Don’t smile, don’t talk, don’t blink, don’t even breathe. Basically, just stay as still as possible or you’re going to age dramatically, and it’s going to look awful.
Until recently I was terrified about ageing and getting wrinkles, mainly because I don’t have any outfits that would go with them. My sister and I compared frown lines only the other day (luckily hers were worse) and what a terrible experience it was. Then, by chance, I discovered the answer to eternal youth. I came across a man who has eliminated wrinkles entirely and stopped the ageing process in its tracks, how very Death Becomes Her
. He is totally my new idol and some day I hope to look as fake on the outside as I am on the inside.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, this couple are real people, they have blood coursing through their plastic little bodies.
My idol, Justin on the left, has spent over $100,000 on cosmetic surgery. He probably has to liquidize his food and drink it through a straw because he’s lost all muscle function in his face, but when you look that flawlessly plastic, who really cares? Money well spent I say.
On the downside, I’d probably advise him not to lay out in the sun, for fear of melting. And when he’s dead, cremation is definitely out of the question. No one enjoys the smell of burnt plastic.
I threw up this morning, and I’m not talking about the kind where there are two fingers down my throat after eating a whole can of salt & vinegar Pringles and 2 Krispy Kreme’s. This wasn’t voluntary vomiting and I just don’t know how it happened.
I was in my bathroom looking at myself in the mirror as I do every day at 11am, then suddenly, whilst practicing my smile, I felt a little queazy. Cut to me two minutes later with my head in the toilet spewing up my morning latte. Being a big attention seeker, the first thing I did was grab my phone and call my sister who was downstairs and make her bring me Evian.
I spent the afternoon trying to figure out why I was suddenly violently sick. I thought that maybe it was due to stress, but then I thought it couldn’t be, because the last time I was stressed was two years ago when British Airways over-booked First class to LA and I had to fly out Business. So I thought perhaps it was due to pent up anger, then I remembered that I don’t get angry, I just get people fired instead. Then it hit me; it must have been shock related vomiting from receiving my Amex bill. It catches me off guard every month, but I’ve now realised that it is impinging my health, so I’m going to have to do something about it. Basically, I’m filing a law suit against American Express for the ill health that I’ve suffered due to their scary credit card statements.
This months Amex bill was a whopper. Every month when I get through my latest bill and see how much they’re insinuating I’ve spent I think to myself, “Oh em gee, someone must have cloned my card and gone on a mad shopping spree, I didn’t buy anything last month”. The next ten minutes is spent with me combing through my bill trying to figure out what all the charges are, then twenty minutes later realising that unfortunately none of them are fraudulent, and that I’m going to have to sell a kidney to pay it all off, or go to daddy and persuade him to pay it. Luckily I still have both my kidneys, for now at least.
Being scared shitless whilst watching horror films is one of my favourite Halloween past times. Who doesn’t love being terrified to the point of spilling your G&T all over the room when Samara climbs out of the TV in The Ring? Or watching Hollywood bimbos getting chased by a total psycho with a knife in Scream? There really is nothing quite like scaring yourself so much that you can barely sleep at night. Other scary movies that I like to watch are anything starring Emma Watson and every film Winona Ryder has ever made. That is some scary shit.
Last night I watched Scream 3, possibly the most tragic of the Scream franchise, and the scariest thing about that film is Courteney Cox’s fringe. Oh em gee, someone should be fired for doing that. Was someone playing a practical joke on her? Also, her eyebrows are pretty scary too.
Aside from horror films I love nothing more than a good old fashioned pumpkin carving session. This years session took place the other night whilst watching Hocus Pocus and quoting Bette Midler throughout the entire film. I know every single line. Obvs.
Halloween is one of my favourite holidays. It’s a great excuse to eat all the left over chocolate bars, and it’s the time of year where hideous people can walk around freely and people look at them and go “Oh my god, that’s like the most realistic outfit I’ve ever seen”.
So, go and eat too much chocolate and watch scary films until you wee your pants, and remember, the call is coming from inside the house.
A few years ago, I very almost got sucked into the cult that is PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) but luckily I escaped before they hypnotised me with their evil ways. It was a close call, as they caught me off guard outside Harrods enjoying a latte on the only winter’s day that I wasn’t wearing my fur scarf. Just my luck. They thrusted a flyer at me which read Boycott Harrods, they sell fur and my instant reaction was, “They sell fur? Do you know which floor? I can get my Amex points!” which I don’t think was the response the placard waving woman was hoping for.
But let’s just take a moment to consider things properly. We live on this wonderful planet called Earth and the human race is the dominant species. The way I see it is, if rabbits ruled the Earth they’d be wearing me as a scarf, so I might as well enjoy being at the top of the food chain whilst I can.
I’m a sucker for beautiful leathers – the smell, the texture, the look. I also own one or two fur items; if it was good enough for the cavemen, it’s good enough for me. So you can wave your placards, shove flyers in my face and shout “fur is murder” at me, but you’re not going to get anywhere. If it’s made from a dead animal, I’m likely to be wearing it.
Though I do worry a little bit that a fur protester might throw red paint at me one day, I’d respond by throwing my latte back at them, but quite frankly it would be a waste of a perfectly good latte.
Many wise people have said that you know you’ve hit the peak in your fame when you acquire a stalker. I had my first stalker when I was 17. Some creepy guy at school, he would wave at me, he stole my phone number from a mutual friends phone, and a few months ago (9 years after the stalking began) he even sent me a friend request on Facebook. Decline.
Why is it that I’ve had a stalker and yet I feel so unfulfilled? Was it because he never went to the extreme? Where were the death threats, the chocolates, the flowers? Where were the calls from an unknown number followed by heavy breathing at the other end? If your stalker doesn’t make you fear for your life, get a new one.
If I want to be as famous as God, I’m going to need to up my game and find a complete psycho stalker. I want bunnies boiling in pans, I want speedboats blowing up, I want to be singing Whitney Houston songs as Kevin Costner jumps in front of a bullet for me. Does anyone have the number for his agent?
But where do I find such a psycho? I’m going to begin with the people that are in close proximity to me in everyday life and I figure the gym is a great place to start.
I enjoy doing regular classes at the gym and recently Bethany has been getting closer and closer to me during BodyPump. I also always see her wearing a Pineapple Dance tshirt with her hair in pigtails, so she definitely has the makings of a crazy person. I think we need to connect on an emotional level, so maybe I should trip her up whilst she’s on the treadmill and then get her some ice for her bloody nose, or if she really hits the floor hard I could be the person who goes with her to the hospital whilst she’s strapped to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance – perfect opportunity to route through her handbag whilst she’s heavily sedated.
But then again, I think it’s probably best that the person who earns the coveted role as my stalker is a foreign immigrant, that way if things really heat up I can get them deported and play the “innocent victim tormented by a crazy foreigner” card, it’s bound to get me media attention because everyone loves it when immigrants get kick out.
So it’s going to be either Bethany or Abdul from my local newsagent who gets the job of going through my bins and hacking my voicemails. Unless Rebekah Brooks is free? Luckily I’ve got a full can of pepper spray and BBC News on speed dial so I guess I’m all set. If you don’t hear from me again it probably ended in tears.
The other day when I was just about to let off my air gun in the dinning room during my weekly game of Spook the Maid, I got to thinking about something. Am I a bad person?
I try my hardest to be nice to people, I aim to give people positive advice and to put the needs of others before my own. For example, the other day I was about to get on the treadmill at my gym and there was a really fat woman who was waiting for a treadmill, so I offered her mine as she was clearly in more need of the exercise. Also, my friend and I were out shopping the other day, she was trying on a dress and I told her not to buy it because she looked like a hooker in it. And last month when a homeless man asked me if I could “spare any change”, I told him that I didn’t carry change so instead I wrote him a cheque.
I do all these selfless good deeds in a bid to balance out the bitchy things I occasionally do. On the whole, I’m a saint.
I recently returned from a week in Ibiza (the party island of the world) and the people-watching was immense. If you’re looking for a place to check out hotties, judge people 24 hours a day and generally have a good old bitch, then Ibiza is the place for you. It’s a place where gorgeous people mix with the great unwashed – there was cellulite, fake tits and tattoos as far as the eye can see. And then there was us: rich, fabulous, smothered in baby oil and champagne on tap. We were also surrounded by security to ensure the plebs did not come within 50 feet. Obvs.
Having returned to the UK I decided it was time to rest my liver and my bitch-o-meter, and get back onto my philanthropic efforts. So I whipped out my platinum Amex and went shopping. First stop was Harrods, where I did two good deeds: I supported the economy by buying the entire Dolce & Gabbana Fall/Winter collection and I also got a sales associate fired because she spat when she talked – major faux pas, I don’t know why she hadn’t been fired sooner. She’ll thank me one day.
My sister has been nominated for some amazing award because of her fabulous company that helps entrepreneurs – basically she’s the new Mother Teresa, but with blonde hair.
I have taken it upon myself to contact every living person I know to campaign for their vote, in order for her to win. So basically I’ve made myself her campaign manager (she’ll get my bill), and this is totally like the American presidential election – but my sister’s vote is way more important. Obvs.
My sister’s campaign is taking us all over the world, mainly by private jet, and I’ve splashed out on an entire new wardrobe of campaign outfits, courtesy of Tom Ford and funded by Daddy’s platinum card. But given that I only have about 400 friends on Facebook, we may have gone a little overboard. But whatever. I’m messaging them all now and if they don’t vote for her I will find out, and then they will be dead to me.
I am the most amazing campaign manager that ever existed. I look amazing, I won’t take no for an answer, I’ll campaign my heart out and I’ll get every last vote until my Gucci loafers will take me no further. I am doing it for the good of humankind – forget what the bitchy sales girls at Harrods say, I’m completely selfless. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what happens if she wins, they’ll probably send her a pen or something. But it’s not the taking part that counts, it’s the winning!
So Mr Obama, if you’re reading this (and I know you are) choose me as your new campaign manager and you’re guaranteed another 4 years in the White House.
P.S. I want Hillary’s office.
It’s true that I enjoy a glass or three of wine most evenings, especially if I can’t pronounce the name written on the bottle and have never heard of the country it’s from. In true celebrity fashion, I’m preparing myself for my BFM (Betty Ford moment), also known as rock bottom.
Rock bottom is the time in a celebrities life when they’re not getting any work from their agent, where they say to people “Don’t you know who I am?” and the answer to the question is no. It’s the time when their liquor cabinet is so dry that they rumage through cupboards to find any form of glue worth sniffing. It’s the time when their maid has been using their Crème de la Mer moisturiser and they don’t even care anymore. It’s the time when they drink tap water because the sink is closer than the fridge full of Evian.
Rock bottom is a low point in any celebrities life, and when it happens to you it’s the perfect opportunity to check yourself in to rehab in order to gain that much needed press attention. Lindsay Lohan is more famous for being a massive coke whore than an actress. If rehab is good enough for LiLo, it’s good enough for you and me.
Here are my top tips on checking yourself into rehab and maximising publicity…
#1. Let those people closest to you know that something is wrong
Call your agent and in a slurred voice yell obscenities about how unhappy you are, quote John Lennon or something from the Bible, tell them you’re going to fire them and then let off an air gun before hanging up the phone. Do the same to family members.
#2. Make a scene in public
Go somewhere busy (e.g. The supermarket, your local church, a shopping mall) and go psycho-bitch-crazy. Scream about how long you’ve been waiting, cry hysterically because you can’t find where the low fat mayonnaise is. Basically get as many people as possible to witness your public breakdown. Pay some kid to record it on your iPhone then upload it to YouTube once you’re home.
#3. Stage your own fake death
The perfect opportunity to be creative. In front of your friends at brunch, pretend to choke on an olive then collapse on the floor gasping for air. Or when you see the poolboy arrive at your house, lie face down floating in your pool (holding your breath, that’s the important part). Allow your friends/poolboy to call the emergency services. This is bound to be front page news. Just don’t die.
#4. Make a press release
Make up some bullshit story about how you’ve hurt your nearest and dearest with your terrible alcohol and painkiller addiction. That you can no longer go on remaing dependant on others, and that you’re a threat to yourself. Then announce how you’re checking yourself into rehab. It’s for the best.
#5. The big day
“Courtney Love” yourself up. Smear lipstick all over your face, tangle your hair, wee on your bathroom floor then roll in it. Outside the rehab centre, fall out of your car with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth, drop your Birkin in the bushes, fall over and let a boob slip out, stick two fingers up at the gawking papz, and your rehab look is complete.
#6. Eight weeks later
Reveal yourself to the world press, with glowing skin, hair extensions down to your ass, wearing a black Gucci dress and a pair of Manolo sling backs. Sell your story to OK Magazine for £50,000. Mention how you found inner peace and that you’re planning on spending 3 months re-homing orphans in Africa. Then accidentally lose your passport.
I played the Lottery the other day, the jackpot was £148 million and I didn’t win it. I was devastated. I screamed, smashed things, there was uncontrollable sobbing (the kind where you struggle to breathe or talk) and then I cried myself to sleep in the foetal position.
It was the second time I’d played the Lottery and I can’t believe I didn’t win. The first time round I thought “Okay, naturally I won’t win the first time, they want me to spend more and play again.” But this time round I was confident that the £148 million was mine. Therefore I thought the only sensible thing to do would be to plan what I was going to spend my money on before I got it – I like to be ahead of the game.
Without a second thought I headed for the Elite Model website, and there she was, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, my future BFF. I started planning the most beautiful party. I would invite most of the male and female models from Elite and spoil them with gifts, Gaga would be there and we’d be sat at a table drinking champagne and bitching about Madonna, I’d invite lots of reality TV stars and then make sure security didn’t let them in. It would be the greatest party that London had ever seen.
The months to follow would be an endless stream of phone calls and text messages from Rosie to arrange shopping dates and fabulous dinners, every time we’d meet up I’d surprise her with gifts. A Tiffany bracelet here and a Chanel bag there. We’d be friends for life, or until I got bored of her and had to file a restraining order.
But now my dreams are shattered. And the worst part is, I was going to do so much charitable work with that money. For instance, I was going to ensure that America’s Next Top Model was cancelled and that Tyra Banks never worked in TV again – that show has been running for almost 10 years, enough already Tyra. I was going to pay off every plastic surgeon in the USA to refuse future cosmetic treatment to Cher just so we could see what she actually looks like without botox and collagen. Sadly none of my charity work will see the light of day, and I’ll never be friends with Rosie. Thanks for destroying my dreams, Lottery. I hate you.
There appears to be a sort of grey area when it comes to men who carry bags. And when I see a guy carrying a bag I tend to have a “Superman moment”. Is it a bag? Is it a man-bag? No, it’s a purse.
The kind of bag you carry can say a lot about you, and for most men the word is homo. Lets be honest, there are some bags out there that even the gayest of men can’t pull off. Like, the Birkin bag.
It never ceases to amaze me the amount of men who walk around with Birkin bags. I don’t care how much money you have, or how much you wish you were Victoria Beckham, the Birkin bag is a handbag and is for women only. End of story. Possibly the most famous bag that ever existed, this elusive French item is craved by women all around the world. It’s more famous than the actress it’s named after… has anyone actually ever seen a Jane Birkin movie? Poor Jane. Upstaged by a bag.
I swear on my brown Gucci boots that I have seen men carrying a classic Chanel flap bag around London. Luckily for them at the time I wasn’t carrying my can of red spray paint that I use on fur protestors. I would sooner carry my things in an Asda carrier bag than sling a Chanel over my shoulder.
My bag of choice lately is my 2007 limited edition Louis Vuitton Sac Plat in Soana leather. Hand crumbled kangaroo leather – my bag is aptly named Skippy. The bag is as beautiful today as it was the day I bought it 5 years ago, and I always carry the essentials with me. Car keys, iPhone, a copy of the latest GQ and a few other items that I’d like to share with you.
Tom Ford Grey Vetiver - Wherever I go, Tom goes with me. A beautiful and masculine eau de parfum, it’s divine and I dowse myself in the stuff daily.
Wallet - My newest wallet is the Louis Vuitton Damier Infini, I bought it in Paris this year and it’s my latest pride and joy. Stuffed full of cash and credit cards of course.
Lip Balm - I love a good overpriced lip balm, and Creme de la Mer make a wonderful one to pop in your bag. So chic.
Ray Bans - Enough said.
Passport - You must be ready at a moments notice to hop on a private jet and be whisked away to a luxurious island paradise by Prince Charming. My passport goes with me everywhere. I’ve yet to be whisked away though.
Hairspray - Possibly the greatest hairspray ever made, Tresemmé freeze hold does exactly what it says. My hair wouldn’t be what it is today without this miracle worker. It can also be used on weirdos as a pepper-spray, incase you’ve used up your real one.