Save me, glossies, save me!
Tag:china toys,glossies
From:http://www.buy-china-toys.com/
A year ago, US writer Cathy Alter was a binge-drinking, sugar-sucking wreck,
shagging a feckless colleague called Bruno. Now she is happily married and
eating vegetables. How did she did do it? By following the advice of glossy
magazines. Every word. She had Elle in her ear, Vogue at her throat and Oprah (O
magazine) up her nose. She describes it all in her book Up for Renewal.
On reading it, I puke and puke again. I have agreed with my editor that I will
emulate Alter, spending a week following the advice of women's magazines - my
nemeses. I despise Tatler, Harper's and all their evil spawn. Whenever I hear
the words Style Bible, I reach for my garrote. I blame them for all the evil in
the world: greed, bulimia, blusher, but I duly go to the newsagent and find them
on the shelves, preening with self-love. I take them home, spread them out and
howl, "Save me glossies, save me!" and immediately I see a list of impossible
demands. Take your Brain Shopping! Linger over Love Time! Say Goodbye to Fungi!
Stop Stress Making you Fat! Think Yourself Happy! Wear a Romper Suit! Decode
Your Sex Dreams! Feng-shui Your Arsehole! (OK, I made the last one up.)
And the more I stare at the pages, the more surreal the advice becomes. Cosmo
suggests I stop emotionally dumping on my cat: "Is Your Cat Your Counsellor?"
Prima suggests that, when tidying, "gather up items left downstairs and take
them all up in one go". Thanks Prima! There is, according to Company, a correct
way to board a plane. Step 4 is to "eat an avocado".
I suddenly feel disorientated. Am I in my bedroom? Or am I standing in the
middle of Wembley Stadium, with 86,000 Jewish mothers shouting at me?
I start at the top, with Tatler. Admittedly, Tatler doesn't really give advice.
That is not the point of Tatler. The point of Tatler is to float above you,
taunting you with your disgusting plebbiness. This month, Tatler says I should
go and buy a solid silver lid for my Marmite, and a 14-carat gold bra. This is
not so much a "tip", as an incitement to burning down the Cond Nast building,
while wearing cheap clothing, no lip gloss and a smile.
But wait. Tatler also recommends a "Fabulous on High-heels Master Class" given
by an ex-ballerina called Sarah Toner. She teaches women how to walk in heels,
saving super-stylish fembots from falling over and bashing their brains out on
their occasional tables. Now, this is interesting. I have had a pair of 4-inch
Gucci spikes in my wardrobe for five years. They are what my sister calls "car
shoes". I don't wear them; I use them to kill flies. I put them in my bag and go
to see Sarah in her studio near King's Cross.
She is slim and smiling. I wave the shoes at her. I don't think I can possibly
learn to walk in them. "We're not going to put the heels on yet," Sarah says,
and makes me do some stretching exercises. Afterwards, my body is so relaxed
that when I put on the spikes and try to walk, I can do it. Easily. I feel
exhilarated. I didn't think that Tatler published anything worth knowing about.
I thought it was all Buffy de la Fluffy Muffy marrying Baron Von Wank and
laughing at the proles all night long. So I feel slightly angry too.
I turn to that manifesto for malevolent pencil-women: Vogue. Vogue doesn't
really seem to have any advice either, except to buy everything you can lift
with your spindly arms. This month they are pushing tartan, denim and romper
suits, but there is absolutely no point in browsing for designer clothes. They
don't make them in my size. How do I know? Because I once walked into a Louis
Vuitton store with 1,000 and demanded a dress in a size 16. "Sold out, madam,"
they sneered. "Don't you want fat people's money?" I screamed back.
Perhaps I should do something with my hair. A friend once told me it resembles
the ears of a friendly dog. "Dual texture is one of the season's biggest hair
trends," declares Vogue, in its customary splice of malice, advertorial and
idiot-speak. The accompanying photograph shows a woman with two hairstyles on
her head. The first has been stolen from the corpse of Maria von Trapp. The
other is the bottom half of a squirrel.
So I call Toni and Guy, and a few hours later I am dashing through their doors.
The stylist snips and blows and tongs, and two hours later my hair is half soup
-bowl, half poodle. I look like Jean Harlow. I love it. But as I cycle away from
the salon, it rains. My hair whimpers, sobs and hurls itself under a bus. By the
time I get home I look like Animal from the Muppets.
But no matter. A new mistress is whispering in my ear. It is Elle. The magazine
splays open on a page about breast treatments. The first suggestion is to inject
my breasts with "filler". This will inflate them for a whole year. No. So how
about a "Thalgo bust modelling treatment"? This involves "the application of an
intense thermal mask designed to enhance elasticity and maintain bust firmness".
Please, no. I am afraid of beauty therapists. I was once awoken from a massage
in Switzerland by one playing a xylophone.
But I go to the Aquilla salon in London's Knightsbridge, where another
incredibly smiley woman takes me to a windowless room. I imagine it is the sort
of room that Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria tortured people in. I strip off and she
exfoliates my breasts with long, sweeping motions, as if she is playing the
piano. Then she wraps my breasts in gauze, and smears it with clay. The gauze
hardens and when she pulls it off, I have a piece of gauze with an imprint of my
breasts on it. Wow. My breasts feel soft. (I cannot believe I am typing this. I
cannot believe I am reviewing the elasticity of my breasts.) It's nice. It's
fine. But what does it do? What is it for?
And so, onwards, wilting, to Cosmopolitan, the sex-crazed best friend you want
to stab in the face. Cosmo does at least have a work ethic between multiple
orgasms, between meetings, and she recommends calling Ros at
thecareercoach.co.uk, for advice. Ros is an intensely sane sounding Scottish
woman. I confess to my chaotic work habits and she analyses them. Apparently, my
chaos is "a badge of honour" that makes me feel like "a miracle worker". So we
devise some mantras: I choose the slightly Stalinist "Order is Joyful". At the
end of the session, I promise to have my printer mended, and to buy some
lightbulbs.
And now, to my final glossy - to the pint-sized, arse-kicking, hyper-aggressive
dwarf of the magazine world - Glamour. She beckons me with a bright red claw. "I
want", she whispers, "for you to call the Glamour Psychic Hotline for a personal
and confidential reading with a real psychic for a mere 1.50 a minute from a BT
landline." So I telephone the Psychic Hotline, and a man answers. He speaks very
softly, and he sounds very tired. "Hello," he says. "I am Martin." Martin says
he is going to read my tarot cards. I ask a few questions about marriage
prospects, career and my chances of developing lung cancer. He mutters, "Stay
where you are at work; I can see double rings in your love life" and he advises
me to stop smoking. "You shouldn't smoke. Animals don't smoke". Then he says my
energy is "bright". I wonder if he ever tells Glamour readers that their energy
is "dull"? What would they do if he did? Buy a new face?
The week is dead. So how do I FEEL? Did the Glossies Eat My Life? Did I Think
Myself Mad? Did I Linger Over Suicide? Take My Arse Shopping? Well, the
glossies, I have decided, come in three toxic strains. The ones that say you are
ugly. The ones that say you are stupid. And the ones that say both. I don't want
to be told why I dreamt I shagged Gerard Depardieu; ask yourself what's missing
in your own life. I don't want to be told "the top half is the only part of your
body seen in a crowd - so make it main priority". I don't believe in the
redemptive power of scatter cushions. So goodbye breast exfoliation and romper
suits. And hello again, grim life. Oh, how I've missed you.
Tags: avocado, glossy magazines |
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