but that sounds like heaven to me.

And how do we deal with this endless fight to live our lives? Well, for starters, I get up in the morning. I look in the mirror. I try not to dwell on the past and the mistakes I've made and the people I've hurt and the people who've hurt me. I congratulate myself for trying my damndest to be the person I think I should be, and try like hell to let go of things I've done that I shouldn't of.

I put on a fabulous outfit. I smoke a cigarette. And I wonder what shit I'll have to rise to challenge that day. Because there's always something. But one day they'll be nothing. And Fuck.....You can only do your best.....




Fashion Week is like an orgy. Instead of taking off your clothes, however, everyone puts on their prettiest most expensive shit and seduces one another through comments on how good they look and compliments each other on their shoes.

I found myself in the employment of a divine friend of mine Leticia, who runs her own company arranging corporate sponsorship for designers. One of two assistants, it was all about getting models to be photographed with the products of the company sponsoring the show, whispering sweet nothings to the representatives of the companies, and just generally running around screaming and yelling at others, chainsmoking furiously, and asking anyone that walked by if they knew where the fuck the Perrier was. Oh, and obviously, collecting as much free shit as possible.

Backbreaking, the days often started at 5am and finished after midnight. Incredibly, I unearthed new layers of Cunt within my own personality, most memorably the "discussion" (psychotic rant) I had with the PA of the CEO of a delivery company whom, when late with the delivery of product for a show, I threatened with a lawsuit.

You will forgive a blogger for taking a good 48 hours after the end of RAFW to wash off the sweat, soak the corns on my feet, and squeeze a solid dose of hardpartying in before blogging about the week. I would like to start with a few little comments I heard onsite to give you an idea of the verbal atmosphere:


High-Regarded Make-Up Artist Talking About Very Busy Model:

"Her walk has improved SO much since last year. She is so skinny at the moment. I FUCKING LOVE her skinny..." we all do!

Faggy Stylist Known For Wearing Womens Necklaces Talking About some Model:


Fashion Editor Whispering About Twinky Model:

"Do you know what agency that boy is with? He's beautiful. But have you seeeeeeeen him open his mouth? I't like someone drew GASHES in his mouth with a white pen...." Don't worry about whats in his mouth. Focus on whats in his pants, and how far he'll go for some editorial...

Silly Bitch Who Obviously Didn't Get the Brief That Noone Likes a Fattie at Fashion Week:

"I haven't Had A REAL meal allllll weeek" wah-wah-wah honey. The model's haven't eaten since they were 14...


As it turns out, there were very few people with any sort of original dress sense there at all. For all I know, they could of popped into Target and just bought every black garment they could find. Geniusly, a picture of myself with a couple of friends made it into the Sydney Morning Heralds story about Fashion Victim Week. It kills me that the picture isn't online so I can't show you, but heres what they wrote:

Front rows, starving models and catwalk catfights are only half the fun at Australian Fashion (Victim) Week. What is worn to the event is a tale equally as absorbing, dramatic and every so often, tragic.

With Leticia Dare, James Dykes and Shaun McGill, from hairdos to accessories, it was like Andy Warhol had been kidnapped by the Addams family.

Fashion blogger Alexander Spencer might have stepped from a crypt at Waverley cemetery. Her ghostly white skin was set off by layers of black fabric and Mongolian lambswool teamed with lingerie bottoms more like saucy harem pants. (another friend of mine)

Curator Nathan Sullivan sashayed into Fashion Week in a vintage Versace shirt, long leather coat with fox fur collar, huge velvet bow tie, denim shorts, leather brogues and a pork pie hat (yet ANOTHER friend who made it to the column!)

SO GOOD! in light of this, I've put below a few pics of what me and my friends wore whilst guzzling free booze at the Rosemount Bar and staggering to shows:

White Trash Temp Tatt by Chanel

Cool Runnings, 90's Mambo= "Eat Me Fashion Week, I'd Rather Be Punching Bongs at the Beach"

The Lezzies: Erin angelic in Dion Lee and Aleisha filthy fucking riche in Romance was Born (the two most celebrated shows of the week)

Leticia's Prada Crystal Shoes: By far the best shoes I saw all week. Whenever anyone spotted them, a crazed, hungry look flashed over their face....I want them sooo bad....

Straight from a Garage band festival to the Ksubi show....

This is what I wore to the Romance was Born show. I borrowed my headpiece from the studio, and obviously its THE BEST THING I"VE EVER WORN IN MY LIFE. As soon as I got there everyone started calling me 'AVATAR"...



A complete spectacle studded with an volcano dress, neon coloured hair extension embellesments, and gold cross bedazzled bodysuits. As always, the prints were strong as hell: most memorably an acid trip dinosaur design in every colour of the rainbow, and an endlessly elegant violin print, best used on a blazer...


Leather, Chiffon, Baby blue with either highly polished finishes or jagged edges. I know the clip is fucking rubbish, but there are pics you can see (and i think you should) on my previous post. Insanely wearable, but in no way pussy....

Those are my three picks for the week. There were a few other good show's (Ellery, Frederich Gray, Gary Bigeni (though it was verrry tame but you just know he'll sell the shit out of it and the clothes were lovely in pastelly-pretty-chika kind of a way)) Time is money babes and I can't be fucked wasting my webspace....Youtube it!

My regrets for RAFW are as follows:

1. Not spending nearly enough time at the Rosemount Bar: next year homey's gonna be there from open to close I PROMISE
2. Forgetting to follow Jenny Key home and become her adopted son
3. Not running down the catwalk naked at Kate Sylvester to wake everyone in the audience up (sooo boooringgg)
4. Eating
5. Forgetting to go down to Circular Quay and giving my backstage pass to a homeless wino

Now if I may, I'm gonna take my sorry fashioned-out carcass of a body to bed and prepare for the realities of the real world. A place where not everyone is 6 foot 4 and you have to pay for skincare, drinks, and sushi....


Monday, May 3, 2010


What a Fucking lil' firecracker!

Although, as many of you know, a taste for restraint in colour and simplicity in design has never really been my thing. Christopher Esber's show tonight, however, is an exception to this rule.

I really knew very little of Esber's work untill tonight, and I have to say, when the first look pounded on to the runway, his choice of a black and white palette had my heart sinking a wee bit......But I forced myself to put aside the hatred I have for all things-non-rainbow. Just as well, as I was totally bout to get smitten. It was all unforgiving folds and cruel cuts, crispy textures, silks and and jersey with tailored finishes. His muse appears to be some sort of malicious-backstabbing-office-bitch whom everyone is only friends with coz they're scared shitless of her, AND IF SHE HAS A WARDROBE ANYTHING LIKE EBER'S SS10 THEN I WANNA BE FRIENDS WITH HER TOO!

This skirt is stupidly perfect........ just add a big chunky workman boot and suck on a lollipop..


Could Rachel Rutt be any hotter? I mean now she's just BEING MEAN


Sunday, May 2, 2010


Although partial to a flowing, kaleidoscopic coloured Camilla miu-miu, I spotted pics on of this fucking FAIL of a make-up look:

What the Bloody Buggery Hell???? While it's all fun and games to throw in a lil bit of a pop culture reference, LITERALLY CUTTING AND PASTING an entire costume look onto the face of your poor model is pretty lame in my books....

THis is fabulous but! god I do love Camilla's palette....It feels like she's WEARING the Great Barrier Reef, right?

SNAPS!!!! these are totes yum, and recommended to be worn with every toenail painted a different colour I reckon....