‘Katie? Where are we? And what year is this?’
Remember that night in the student union when we heard them play Wheatus’ ‘Teenage Dirtbag’ followed by ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ and were confused? That was called ‘cheese’ – it goes with £1 shots of Aftershock and the bitter taste of unidentified, crying-in-the-loos identity-crisis. You experienced it for 15 minutes before realising that The End was ten minutes’ walk away and you probably should go there instead. Well cheese is back. In Lower Dalston, in The West End, in Harrow, wherever there are pierced-up ears to hear it. NOW. Who cares if every song ever is available to play off Spotify and Youtube or that this year has brought us Grimes’ Visions and Duke Dumont’s ‘The Giver’ and more Bat For Lashes or the film about my favourite band of the 2000s which explains why everyone looks the way they do no matter what music they’re listening to these days. Sound good? Slam on 101 party hitz and dance the night away – it’s Christmas, right?
*There’s a difference between bad taste and no taste.
Misnomer-moan: I’d really like someone to invent some ‘girlfriend jeans’. I think my boyfriend needs some for Christmas. // Winter sunglasses: these are exactly the same as the ones you’ll find in the shops in the summer but more expensive. What’s not to like??
Every year, shivering atop my bicycle, cheeks whipped red-raw as December descends, I think, ‘I need a balaclava’. Maybe 2012 will be the year that I get one. Cyclists are scientifically proven to be a few degrees lower than their pedestrian counterparts after all, and there’s only so much a heavy-duty, EXTREME moisturiser can do to save your skin once the damage is done – and that’s where a balaclava comes in. These once obscure, tricky and casually dangerous items have become the must-have accessory for frozen bikers on the east London cycle-lane scene. If you choose one, as I will in a fun shade of winter sky-pink (to go with my bike forks) then it’ll happily confuse people who associate them with the wearer simply having something to hide. Just do what you can to avoid that unsightly balaclava barnet effect…
COCKTAILS! Boring. MULLED WINE? Puke. The drinks-engineers at some of London’s finest nighteries have got lazy and are serving up plain old vino blanco sans cooling temperature control right now: try it. Trust me, there’s enough ice outside without you hurling it down your neck. Chilled=out // Warm=In.
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