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.
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.
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.
Fake people I can handle, fake handbags – not so much. I’ve dealt with fake people my whole life, my guess is we’ve all encountered our fair share. But fake people who carry fake bags are really asking for a bitch-slap.
Every time I see a woman carrying a fake bag, I have to resist ripping it off her arm and beating her over the head with it. Especially when that woman is parading around Harrods like that nasty bag is real, oh the nerve. I shoot her evil looks, I turn my nose up at her and I may accidentally trip her up.
So, take note people: fake bags are cheap and nasty – just like Heidi Montag.
I am a fashion junkie, it’s my religion. When GQ magazine gets delivered to my door monthly, I peel back each page delicately in anticipation of the chic adverts that will grace the insides. Each beautifully choreographed photo, the gorgeous items beckoning you to buy them, the ridiculously beautiful model that you’re fantasising about having in your bedroom. Nothing compares to the real thing – fake handbags, watches, belts, might look like the real thing to an untrained eye, but every fashionista can smell them a mile away, and when the handle of your fake bag snaps and your shit goes all over the floor, I’m going to point and laugh at you.
Now, I know that I have friends who have purchased such heinous items, and if any of them are reading this I’d like to say that I still love you, but I hate your fake bags. In fact, I’m actually allergic to them so for my sake please throw them in the nearest rubbish bin, I beg of you.
On a serious note, buying fakes funds crime, slave labour and terrorism. But more importantly, fake bags are just plain fugly. Don’t buy them, because if I see you with one you risk getting beaten with it – I do it because I love you.
It’s no secret that I’m addicted to shopping. Something about the smell of new leather, the cardboard bags, handing over my credit card, the way the bitchy shop assistants are suddenly my new BFFs once I utter those immortal words, “I’ll take it“. But for me, the shopping buzz I get from buying three pairs of Gucci moccasins at once never lasts long enough.
Strutting down London’s famous Bond Street like I’m Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (minus the slutty career choice) is where I’m my most happiest. I’m one of those annoying people who the sales associates know by name. They can smell my credit card from a mile off and they’re ready at a moments notice to show me the latest collections. Of course, I make them work for their commission, I throw in a few passing negative comments, “I’m not sure this jacket is really me, the colour is a bit dull for my skin tone“. And one of my favourites, “Is it limited edition? I’m only buying limited edition from now on”. You’ve got to make them sweat a little.
Lately I’ve been cutting back on my spending, I barely have any storage space left and the bags, jackets and shoes that I own hardly see the light of day. Though honestly I think it’s okay that I don’t use them all the time, because I do consider them all “investments” (well that’s what I tell my mother whenever I come home from a shopping spree in Louis). As Carrie Bradshaw once said, “I like my money right where I can see it. Hanging in my closet.”
Though I do fear that one day my shopping addiction will be my downfall. I’ve already spent the equivalent of a house deposit on luxury items, they’re just so pretty and all they want is a loving home to go to. And quite honestly, I consider spending £20,000 in Louis Vuitton quite the achievement. In fact, I should get a medal or an award of some kind, or I should at least treat myself to a little something in Burberry.
My mother always says, “You bought another bag? Do you really need that?” and like any good addict I have my excuse down to an art form. “It’s not about needing, it’s about wanting.” I wanted another bag. No one in this world needs anything other than water, food and oxygen. And maybe private healthcare. And definitely an iPhone, I’d be lost without mine. Oh and everyone needs a Clarisonic I’m totally addicted to mine. Google it. Get one.
My Louis Vuitton bag collection holds a special place in my heart, you can tell so much about a person by what’s in their bag, and everyone (man, woman, child) needs a good, trusty bag to carry all their shit in. I’m taking mine to the grave.
Oh em gee. If this dog doesn’t make you scream like a teenage girl, there is definitely something wrong with you. Possibly the cutest dog that ever existed. Fact. I want one and I want it now.
I am definitely a dog lover (cats really aren’t me). My family have a cat, he’s bitchy, he has sharp claws, he pukes a lot, he has issues – basically he’s a teenage girl with an eating disorder. But dogs I totally love. I’m forever trying to decide what kind of dog I’d like when I get my own place, my family has always had black Labradors so I definitely favour them, but German Shepherd’s are so beautiful too and I also love Rottweilers.
Then I stumbled upon Pomeranians that have been to the hair salon. Any man who owns/walks this dog will look like a total homo considering this dog looks like a real life Care Bear, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Plus this dog will totally go with my new suede Gucci loafers. So chic.
Now I just need to come up with a totally cute name for my new dog. I’m thinking Bobbi if it’s a girl, and Bobby if it’s a boy. Either that or I may go down the Gwyneth route and name it after a fruit/household appliance. Please submit your entries in the comments section below.