Archive for September, 2010
E: So, M, back in the summer when we was in teh lahndan, you gave me a gift. One that was not made of lamb.
M: It wasn’t so much a gift, as a reject.
E: Ssssh. It was a GIFT.
M: OK, gift. Yes. I gave you a pretty pot of what looks like sexy hotness on you, and grey bruises on me.
E: It is Benefit creaseless cream eyeshadow in “Strut”. Because sadly they don’t do one in “hobble”, or “slouch”, or “crawl”. Strut is a gorgeous smoky grey blue metallic.
M: Nice. I was a bit jealous of your strut. So I went and bought another one yesterday.
E: Oooh, what one did you get?
M: Sippin’ n dipping’. It’s a limited edition. Sounds a bit pervy.
E: Oh god. It does. What colour is it?
M: It looks exactly the same as my eye. It’s eyelid coloured. Look! Invisible!
But sparkly. I thought I’d try to keep the smoky eyeliner in check with it, but it’s not playing ball.
E: Lisa Eldridge needs to come and bang their heads together. So – bright sparkly eyelid? Bit sci-fi.
M: Like a robot. Or maybe an iguana. Do ignuanas have eyelids?
E: I think so. Iguana lid sci-fi robot. That’s a good name, see?
M: For a band, perhaps. Tell me what you do with yours?
E: I just smear it all over my eyelid. Technical, like. It’s quite full on, so definitely an evening thing – ideal, for instance, for vomiting on your kitchen floor. Which is my evening activity of predilection.
M: Shhhhh. We don’t tell anyone about this.
E: Oh yes, sorry. Ideal for dancing in, er, nightclubs. And going to, er, galas. Is that better?
M: Ha! galas. You’ve never gone to a gala in your life.
E: Gala Bingo maybe.
M: Is it any good, for, say, finding your discarded bra in the garden?
E: No, I don’t think it helps you find bras. And I thought we weren’t talking about that. ANYWAY. It’s dark and sparkly. It’s not for office wear. What do you do with yours?
M: I smear it liberally with a finger onto my eyelids until the iguanas ask me to be their leader.
E: I would expect no less of you.
M: So, Benefit creaseless eye shadow. It lives up to its name, and it’s good for strutting your stuff at the gala bingo.
M: And for looking like a robotic iguana.
E: Don’t thank us, Benefit. Your gratitude is all the thanks we need.
Benefit Creaseless Cream eyeshadow, up to £14
M: Here, fishy fishy fishy.
E: What are you doing?
M: Man, they’re slippery aren’t they. Tell me about your trout tickling experience, E.
E: Ah, that. Well, M.
M: So, you were hanging out at River Cottage HQ…
E: No, I most certainly was not. Let me continue. As I was saying, “Well, M”.
M: What? No gazing longingly in to Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall‘s eyes??? Gently stroking his soft curls.
E: That dude eats placentas I am not going near him.
M: Mmmm, the placenta diet for soft hair. Must try that one. CARRY ON.
E: I’m trying, believe me. I have not been to River Cottage or eaten placenta. I have – several months after the whole beauty world – had the famous fish pedicure. As so often, we are late to the party on this one.
M: What were your feet like, pre-fish?
E: Gross. Revolting. In fact, maybe my feet were River Cottage HQ for fish?
M: Stop stretching metaphors. Tell me about your calluses.
E: Surely you remember you told me they looked like .. what was it?
M: Oh god, yes.
E: Something gross.
M: Something out of a medieval trial.
E: Yes. I had the feet of a medieval peasant who had been tried for heresy.
M: Formless. Rotten. Black.
E: You got it. So. I show up at Fish Pedi Central with a paper bag over my head, obviously, in sackcloth and ashes, weeping apologies.
“So so sorry”
M: But the fish are hungry. They don’t care. They eat those little pellets of dried food. Your feet are delicacies to the fish.
E: I suppose. So, a woman takes you aside and washes your feet. What a shit job that is. She’s, like, the fish fluffer.
M: Oh god. There’s something biblical about all of this.
E: I tried to apologise “Sorry, I have been nervously removing my epidermis recently”. She just smiled. The shop looks like this:
Which is fucking hilarious. Look at the little tanks of hungry piranhas!
M: Nice THRONE!
E: I do like a throne
M: Wow. You didn’t tell me you were the queen of the pedifish spa.
E: I totally was. My rotting black formless feet won me that title
M: Where’s your crown?
E: The fish ate it
M: So, cut the crap. How was it?
E: Well, you put your feet in the tank and the bastards just go for it. Your feet are instantly covered in hungry fish, and those fuckers TICKLE.
M: Oh god. The trout’s revenge. It’s a fishocalypse.
E: Yes. Hugh Placenta should never go, he’d leave with no feet.
M: No, he’d bring some buttered bread and grab a couple for his lunch
E: So. For the first few minutes you’re all “HOLY FUCK FISH ARE EATING MY FEEET”, whilst outside the window, normal people who are not beauty bloggists are pissing themselves laughing at you, staring, and pointing, explaining to their children:
“The lady is having her rotting feet eaten by fish”.
M: “See kids? This is what happens if you don’t MOISTURIZE”
E: “No darling, it’s very silly”
So. After the first few minutes you get over the weirdness and you’re just “yeah, fish. Eating my feet. What of it?”
But then a big persistent fucker began trying to bite the raw bit of my left foot, so I had to try and kick him away without the fish handler seeing. I think he needed to go to the Punishment Tank.
I wonder what this one did? Did it take off someone’s toe?
M: What would happen if you put your face in the bath, I wonder. So. Tell me. Were your feet soft as a baby’s?
E: No. They were like feet. My own medieval peasant feet. Maybe a tiny bit softer. Maybe. I am not convinced. But I tell you what, it’s totally fucking hilarious. I absolutely recommend it.
M: I think you’re supposed to go regularly, or something.
E: Yes, you are. The fish can only eat so much rotting foot skin at once.
M: I am jealous. VERY JEALOUS. Where’s my fucking fish throne, eh?
E: I dunno, M.
M: I might walk down to Portobello beach and see if a 3 eyed cod will have a go.
E: Do, do. And take pictures.
E was a guest of Aqua Sheko.
M: So, E, let me tell you about this thing.
The no7 autumn limited edition smoky eye liner, which is a very long and fancy name for a tiny amount of product, innit.
E: Yes. I saw the title first and was expecting a big old smorgasbord of smokiness.
M: They try and make up for it with a very long wand. Tee hee, long wand. Are you sniggering? I am sniggering.
M: Damn, girlfriend. You iz cold.
E: I would not know a long wand right now if I fell over one.
M: Just, soft wands.
E: Yes. Those. MOVING ON. PLEASE.
M: Well, fans of the zizi mou out there will rejoice.
E: Why? Why? Ok, now I am sniggering, because you said “zizi mou”.
M: The applicator is, how shall I put it, on the flaccid side.
The wand has been blurred
due to crap photography skills for those easily offended.
E: Ewwwww. This is not good.
M: Which makes for a comfortable, if a bit awkward application. OH MY GOD WHERE IS THIS GOING.
E: HORRIBLE MENTAL IMAGES! Ugh. This is not right, M.
M: So not right. I’ll tell you what else isn’t right. It gets everywhere.
E: It sounds shite. Does it have any redeeming features?
M: Everyone says how much they love it, and yes, I want to love it too. I want to love the wand so much that I have been wearing it every day, and every day I am a little bit disappointed.
E: Would you in fact be better applying eyeliner with, say, a penis?
M: EWWWWWW. What the fuck, E.
E: You started it!
M: TOO FAR TOO FAR!
E: I’m always the one who takes it that one step too far, aren’t I.
M: Yes. Yes you are.
E: Sorry. Scratch the penis from the record.
M: There will be no scratching of penises, anywhere. I’m going to make this short and sweet, because I want to end this conversation as quickly as possible.
E: Please do, because right now, even the words “short and sweet” are filled with badness for me.
M: Applies fairly easily, looks pretty hot, gives you racoon eyes after a short while. NO PENII INVOLVED. MOVE ALONG, keyword searchers. Nothing to see here.
E: Meh. You aren’t rocking my world with your smoky eye of flaccidness.
M: I think it’s just that I’m a dork at applying it.
E: How much?
M: £9.50. -£5 with the voucher, of course.
E: Well. If you want a flaccidly applied smoky eye with limited staying power, you know where to go. Nobody say penis.
No7 Autumn Limited Edition Smoky Eyeliner, £9.50
Back at the start of the summer we promised you our Cellulite Diaries. Yeah. Well. I am sorry to have to report this, but: we suck. We completely and utterly suck. Our diets are full of salted caramel, and our thighs are full of, well. Here’s a glimpse of where we got to before the summer kicked our asses, then later we’ll fill you in on the full FAIL.
After a poor start, during which I left the vital Birch Cellulite Oil in my dad’s bathroom for a week, I have finally kicked my ass into cellulite fighting form. Discussing the challenge with my great friend Mrs Trefusis, she tells me:
“I once managed to eliminate my cellulite”
“I completely gave up drinking and ran five miles every day without fail”.
“Oh”. I am terribly disappointed.
“It was totally unsustainable”.
I am not willing to go to such extreme lengths. I barely run for a bus if I can help it and the idea of a dry August terrifies me worse than an arable farmers convention. I like to view my holidays through a benevolent haze of rosé. I will do my best, however.
Four days trying to finish my book in a strange town with no broadband. I place my body brush on the desk behind me, and every time I speculatively search the ether for unsecured wifi networks, I also pick up my body brush and give my legs a good scrub. It makes me feel purposeful.
I relocate the oil and apply it twice daily. I am not entirely sure about the oil. It’s very oily. I spill it on sheets, towels, and the carpet of the rented flat. It doesn’t make my skin tingle like, say Shiseido Body Creator. I persist anyway. If The Leg Room approves, I believe. The Leg Room is my gospel.
I eat loads of vegetables. Well, some vegetables. Well, when I have cake I make sure it’s carrot cake. I also take Conjugated Linoleic Acid capsules. Back in the day when I was thin and mental I used to swear by these for their infinitely tiny alleged fat burning and slight appetite suppressant effect. Now? Well. They aren’t suppressing my appetite but they make me feel like I’m doing something.
I manage not to drink alcohol for 4 days. My liver thanks me, even if my skin seems indifferent.
On my return to Belgium I also look out the weapon of torture in my cupboard that I have been ignoring. The Jeanne Piaubert spiky massaging tool of death. I apply the oily oil and rub away at my thighs with it two rubbery hedgehogs. It’s hilarious, but not painful enough to suggest it’s working. My thighs go slightly red.
And is any of it working? Well. If you’d asked me even two days ago I would have laughed darkly in your face whilst searching your pockets for chocolate. Pah. Not the slightest shifting in my dimples, no improved skin tone, naaaathing. But now, and this might be pure delusion, I feel like there’s a tiny improvement in the way the skin on my thighs is looking. Really tiny, blink and you’d miss it tiny. But just enough to keep me brushing and oiling, for now.
M: I’ve been visited by fairies again, E.
E: Jesus, you’ve been drinking meths, haven’t you? I’ve told you about that.
M: I think the seche vite is going to my brain.
E: If you will snort it, that will happen.
M: Anyway. I won this little tube of goodness in Modesty Brown‘s giveaway. And it is ace.
E: Oooh. Tell me more. What is the tube of goodness?
M: It’s blush. And it’s made by fairies. It’s as if someone had crushed a punnet of healthy rosy cheeks and crammed it into a handy tube. What more do you want to know?
E: Errrr. I dunno. (tries to think of hard beauty bloggist questions). Is it, er, a gel?
M: Yes, it’s a gel. And it’s fool proof. You can put tonnes of it on without worrying about it. It just gives a nice healthy glow, like you’re eating healthily and getting regular exercise and shit. It doesn’t cake or crust (am I the only one who has that problem with blusher?)
E: Yes. Yes you are. But I like the putting tonnes on bit. Unlike Armani Fluid Sheers which are nuclear bright. Brilliant, but to be used with caution. And what kind of fairies have done this with their tiny fairy hands?
M: Yes. It’s so good it’s quenched my thirst for the Lizard King’s Fluid Sheer, for the time being.
E: Awesome. TELL ME WHO THE FAIRIES ARE. Are they expensive fairies? I need to know. Do they have dietary requirements I need to know about while they are squishing healthy rosy cheeks for me?
M: Pixi. It’s £12 I think.
E: Not bad at all. I like.
M: You can feed them, err, british pounds.
E: Good. The next time I have any of those, I will go feed the pixies.
M: You do that. Now leave me alone, I have some frolicking in a meadow to do.
M’s crushed pixie is Natural coloured, free through the goodness of strangers or £12 from ASOS. But if you’re after other colours you can get them cheap from Amazon.
M: E, what the hell has happened? Where have we been?
E: We are drawing a veil over the summer. A veil of CRAPNESS.
M: There has been much huddling in dark corners, wailing.
E: We aren’t talking about that M.
M: About what?
E: EXACTLY.It’s time to move on and move forward.
M: And we’re moving forward… with fake tan? Really?
E: Yes! Yes we are! Because, and I KNOW the UK is the same as Belgium here, there isn’t a hope in hell of a real tan anymore.
M: Oh god, here we go again. Are you going to write “crunge” on your leg with this one, E? I hear that’s what all the kidz are doing these days.
E: Nope. This is happy story free of tagging.
M: Do my ears deceive me?
E: No. La rentrée de Facegoop is all about the wins. Well, partially. Listen, dude. It came recommended by St India of Knight. As you know, the recommendation of SIOK is enough for me.
“Xen Tan!” she said
So I went and bought some.
It was arduous and difficult. I had to go on their alarming website, AND I got cornered by the sea salt zombies. But it was worth it.
M: This is like product placement. India is the product. I feel a bit dirty.
E: Get over the dirty, M. This is GOOD SHIT.
M: How. Tell me how. I have forgotten what GOOD is. Is it space fake tan? Because it sounds like scientology fake tan.
E: Hang on, I need to get you the product lies from the tube.
M: Do, do.
E: Well. It does not offer a free personality test. However it does say “never looks like a fake tan and never smells like one!”
Well. Xen Tan. You may not smell like a fake tan. But you smell FAR FAR WORSE. (Yeah, we haven’t got to the good news yet)
“Delicious scent!” it says on the packet. Imagine, if you will, M, the scent of a cheap vanilla yoghurt from a discount supermarket left out in the sun (remember that? the sun?) for about 3 months. THAT is how it smells.
M: Nice. Lactic. And by lactic, I mean RANCID.
E: Yup. But, and here’s the SIOK magic, the colour, is brilliant. I am a total faketan remedial loser.
Mi: We know, E, we know.
E: I can get tidemarks, like, ANYWHERE. Well this? Total win. No tide marks, no fuck ups, great colour. Look at this fuzzy and slightly shit photo:
See? Apparently the secret is the “time release” formula, don’t ask me what the fuck that means.
M: Good. Good good good. You do realize I zoned out of this conversation 15 minutes ago, right?
E: I haz nice brown leg. That’s all you need to know.
M: My interest in fake tan. It is also on time release. Please release me from this Xen Tan Cult Rant.
E: They’re nearly as brown as yours.
M: Ahahahahahahahah. Sure they are. Can we go eat salted caramel now?
E: Ok. It’s not like we’ll need a bikini body any time soon.