M: Imagine being called Mr and Mrs Rodriguez. And you are waiting for your first born.
E: Not quite sure why, but sure, I can go with that, OK. I am the expectant Rodriguez family.
M: “What are we going to call the little cherub”, you ask yourself. What can set him up for a life of quiet, gentle contentment?” NARCISO. He was always going to be all LOOK AT ME. LOOOOOK AT MEEEEEE!
E: Listen, you. French people call their kids “Hippolyte”. Do not tell me Narciso is worse. Actually, I sort of confuse Narciso Rodriguez and François Nars, I realize.
M: It’s the “Nar” that confuses you presumably?
E: Mmm. I have looked at a picture now though. Narciso looks more like an actual person and less like a photofit picture made from adverts of semi-naked men cut out of GQ, which is of course what François Nars is.
M: Narciso Rodriguez. Apparently he can’t sleep before watching Jon Stewart. Crazy name, crazy guy.
E: Crazy popular fragrances. Did you know that? He sells TONNES of scent.
M: I always thought he was known for his wedding dresses, but I have come to the conclusion that I am confusing him with Carolina Herrera. WE HAVE NAME BLINDNESS.
Hang on. E, is this … a fragrance post?
E: Ssssh, there there. Nearly over. I recently went to party on a boat to learn about Narciso and his fragrances.
M: You what now? You went to a party on a what?
E: A BOAT. I went to a party on a boat. In the docks. In Brussels.
M: HA. Belgium, you bizarre little country.
E: It did not start auspiciously. I took public transport in my poor woman’s Roland Mouret dress to the very middle of NOWHERE. At one point the tram driver abandoned the tram to go and get a kebab.
M: I see.
E: Then I had to stagger along a dark, sinister, canal-side lane. In my heels, waiting to be murdered.
M: Did you smell of Narciso Rodriguez?
E: On the way there, I smelt of blind terror. On the way back, after a warm welcome and some cava and a collective singalong to New York New York (yes, really), I smelt of musk and chypre and orange blossom. That’s For Her, by the way.
M: For Her, the aspiring murder victim and karaoke idol.
E: Indeed. For Her was Narciso’s original scent. It’s nice. Classic. Not too in your face. Feminine. I liked it a lot actually. Then there’s “Essence”, which is drier, more powdery.
M: Powdery. I see. Oh god, I am sinking into a scent coma.
E: Deep healing breaths, M. We are nearly done. Let’s skip ahead to me telling you about the new fragrance.
M: If you must.
E: Which is called ‘L’Eau For Her’. Oh god, this is so confusing. Why do they all have the same name?
M: Revenge, for us confusing Narciso with other people, perhaps.
E: WE ARE SORRY, NARCISO. Anyway. This one is more of fresh, bouncy floral, but with a little musky note at the heart. Like being rolled in a botantical garden. Erm. Where a fox lives? But a nice, clean fox that hasn’t been going through any bins.
M: Uh oh. Spring foxes. We both know what that sounds like.
E: NO. Do NOT make this all about fox sex, M. It is a lovely spring floral.
M: No? Really? A floral? That is lovely for spring? BULLSHIT. The spring will never come. Your dad, King Science, has told us the apocalypse is coming.
E: Tsk. Nice Mr Rodriguez will make it all better. Less freak blizzards and fleece and fox sex, more optimism and shopping trips, picnics and pastels.
M: I see. Are you spritzing yourself in this? Bathing your temples.
E: No. I am not. For a very good reason. Because! I am going to GIVE IT AWAY to someone. I have a full sized L’Eau for Her in its lovely heavy, classy bottle, plus 75ml of body lotion, and I will brave the Belgian Post Office, populated by wall eyed halfwits, JUST FOR YOU.
M: Oooh! Excitement.What do they have to do to get it?
E: I think they should tell us one thing about what spring means to them in the comments, before the 25th of April. Is it shagging foxes? Owl webcams? Skin flakes billowing off your legs as you peel off your opaques sadly for the last time until September? TELL US ALL, and the best one wins a bottle full of spring.
M: Do. Join us in the festival of despair.
E: (patiently) No, M. Not despair. Florals.
M: Right. The festival of florals. *rolls eyes*
Update: We’ve used the highly dubious method of child slavery to pick a winner.
NITA! You will have some eau winging its way to you soon.
E: Things have been pretty ropey, beauty wise round at the Facegoop Beauty HQ.
M: I blame winter.
E: Yup, winter, you merciless, never-ending bastard. I have an eye infection. I look like my face has been savaged by hungry vultures. I have gone through twice my bodyweight in Laura Mercier mineral powder in three months. My beauty routine is now reduced to slapping whale grease on my chest twice daily, whilst weeping.
M: Tell me about it. My skin is scaly. My split ends epic.
E: My split NAILS are epic.
M: We are basically harpies. Harridans. HORRORS.
E: Gorgons. We scare off sailors at night. However. There is one tiny bright spot on the beauty horizon.
M: Is there? I can’t see anything, for it is half past two in the afternoon and already twilight.
E: Look closer. There is a tiny, purply grey spot of hope.
M: A purply grey spot does not sound promising, E. I have plenty of those, and I do not feel beautiful, let me tell you.
E: It’s ok, this purply grey bright spot is on my nails, for M, I have not only bought a nail polish I love, I have managed to apply it. SEVERAL TIMES. Look!
M: Nice. What is that you are holding on to? A glass of wine?
E: Possibly. Do you wish to make something of it?
M: No, no, I do not judge. I wholly approve of these new fingerclaws. It’s a nice colour. It suits you. It makes your breton top look effortlessly chic.
E: Thank you. “Effortlessly chic” = words never, ever associated with me, ever, not even by close relatives or men trying to get into my pants. That is how good this polish is. It is delicious. Its is Estée Lauder’s “Insatiable”. I don’t suppose she meant “insatiable for wine”, did she?
M: Would you describe yourself as insatiable, E?
E: No. Give me a bar of Milka TUC and some cheap red wine and I am easily satiated.
M: And is lavender grey your spirit animal colour of choice?
E: It might be. It is a nice colour. But being a nice colour only gets you so far. There are many nice colours in the world. The fantastic thing about this one is that it STAYS ON. IT DOES NOT CHIP. Seriously. I can usually worry my varnish off in under an hour. This lasted, like, five whole DAYS.
M: Is it easy to put on? Is it gloopy? annoyingly thin?
E: Like Our goopalike, Gwynnie? No. It’s almost perfect and I do not use that word lightly. It goes on smoothly, ungloopily, in the appropriate quantities leaving a nice smooth finish.
M: Whoa. I need to get me some of that stuff. Granny Lauder, she sure does know a thing or two about beauty.
E: One major reservation though. The brush has fallen out of the lid. I am having to shove it back up there on each application.
M: Errrrr. So by “perfect”, you meant “shit”.
E: No, despite this design flaw, I would quite literally go out to an actual shop AGAIN to buy another of these (it is a limited edition). That is how good the polish is. Also, it makes me want to investigate Granny Lauder’s varnishes more thoroughly.
M: Me too. Ha! E, did you know the Estée Lauder Spring 2013 Nail Varnish collection is called .. wait for it… ”HEAVY PETAL”
M: Tell me, E. Have you smelled Armani’s jasmine perfume?
E: No. Is it lovely?
M: I thought Armani only did perfume with italian words on it. Like GIO and ACQUA DI TOBLERONE.
E: Acqua di Pannetone. Ezzenzi di Ferrero Rocher.
M: Perfume di Papardelle.
E: Hehehehe. Did this not smell of ragu then?
M: No, not ragu, but it smelled so delicious. My friend sprayed it on her hand and I followed her round Selfridges, wanting to EAT her.
E: Wow. How .. frightening.
M: It just smells of flowers. The sweetest, prettiest, most fragile jasmine flowers. Sob.
E: Why are you sobbing?
M: Because it is £135 or something.
E: Awww. Never mind. This will cheer you up:
M: HA. That bottle looks ridiculous. It’s like a hippie on a monolith.
E: You think? To me it’s a gigantic deformed mouth. Probably eating ragu.
M: Let’s read what the Space Lizard himself has to say about it.
“A fragrance which sings the praises of light and life”.
E: Not at all ambitious, then.
M: “Giorgio Armani likes the Jasmine fragrances of his childhood, a long way from the hypnotic mysteries of the Grasse extracts; he likes its solar energy”
E: “Solar energy”. But that’s like ADMITTING that he’s a space lizard!
M: Do you like perfume’s solar energy, E?
E: No, I fear it. It wishes to do me harm.
M: The rose quartz top drinks in the light, apparently.
E: This is some big time reptile alien conspiracy shit right here.
M: Did I ever tell you about the giant crystal at the National Museum of Scotland?
E: I don’t believe so, M, no.
M: I went there to look at the taxidermied animals. There have a great big purple crystal. My friend told me last time he was there, some old hippy was standing in front of it, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, arms spread open. DRINKING IN THE CRYSTAL POWER. That’s what Armani does. I’m not sure I want this anymore. Especially if it “takes root in the warm terrace of Indonesian Patchouli.”
E: Uh oh. That’s concentrated essence of hippy right there. There are hand-cured thong sandals abandoned on that terrace. And cheesecloth.
M: Pffff. The copy writer has ruined it for me. I am sulking.
E: Leave it to the solar hippy lizards. Anyway, cheer up M. I mean look! It’s a breakthrough! YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT FRAGRANCE. YOU VOWED YOU WOULD NEVER DO THAT.
M: Shut your face. I am not.
E: I think you’ll find you are.
M: Don’t know what you are talking about. I think you’ll find I know you are but what am I.
E: Tsk, M. There is nothing to be afraid of. Soon you will be wittering about “dry down”.
M: I don’t want to know what that is.
E: And “top notes”. And erm. no. My fragrance vocabulary stops there.
M: Humph. Let’s pretend this never happened. If you are my friend, you will pretend this never happened.
E: It never happened (I have just told the whole internet).
M: So, E, you know how much I love a good voucher deal.
E: Do you? This is news to me. Are you a coupon snipper?
M: No, E. You are totally out of date. This is not like that at ALL. During my year in Singapore, I was practically addicted to them.
E: I see. Tell me more.
M: Thanks to vouchers, I have done the following:
Eaten pork buns
Fed a manatee
Had my hair rebonded
Had a pedicure in an electric massage chair
E: OH MY GOD (except I do not know what “rebounded” means). This is amazing! Induct me into the church of coupons!
M: More about rebonding another time. When Groupon got in touch to see if we wanted to review their deals, I said “WELL DUH”
E: DUH. You were politer than that, yes?
M: Not really. Anyway, they gave me £30 to spend on something.
E: And what did you pick?
M: I have to say this first of all, E. Groupon UK is nowhere near as hilarious as in Singapore. Where are my sheep placenta pills? Why am I not being offered an afternoon of prawning?
E: What the fuck is prawning? Is it sexual? It sounds sexual.
M: It is not sexual. It is fishing for prawns. No, it is all very sensible, desirable things, like massages, facials, affordable hair cuts and what not.
E: Well, ok, so Groupon UK isn’t quite so exciting, but it might be useful, so tell me, what did you pick.
M: I went for an “exfoliating massage” and Decleor facial. For which I paid an extra £9, so £39 in total for an hour and a half treatment.
M: I had to wait 3 weeks for this, because I am clearly not the only Londoner who is suffering from massage withdrawal syndrome. It has been months, E, MONTHS since I was last wrapped in banana leaves.
E: Hmph. My cold, black capybara heart bleeds.
M: I should think so. So I turned up at this very non descript salon in Marylebone.
E: Meh. What was it like inside?
M: He he he. It was like a portal into Moscow. Everyone in there was Russian.
E: Ace. You stumbled upon a rare OLIGARCH’S NEST.
M: YES. The only other customer there was peroxide blonde with a large, shiny new Louis Vuitton bag. It was quite awesome.
Also: the TV showed “in the night garden”
E: AHAHHAHAHAHHA WHAT THE FUCK. Makka Pakka, come exfoliate me with your sponge.
M: There were so many questions racing through my head at the time. Like: what the fuck and: are they going to steal my kidneys.
E: Valid questions, both.
M: Especially when I was led into the basement, down a tiny, winding staircase
E: To the kidney extraction lab?
M: It certainly looked like it. But I need not have worried, E. It was AWESOME. My therapist was lovely. I ended up asking for no exfoliation, just a massage, which was very good. She would massage some bits, do parts of the facial, massage other bits.
M: IT WAS AMAZING.
E: Because most massages are shit, sadly.
M: Pfff. you know nothing. I almost fell asleep. This is quite an achievement for me.
E: Well, maybe I’m just unlucky, but I’ve had a lot of stroking. Stroking, and half-hearted patting. Do not stroke me! PUMMEL.
M: The facial massage was particularly good. There was tapping, lifting, kneading, all sorts of things. I wished it would never end. And afterwards my skin was plump and glowing, as it is supposed to be.
E: Well, that sounds excellent. I mean, it’s not prawn fishing, but hey.
M: Yeah. The morale of the story, E: take a chance with Groupon. It will undoubtedly be funny, and it may also be good.
E: Oh, excellent. A product based solution: always the best.
M: That shit. Does not chip. And it turns your mails into fingerclaws. In a good way.
E: COOL. I long for claws.
Step 1: eat healthily
M: Step 2: switch to a gentle nail polish remover and the toughness of diamonds
E: Meh, ok, I suppose.
M: Step 3: feed them oil. Rosehip maybe? I clearly don’t know what I’m talking about.
E: Yeah, there must be some other unguent I can use. We should ask the Goopists. They might know. Please Goopists, is there anything you can save me from healthy eating and – sign of the cross – WATER? Help! I promise to try out and report back on whatever you recommend.
E: Lucky me. I suppose it’s better than your bowels. Is this punishment for the perfume talk? It is, isn’t it.
M: My pits. They are problematic.
E: I’m not surprised. I keep hearing how armpits are the new focus of body SHAME.
M: I can believe it.
E: You can? I don’t get it. I cannot fathom it at all. If mine disappeared entirely I wouldn’t notice. Well, I suppose I would if my arms dropped off.
M: Shut up about your armpits, we are talking about MY armpits. First of all, I have, how shall I say, more armpit than strictly necessary. Fat Armpit Syndrome. FAS. So, they are a bit lumpy. Which means it’s a bit difficult to, errr, shave.
E: Right. Got it.
M: They are also prone to ingrown hairs.
E: Ok. More Goop oversharing, right here.
M: So, if you could imagine, plump unevenly hairy pits with little lumps. That’s the situation right here. And here. *Points at armpit*
E: Ok. I’m conjuring it up. I’m not saying I’m loving it, but I’m doing my best to conjure it up.
M: But on top of that! They are also grey. I do not know why.
E: The skin, or the hairs??
M: The skin.
E: Whoa. That’s fucked up, M.
M: I know. I can scrub and exfoliate until my fingers bleed, but they remain grey. Why are my pits grey, E? WHY?
E: A complication of FAS? Or elephant poisoning. Is there any cure?
M: Yes, there is DOVE. Dove whitening “original” deodorant. I don’t know what’s original about it.
E: Whitening? As in SKIN whitening? Armpit whitening?
M: Yes, you know how in Asia everything is whitening this and whitening that.
E: I can’t cope with beauty these days. In my day, it was all fields round here.
E: Yes. beauty fields. Golden, ripe, waving fields of Nars pencils and Chanel lipsticks.
M: Don’t worry E. It doesn’t really MEAN whitening. Just sort of softens excess pigmentation or something. Also, it claims to “restore underarm’s natural skintone”. What is, I ask you, underarm’s natural skintone?
E: Erm. Something other than grey, hopefully?
M: Indeed. Though yours must be cadaver blue, I suspect.
E: Let me check. I have “never look at underarm” syndrome. NLUS. Yup. Blueish. Like a supermarket chicken thigh.
M: This would sort you right out. I now have perfectly normal underarm colour. Just as nature intended. The end.
E: WHOA. That’s witchcraft. How does it work? What does it do? How many goats did you have to sacrifice?
M: I don’t know. The grey is gone, that’s all I know. Let’s check the hilarious teeny tiny copy on the back label
“now you can get softer, smoother, and lighter underarm skin in just 2 weeks”
“it’s the only deodorant with 1/4 moisturising cream proven to lighten darkened underarm skin caused by underarm hair removal”
M: WHAT THE… Now we know why your pits aren’t grey.
E: No HAIR.
M: You have NO HAIR!
E: Hmmm. Do you think if I painted it over my whole body I would no longer be Anglo-Scottish blue-grey though?
M: You’d need a hell of a lot of deodorant for that. So there you have it: Dove Whitening Original. Actually does what it says. It’s just a shame I don’t really use deodorant anymore, what with the constantly being covered in head to toe sweat.
E: It’s what humanity has been waiting for, right enough.
M: I have Narta-style pits. Remember the Narta ads?
E: Oh yes. Does that stuff still exist?
M: Don’t know. NARTA! clap clap
E: You’re just flaunting your armpits now. Put them away.
M: Don’t you want to do a happy armpit dance with me?
E: Does it look like I want to do a happy armpit dance with you? I just want to lie here with my face on this keyboard until you stop talking about deodorant.
M: Sounds like you’re in the pits. He he he.
Dove Whitening deodorant. Apparently not available in the UK. Sorry, you grey-pitted freaks.
E: So, M, when we were on hiatus over the summer, I had the great good fortune to be invited to a launch of, like, a really good beauty shop here in the Belgiana. I didn’t really tell them I worked for Croatian Vogue. That’s a filthy rumour.
M: Lies. You don’t have shops in Belgiana.
E: We do actually have a few rough shacks with earth floors. Actually, since the shop wasn’t actually finished, it was a bit like that. ANYWAY, they gave me the best goodie bag ever. EVER. It was quite literally the best thing that happened in summer 2011.
M: Oh, nice. Was there chocolate in it? A golden status of a cow? False idols to worship?
E: Are you mistaking Belgians with Incas? Or Aztecs? I think you are.
M: Possibly. They both like chocolate, I think. ANYWAY. What was in the bag, E?
E: Well. There were many things, and we will talk about them over the coming weeks, but today, I want to tell you about the perfume.
M: Oh god.
E: Yes, yes, I know you hate perfume talk.
E: Don’t make that face. I can see you in the OTHER HEMISPHERE rolling your eyes
M: Why. WHY MUST YOU DO THIS NOW. AND WHY IS THERE AN OWL? I still use a bottle of Crabtree and Evelyn body spray I got when I was 16.
E: Because. It. Is. Interesting. So you can just lump it, and listen to My Summer of Scent
M: Interesting? To fellow smell pervs enthusiasts, perhaps. I think it’s a small victory when I don’t spend the day smelling of buffalo.
E: I got this vast quantity of fragrance samples, and I spent the whole summer using a different teeny tiny sample each day. There were some good ones and some spectacularly AWFUL ones. There was even one that was based on Tiger Balm.
There were days when my family recoiled from me in disgust and days when no one would sit next to me on the bus.
M: So, like any other day then. But more tigery.
E: Yes, but there were days when pervy old men chased me down the street and once, the woman in the post office told me I smelled “clean”.
M: Who is she? I am already slumped over on my keyboard, sobbing, by the way.
E: Ssssh. nearly over. Ormonde Jayne – and yes, it’s a terrible name – do this bespoke scent test on you where they ask you how you feel about goats, and cinnamon, and wire wool smells, which they waft under your nose in tiny test tubes. Then, based on your reaction to pencil shavings, overripe bananas and hoof oil, they suggest a scent. Osmanthus was mine.
M: Did it work?
E: Oddly enough, it sort of did. It’s softer and gentler than what I’d usually wear, and I can’t really describe it satisfactorily. It’s like a big, cosy, floral marshmallow hug. That sounds horrible and stifling. It smells like … uh …. nice things. Like Friday afternoon.
M Friday afternoon when you skive off work to stuff your face at Ladurée?
E: Yes! And then you hug your St Honoré aux Framboises to your chest, slightly crushing it. It smells like that.
E: The other winner in the summer of scent were Heeley scents.
M: Heeley sounds like a sporting event. A posh one. Involving canoes and possibly horses.
E: Ha, yes! It is made by James Heeley, a pretty, fey man who looks like he has escaped from Brideshead revisited.
Definitely horses and canoes. Anyway, he makes these exquisite, weird fragrances, including the tiger balm one (very tiger balmy), a sort of sea salt one , and a really grassy verveine one that smells like your granny’s tisane.
M: Couldn’t you just give yourself a rub down with some crushed leaves or some tapenade?
E: So practical always, M. Yes. I suppose you could. It’s like that, but less… sappy and exfoliating. More importantly, he writes the most florid, bonkers copy about his scent I have ever read. Each one comes with a suggestion of what it should evoke.
E: I dunno, M. The year two thousand and SHAME, maybe. There has been a catastrophic fracture in the goop/time continuum. What are we doing here? What are we talking about? Hang on, who are you, and why have you got durian peel in your hair?
M: Wait, it’s all coming back to me now… One minute, I was at the hairdresser getting my head steamed, then the next..
E: Ok. Enough of the AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhs. This isn’t getting any beauty dissected, and, full disclosure: I don’t think I have used moisturiser for about 6 months. WHAT HAPPENED TO US?
M: I DON’T KNOW. IT’S ALL SO FOGGY
E: Oh dear, oh dear. Did Mr Armani abduct you? Or have you been sniffing dugongs again?
M: Probably, because I appear to be living in Cambodia now.
E: Oh, M.
M: Which is really fucking helpful, on the beauty front, let me tell you. When I’m not busy mopping up my facial sweat, I’m picking spiders from my hair.
E: A thousand ways with banana leaves. Elephant massage. Actually, that sounds great.
M: S’OK. I have accumulated many expensive fripperies during my time in my padded cell*. (*Singapore)
E: Phew. I am still in Belgium, living in an attic and talking to myself. I got some fripperies free in June and am still eking them out. I don’t think I’ve worn makeup since August. My nails are sort of friable, chewed claws.
M: Dude. I have NGO worker legs. Not that I’m an NGO worker, mind. Just hairy like one.
E: Hahahahahahaha. ‘NGO worker legs’ Is this a defined term? “Get the NGO look!”
M: We are officially the worst beauty bloggists ever.
E: Yes. We are. We are not fit to clean beauty’s toilets. But we can change. It is January, the month of possibility. And I’ve got stuff to goop about.
M: What do you want to goop about?
E: Well, M, I am glad you asked me that. I want to Goop about some Dermologica scrub (free). And about how I don’t understand Khiel’s. And tell you about some body cream I wish to marry, from “”"Frédéric Malle”"”" who is not a person, but a sinister front for some French cult.
M: Like Jean-Louis David, which is just 3 random names pulled out of a hat.
E: Yes! It could just as easily be Marc Olivier François. Maybe I should start a hairdresser called that? And also, there is some weird ass shit you sent me from Singapore, including what appear to be several ‘mould your own death mask’ kits. And I need to talk about My Summer Of Scent Samples, which sounds like an extra boring indie coming of age movie. How about you?
M: I have: crazy neon pink lipstick of amazingness. Secret lotion that smells of vinegar mushrooms. A multitude of shitty mascaras. The best hair serum EVER. And the solution to angry monkey face.
E: COR. That’s a whole load of (slightly troubling) goop. The solution? You have CURED angry monkey face?
M: It does not, surprisingly, involve monkeys. I have been getting my kicks where I can, E.
E: Fair enough, elephant fondler.
M: Oh god. So much to do. I’m exhausted already. Can I go lie down now?
E: I suppose so, you lazy arse.
M: First I will do my ritualistic Sweeping of The Room for Giant Spiders. You?
E: I think I will adjust my Bra of Acute Rib Compression. Oh, M, I forgot to tell you.
E: Last night, I had a hole in my tights so gigantic I took a picture of it for you. But then I realised that was mental.
M: I think you’re mistaking this for a fashion blog.
E: It was a really, really big hole. It encompassed a whole buttock. So: ritualistic spider sweeping and minimiser bra adjustments? This is our brave new 2012 new leaf and other things with ‘new’ in them?
M: In your FACE, 2012. We are back. And we will goop you.
E: Goop ON.
M: Is that like: walk on? said to a horse? (pony botherer)
E: I was aiming for “game on”, but now you’ve said that, it just sounds pitiful. Start as we mean to go on!
E: So, M. You know I am always on the look out for any kind of bathing product that comes close to the majesty of Elemis Supersoak?
M: Ahahahhahah fat chance.
E: That ideally also trims 2 inches off my thighs?
M: Right. You are looking for a fairy godmother? In bubble bath form?
E: Yes, basically. I like a challenge. So I was in Heathrow and I saw this stuff.
“Thalgo Micronised Marine Algae”
M: Is it dead sea salts? It’s always Dead Sea salts. The Dead Sea must be a sodium free zone by now.
E: NO. This is different. It looked …. medical and magical and it had the word “minceur” on the packet, so I got it.
M: Right. Did the ingredients list “Powdered unicorn?”
E: I think it’s actually “powdered corpse of rotting cormorant”, because holy mother of pokemon this stuff STINKS. It’s like bathing in seagull sick. it’s like bathing in guano. Bathing in the decomposing corpses of seabirds.
M: Ha. I’m pretty sure “rotting cormorant” is a Pokemon. Mmm, appealing.
E: It doesn’t smell pleasantly marine, M. Also, you will see from the photos how beautiful it looks when added to water. Is it not lovely?
M: Is that a giant shit covered aniseed in the bath?
E: I believe that is a globule of micronised algae.
M: Oh, no, it’s a dragon. This is the worst bath product I have ever experienced. It’s making me hallucinate.
E: Yes. And I don’t mind a bit of bath masochism and I love a bit of hardcore thalasso freakery. But seriously? When you’re lying in two inches of watery shit, you do question your life choices.
M: It looks like something that escaped from the Lush Laboratories, the nefarious place where they do all their R&D. And when it goes wrong, what do they do? Sell it in Heathrow.
E: Yes. That is definitely what happened. WHERE DID I GO WRONG???
M: Well, you were unfaithful to the Elemis, for starters.
E: I am never going to do that again.
M: Bubble bath hath no fury like an Elemis scorned.
E: I am sorry, Elemis. Don’t make me swim in seal poo again.
M: Secondly, it’s a well known fact that the only thing one should buy in an airport is Duty Free Chanel. Anything else is a mistake you will bitterly regret.
E: Do you agree Facegoopers? What are your favorite airport buys and have you ever ended up swimming in seal poo?
M: Yes. Karma. Well, let me tell you, the karma has a new formula.
E: Oh? Tell me more, oh hairy one.
M: It is pleasingly pink, which is apparently what girls like.
E: What’s pink? the actual wax?
M: Yes. But why? Do men wax their moustaches? No, didn’t think so, Veet-formerly-known-as-Immac.
E: Poirot waxed his moustache. But he waxed it to a curly point, rather than waxing it off.
M: Pfff, wusses. The thing is, the Veet strips are really good. They take everything off, fast. Shamefully, however, they invariably leave tiny little bits of wax around the edges. Tiny little bits of wax that are IMPOSSIBLE to take off.
E: A waxstache. What do you do about that?
M: I have tried everything. The ridiculous oil-soaked tiny square of crap that comes in the box.
M: I’ve tried cleansing oil. Soap. Olive oil. AVOCADO oil. Even butter for goodness’ sake.
E: Have you tried sticking a wick in them and burning them off?
M: Hmm, ok, I haven’t tried to burn it off.
E: I don’t think you should try that at home, facegoopers. Health and Safety announcement.
M: What is in this wax? Superglue?
E: Yes. Or … fox poo? That is also impossible to remove.
M: Oh god. Well it’s like that. Fox poo. But pink. And it gives you spots.
E: Eeew. I could have sworn we were saying Veet was good at the start of this. But with this fox poo pink wax, I am not so sure.
M: I KNOW! It’s rubbish. Damn you, Veet. Damn you to hell.
E: What other ‘tache options are there?
M: Dunno. I’ve been tweezing them by hand, which is a bit like what’s his name in the greek stables.
E: Erm. Theseus? A minotaur? Zeus? A hydra? Ok, you’ve reached the limits of my greek mythology there.
M: That’s all I have to say on the subject really.
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.
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: 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.
E: M. Do you have a House of Fraser in Edinburgh? I bet you do, full of tartan and shortbread and stuff.
M: Yeah, I never go in there. It’s depressing. It’s like 5 levels of Oasis and a decrepit Dior counter.
E: Well here’s another reason not to go in. The DEAD SEA SALT SCRUB ZOMBIES.
M: Who are these zombies and what do they want?
E: They hang around department stores and try to lure you into their special “makeover” corner. If you happen to be loitering anywhere in the beauty hall, they see you and pounce:
“Hello madam, can I ask you a question?”
“Do you moisturise your skin?”
I AM IN A BEAUTY HALL; WHAT DO YOU THINK????
M: Also, don’t call me Madam. I am not 65.
E: They are all Eastern European. I think they ship them in from Bratislava specially for their salt selling mad skillz. Maybe everyone gets called Madam in Bratislava.
“Can I offer you a miniature spa treatment?” they say.
M: Is that like a treatment in a tiny spa? Or do they just file your one little toe?
E: Neither. It means they drag you to a dark corner of the beauty hall where they have 1. A jug of water. 2. A bowl. 3. Some salt scrub
M: Are they planning on roasting you? To make some E skin crackling?
E: Well. That is quite possible. No-one knows for sure what their end game is. But they are commission hungry, so SO hungry.”Just put this tiny dollop of special dead sea salt on your hand” they say.
M: Is there a suspicious jar of rosemary and olive oil underneath the counter?
E: Cloves of garlic. BBQ sauce. Tongs.
M: So, did you let them touch you? Because you are probably a zombie too now. FACT.
E: I did. I thought it would be useful in the name of research. Basically, you massage the salt scrub into your hand. Svetlana pours water over your hand. Your hand is smooth. You fall over in amazement. Then you are supposed to pay 25 quid for a jar of salt.
M: Right. Can’t you just, you know, get some nice Maldon or something?
E: This is special.
“Is Dead Sea Salt. You know Dead Sea madam?”
“Yes. That is where dead people hang out. Zombies and the like”.
“One jar lasts 8 months, madam”
M: Ha, lasts 5 gazillion years, more like. The jar of salt will still be there when our civilization is exctinct.
E: Yes. The jar of salt is our gift to the future. Anyway. I am ashamed to say, M, that I bought some. Poor Svetlana looked so HUNGRY. And I had gone in to buy my trusty Origins scrub anyway.
M: God, you are such a pussy. But I bet your legs will be delicious with a bit of salsa verde on the side.
E: Yeah. I’m now a zombie pussy but I do have a jar of salt that will outlive you. So there.
This is the first in a new feature: Ask Facegoop. Send us your questions and we will mock them. Nah, we’ll answer them if we can. Maybe.
First up, Expectant Mum says:
“I need help. I am three months pregnant and would like to know your recommendations for preventing (or trying to prevent) those ghastly stretch marks”.
I asked M to join me but she refused, saying “I don’t have much to say about pregnancy stretch marks”. Well. That’s FINE because I do.
Dear Expectant Mother,
Congratulations! You have so much to look forward to! Childbirth, which is of course a carnival of unicorns and kittens and rose petals, aging ten years in the first three months of your baby’s life, those delightful post natal sweats as you expel all the water you have been retaining for six months, and much much more. Stretchmarks? Pah! We can deal with those. We are MOTHERS. MUTHAS, even. RAAAAAWR.
Here is E’s patented stretchmark prevention scheme:
1. Have a small baby. Ensure the father is small. Ideally tiny. A jockey would be perfect.
2. Have your baby early. I was fine up until around 39 weeks. Unfortunately both my babies went 2 weeks overdue and I could actually see the stretchmarks forming, minute by minute, hour by hour as I stood in front of the mirror screaming “COME OUT DAMN YOU!”. Perhaps you could be a celebrity and book in for a planned Caesarian at 36 weeks, ensuring a cutely tiny baby AND time to fit in that all important tummy tuck?
Full disclosure here, Goopers. After 2 nine pound babies emerged from my small, if lardy frame, I did have a tummy tuck. It was horrifically painful and expensive, but totally worth it, because an umbilical hernia is just not showbiz. However I still have stretch marks. Life’s a bitch. I wear one piece swimsuits. Actually, who am I kidding? I don’t wear swimsuits at all, I lurk on the beach in a Demis Roussos kaftan pretending I’m allergic to salt water.
3. As for products, well. I used that Clarins Tonic Oil, so you can disregard any good effects of that. Useless. Other people swear by Bio Oil. But you know what I think? It’s genetics. Pure genetics. I’ll be crossing my fingers for you. Shall I tell you what does work though? Perineal massage. Too much information? Yes, I thought so, but being able to sit down without the assistance of an inflatable doughnut is a price worth paying.
We have a small, teeny tiny confession to make. The Important Facegoop Fact Finding Mission turned out to be more of a mission to imbibe gin, inhale lamb chops, and meet lovely new people, like this girl and this girl.
But we did learn important lessons in the Great Metropolis, which we share here for your edification and amusement.
M’s London Wisdom:
- eating out for breakfast, lunch and dinner five days in a row is not as good as it sounds. Especially if two of those meals were 100% lamb chops. My thighs are chafing. My painfully itch and inflated ankles are in a strop right now, and currently looking for new owners.
- Priori’s Skin Renewal Cream is da bomb. The harsh London water and even harsher London sleeping hours usually make me erupt in boils but I’ve woken up to calm, plump, glowing skin in the morning. Either that, or the lamb sweats have aesthetically beneficial side effects.
- Body Brushing and Weleda Cellulite Oil instantly alleviate Heavy Cankle Syndrome.
- Eye makeup remover wipes are like teeny tiny face wipes – handy for carrying in your handbag and great after you’ve disastrously rubbed tube-soot all over your face.
- Do not apply nail polish on 4 hours of sleep. Do not go to a picnic without sunscreen. Do not assume your hosts will have shampoo or shower gel.
- Sandals look like crap on blistered feet with nasty unpolished toe nails. My feet may be looking for new owners too. Anyone want them?
E’s London Wisdom
- Just because your new shoes are flat, that doesn’t mean they won’t sting like bitches. Compeed is simply not up to the job. Don’t wear new shoes if you’re walking ANYWHERE in the heat. End of.
- Body Brushing and Weleda Cellulite Oil with my current diet and lifestyle are like trying to clean up the BP oil spill with a single Tesco’s Value cotton bud. Completely inadequate, but better than nothing.
- Salted caramel is not a health food.
- Nor is white wine. Or gin.
- Nurofen Rapid Action Capsules totally are a health food. So is frozen yoghurt even though it’s probably more fattening than eating the same cubic volume of lard.
- Benefit Creaseless Cream Shadow in Strut is a gorgeous texture, and a beautiful evening colour for cadaver skinned celts.
- Two wrong eyed contact lenses don’t make a right. You might end up in the wrong south western city when you leave London is you’re not careful with your lefts and rights.
It’s summer, when people wear floral playsuits with no sense of irony and when Facegoop’s fancy turns to .. ice cream. And where there’s ice cream, there are wobbly thighs. So for the next few weeks we’ll be bringing you an epic follow up to the Water Diaries, the Cellulite Diaries. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Cellulite. I haz it. I have had it ever since I stopped doing 5 hours of ballet a week and started to eat Nachos for breakfast. I am plagued by terrible circulation, a strong desire for tasty salted pork parts, and a deep rooted hatred of exercise. I have recently instituted a daily ice cream break in my studio for the summer months. This has led me to:
The Vital Statistics:
Thigh circumference: 25. 5 inches.
Calf circumference : 17.5 inches.
Number of ridiculous lotions tried: too many to recall.
Number of ridiculous lotions that were unpleasantly sticky: all of them.
Number of giant bruises from cycling: 7
Amount of cellulite dislodged: non-existent.
Low. Looking at the statistics above, I realize just one of my thighs is the same size as other people’s WAISTS. Not even freaky people’s waists. Just, people.
I know my legs will not be replaced by ones worthy of an antelope overnight, or, indeed, ever. In fact a doctor recently told me I was bow-legged, which left a nice happy song in my heart. Thanks, doc.
I’d just like to be able to wear an above-the-knee skirt in the sweltering heat of Paris this summer. DO YOU HEAR ME, CELLULITE GODS??? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Body brushing: E has talked me into this. She says it works if you do it obsessively, so I have, like an obedient, distraught puppy, started brushing myself every morning before my shower. It makes me feel rather like a pony being given his daily cleanse, minus the strong pony odour. Oddly comforting. And what do you know? It works. My skin is much softer, and possibly even stronger. Win.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil. It’s delightfully warming and the legologist says it works. It is backed up by some impressive and wonderfully germanic statistics. After 28 days, visible improvement of skin structure in 85% of cases, 20-25% increase in microcirculation, and a measurable thigh loss of 3.95 cms. This is getting slathered onto the drumsticks every evening, and my legs feel light, refreshed and hydrated afterwards. The boyfriend says I smell of ginger. Whatevs. The Oil is here to stay.
The Bicycle. My two wheeled love. I cycle every day but usually only for relatively short trips. I am going to make the most of the long, light, balmy (cough cough) Scottish summer and increase the number of 30 minute trips. Oh yes I am. Yes I am yes I am yes I AM.
Phew, that was tiring. Pass me an ice cream, E?
M and I bonded early on over our love of cellulite snake oil, pants with outlandish shrinking claims, spiked rollers to squish our thighs into submission. I love all that stuff. I’ve had hatchet faced Breton women pummel my thighs with a power hose, been wrapped in all manner of gloop, spent ages wobbling on a Power Plate.
No more. Now I have cellulite AND I’m poor. I don’t know if I’ll have to wear a swimming costume in the Isle of Wight in August, but I fear there’s a strong possibility, and my thighs are‚ well. They’ve seen better days. I try not to look. I’m typing this eating salted caramel chocolate which tells you everything you need to know about my diet. My only exercise is walking the dog, and when I say ‘walking’, I mean ‘sitting on a bench while the dog unearths old kebabs and condoms in the park’.
The vital statistics
Thigh circumference: 22 inches
(I’m not measuring my calves because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be putting cellulite potions on them. They’re fine. They’re, you know, calf sized) .
Number of potions tried: Infinity plus
Number of bruises from drunken incidents: loads. Not sure. At least 5 big ones.
Amount of cellulite dislodged: At the moment I’m operating at a net gain of cellulite of 12 cm3 per annum.
The rot must stop.
Since I won’t be exercising or eating less, I don’t really have any expectations, but if I can get my thighs a little smoother and less, uh, GROSS, that would be great. If I can replace my body and face with those of Christy Turlington, so much the better.
Trusty cheapo body brush - it’s easy, it feels like it’s doing something, and skin definitely feels softer after use.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil – M was impressed so I bought some. And what’s good enough for the Legologist is definitely good enough for me. I worship that woman. I have only used a couple of times. It’s, well, oily, but there’s a sort of tightening sensation that seems promising.
For the rest, well. I’ll try and drink some water and eat some vegetables. Can’t say fairer than that.
So here goes nothing: Cellulite Plan 2010 is go. It can’t be as bad as The Water Diaries, right?
M: I can barely contain my excitement (that is a lie).
E: The Phase Where It All Goes Horribly Wrong
M: Oh good. Just what we need. More things going wrong.
E: As you know, M, my complexion is part Edward Cullen, part supermarket chicken thigh.
M: You’re a sparkly chicken thigh?
E: More the deathly pallor of the undead. Thus, if I wish to expose my flesh I must colour it beautiful.
Mi: Ha. HA, I say. I laugh with the amused disdain of one who is pre-coloured.
E: We all know where this is going. It is going down the horrible road of stale biscuit scented DOOM that is FAKE TAN.
M: Can you explain fake tan to me? It is like dating. I iz foreign. I no understand.
E: No. And I do not have any particularly good news for the pastier Facegoopers. But I can tell you what not to do.
E’s guide to bronzing
1. Do not apply fake tan drunk
2. Do not apply fake tan and go straight to bed
3. Do not apply fake tan if you are a spatially challenged moron
4. Do not apply fake tan to open wounds.
Because I have done all these things many times
M: 5. Do not apply fake tan if the bottle has a stupid pun on it?
E: YES. ESPECIALLY THAT. Let us talk about that particular offender.
M: Soap & Glory, J’ACCUSE.
E: It is called “Glow Getter”. Ha, ha Soap & Glory! I am glad I put my corset on today! Though this is not actually fake tan, I should say. It is “paint in a bottle that you put on yourself and then wash off at the end of the day”
M: You are starting to make my head hurt. Does this, or does this not, turn your legs patchy orange?
E: No. It is WORSE than that
M: I am intrigued, against my will and common sense.
E: This is like spray paint for legs. Firstly, I have a conceptual problem with it.
M: Why? because it is SPRAY PAINT FOR LEGS? Nutjob.
E: In a nutshell, Yes. why would I put something brown and smeary on myself when I only have to wash it off again and start again the same day????
M: Yes indeed E. WHY???
E: Oh, we can add 4. to the list: Do not go to bed without washing off “Glow Getter”. You will regret it. So. Glow Getter. It is like something an inept graffiti artist would use so I felt terribly “street” putting it on. Unfortunately, it is only good for tagging. Look:
This is my “rubbish product” tag
M: Ha. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA. You are like a bad tag on the RER C. Soon your leg will be giving coppers the finger and stuff.
E: My leg is a badass. Soon it will be getting one of those curfew tags. And you know what? The end result was NO BETTER. It does not spread. it does not become even. It repels moisturiser. It took me 15 minutes to get my legs looking like legs and not RER C tags. And even then they were the most improbable shade: sort of orangey browny nuclear CRAP.
M: How did you manage that? a scourer?
E: With my salty tears, M, with my salty tears.
M: I am unimpressed on so many levels I don’t know where to start.
E: Bitter experience tells me the only fake tan I can use with ANY degree of success (and I define that very widely) is the ‘gradual tanning’ kind. Like St Tropez EveryDay Light – Medium. Even with that, I would say only one in ten applications isn’t completely fucked up.
M: Right. That’s it. I’m staging an intervention. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOUR LEG COLOUR. Go sit in the sun for an afternoon. STEP AWAY FROM THE TANNERS. The end.
E: But M. My legs have no melanin in them. I can sit in the sun until my face ressembles a blistering tomato, and my legs stay blue. But one thing is sure: the answer is emphatically not Glow Getter
M: You just need to accept that these are the legs that the Lizard King has given you.
E: No! I want magical cosmetic solutions! I refuse to spend my whole life blue!
Facegoopers: is there any fake tan miracle out there that can transform E from a supermarket chicken thigh into a gorgeously bronzed human?
E: Must we? Why would we do that? We are a high class beauty blog.
M: Yes, we must. There have been too many pretty things on here lately.
E: So you thought you’d lower the tone. Good.
M: We need to get sweaty.
E: I can’t do games, Miss. I forgot my gym kit. AND I’ve got my period. Again. For the third week running.
M: It’s ok, there’s no sport involved. Today, I would like to discuss the Dove Hair Minimising anti-perspirant deodorant.
E: Hair minimising??? Really????
M: I’m glad you ask, because that is exactly what it says on the back of the roll-on. “With continued use, your underarms look and feel hair free for longer”
E: This is like black magic, in a deodorant.I don’t know whether to be impressed or burn it at the stake
M: Remember how one of our commenters was outraged by the claim that women feel sexier with hair free underarms?
E: Yup. There was a percentage as well. A high one.
M: Well, I am one of those women. And, I am hairy.
M’s portrait of her hairy armpit. Do not ask why she does not have a nose.
E: You one of the 78%.
M: Nature has set me up, ONCE AGAIN.
E: Thanks, Nature, you asshole. E: No hair. M: Too much hair.
M: Merci mille fois, Nature, you two-faced bully. You give with one hand, and you give a wedgie with the other.
E: You are very lyrical on this subject. Tell me more .
M: So I had high hopes for this deodorant. And, well. It deodorizes.
E: One would hope it manages that.
M: But does it keep you hair free? Does it hell. I am just as hairy as I ever was. And I have been using it for what, a year? Because I bought them on a BOGOF. So I have a lifetime’s supply of said deodorant.
E: You have given it a fair trial. It did sound like colossal bullshit. I mean, what’s in it? Monsanto Roundup weedkiller?
M: Who the fuck knows. I can not be bothered to look it up. Dove hair minimising bla bla bla has wasted enough of my time as it is.
E: What percentage pissed off would you say you were? 78%?
M: Yes, roughly 78%.
E: And the rest is, what? Hair?
M: Yes. 12% hair, 10% stupidity.
E: Dove: Made by stupid people, for stupid people.
M: Readers, are you also stupid sweaty people? Please say yes.
E: I KNOW. It’s easily the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me! Well. Maybe second after Mexican Wrestling.
M: Calm down. Remember, we have only been sent Cheap Stuff. Namely, a bag of ELF. Which is not to be confused with a bag of Elves.
E: That would be really horrible.
M: Annoyingly cheerful.
E: Squeaky. Neat.
M: And efficient. Basically everything we stand against here at Facegoop.
E: Yup. So thank goodness we didn’t get any of those. Instead we have a leatherette pochette of various cheap and cheerful products.
M: Including a bottle of purply nail polish called Purple Punk.
E: Ha. Punk. What do you reckon to the nail polish M?
M: It’s free from all sorts of things -Toluene, Formaldehyde, and Dibutyl Phthalate, which I think is supposed to be a good thing.
E: So what does it have in? Elf breath?
M: Squashed punks, obvs.
E: Oh yeah, squashed punks. I’m surprised squashed punks come out a such a pretty colour. I would have thought they would be grey, what with the black PVC and the pasty skin. What did you actually think of it?
M: I think you are confusing punks with S&M fetishists. Well, I actually really liked it. It’s pretty easy to apply, and the shade is good. I don’t have anything like it, and you could wear it in summer and winter.
E: Yes, I probably wouldn’t have bought it, but now I have it, I would totally wear it. It’s not very purple, is it?
M: No, I suppose not. It’s pinky purple.
E: Fuschia. The colour of, erm, anarchy.
M: The problem is it takes forever to dry.
E: Dammit, woman, now you tell me. I’ve just put some on my little fingernail!
M: I left it for at least 2 hours, and still got hair marks all over it during the night. Look:
E: So I’m stuck, you’re telling me? I can’t move all evening?
M: Yup. You can’t do anything with your pinky. From now until breakfast. No scratching your ear hole. No tickling your nose.
E: I will just have to hold it aloft and admire its pinky purpleness.
M: Shame you didn’t put it on your middle finger.
E: So: Elf Punk Purple. Nice with one of those quick drying topcoat things. Crap if you don’t have any and you’re in a hurry.
E: So, M, although this may not be obvious from Scotchland, the summer is coming.
M: Oh? Hold on, let me wrap these seal furs around me. Carry on.
E: Yes. The summer is coming. Voilà l’été! Cue the Négresses Vertes, please.
M: Uuuuuuuugh. Must I? You do realize it means you’ll be (gasp) baring skin soon?
E: M, as the good burghers of Belgiana could tell you, I ALREADY HAVE. As you know, my skin is not normally suitable for exposure. It is blue, flaky, and lizardlike.
M: In the manner of a newt.
E: A rare blue newt. Making my skin ready for public scrutiny is the work of several Facegoop posts. But let us talk through the first, and easiest step.
M: Oooh, is this Part 1? Does it involve buying a new pair of legs from a Chinese orphan?
E: Yes, and no. This is Part 1. But no leg purchases. They are unethical. No, Part 1 is called Basic Descaling for the Celtic Lizard in Your Life.
M: Please tell me you don’t take a large knife to your legs to scrape the scales off.
E: No. Instead, the celtic lizard in your life must purchase Origins Incredible Spreadable Scrub.
M: Is it really incredible?
E: Well, M. I have not been unfaithful to this exfoliant for many many years. Because it is, and watch out, this is a technical term, fucking awesome.
M: Whoa, hold on there, newt. *I* need to get technical on your lizardy arse here. Firstly, what are the scrubbing particles? And secondly, it sounds edible.
E: Funnily enough, the scrubbing particles are “brown and white sugar”. Which kind of answers your second question. You know my weakness in the product eating area and will not be surprised to hear that I have tasted this on several occasions and it IS very tasty, because it is basically sugar, olive oil and ginger. I mean, that’s pudding!
M: That would explain why you’ve finished the pot. I think you’ve discovered the magical Origins Secret of Scrub.
E: I don’t think there’s a secret. It tastes good. It scrubs good. And it leaves you sexily greasy.
M: Mmmm, a sexy greasy lizard.
E: I may be revealing too much in saying I find grease sexy. Never mind.
E: It gives you one of those “sheen” things they talk about on proper beauty blogs, it smells good, and if any should happen, accidentally, to end up in your mouth, it’s no biggie.
M. I bet you could make a pot of that at home. I have some cheap ginger massage oil from Lidl. It smells amazing. Do you think I could just put 2 sorts of sugar in and scrub myself with it?
E: Try it. And report back.
M: I will. I might just do that tonight. Do you need moisturizer afterwards?
E: No. It is extremely hydrating. You are ready to move to Phase 2, which we will be revealing in a future post. Dot dot dot.
M: They’re Barry M’s finest. Nail photos are stupid. I feel like a dork. Ooooh check me out clutching a tiny bottle.
E: You strike a good nail pose, I think. Dainty and stylish.
M: It’s not a fucking pearl. Your hand = not a fucking oyster. There is no good way to do this, is there.
E: Nope. Actually, you are so good at the hand moddlepose, that I would like to see you in alternative nail poses:
1. Stroking a pony. Or possibly an emu.
2. Doing Claude François style tiger claws.
3. Maybe raking your hands through something. Gravel.
M: Mmm, sensual gravel. But that would require me doing my nails again. Because this is chipping, after a couple of days. I blame the scourer.
E: Fie, Barry M. Fie, scourer. Nah, you could do the pictures with chipped varnish. It would be like a photoshoot for a hipster magazine.
M: Have you seen me? I am not a hipster.
E: Yes, but M, you can’t TELL that from your hands. Not when they are raking through gravel.
M: When I have smudged eyeliner, I look like a smelly racoon, not a rock star.
E: You are fiercer than the fiercest of hipsters. You could kick their scrawny asses all the way to Hoxton and back.
M: What is Hoxton?
E: A place in London full of scrawny twerps with ironic hair. They’re a nice bright colour, your nails. Shame you aren’t stroking a balding ostrich or squidging cooked spaghetti through your fingers, but hey.
M Yes. I do like it, and it’s cheap as chips.
E: So it’s cheap as chips but it chips?
M: Oh dear.
M: Slight problem is it makes me want to lick my nails. Because they look edible.
E: What kind of food do they look like?
M: I don’t know. Er, Rubies. Rubies are a food group, aren’t they?
E: Probably. You’re half French. You freaks eat anything.
M: Cherries. The blood of a suckling pig.
E: Those sweets that looked like lips and tasted of soap.
M: I refuse to eat those. What kind of a crazy fuck eats sugar lips?
E: They’re nicer than snail gel. So: Barry M nail polish. Cheap as chips and unsuitable for doing the dishes in.
E: Hang on, let me put go fetch my purple robes. Ok, go on.
M: I promised LillaBrunaElk, the winner of the No7 lip jam, my bottle of Kiehl’s Creme with Silk Groom the other day. Because I bought it last summer, and didn’t like it.
M: It promises an “optimal styling experience”. Now, I think it is fair to say, my “styling experience” has never been optimal. Unless you count looking like a lion that’s been dragged through a car wash ‘optimal’.
E: I distrust their claims. I mean, do tiny hairdressers come out of the tube and give you a blow dry, complete with current issues of celebrity gossip magazines and cappuccino? NO. Therefore: suboptimal.
M: Indeed. I have hair. A LOT OF IT. All over the fucking place. So my styling experience is usually composed of a lot of whining and some half arsed blow drying. UUUUUUUGH do I haaaaave tooooo?
E: So much hair.
M: So I had high hopes for this. I went all the way to Paris, and got lost in Printemps Beauté to find it. Little did I know they sell it at Jenners. Bastards.
E: What did it promise? Why did you seek it out in this way?
M: Well, everyone goes on about it. Magazines, celebrities, blah blah. And it’s supposed to be good for thick curly hair.
E: I see.
M: But it feels like horse glue. Or what I imagine horse glue feels like. Thick. Sticky. Viscous. Not what I want in my hair.
E: Gross. Does it smell of hooves?
M: Yes! A hoof that’s been half heartedly rubbed with wheat protein, soy protein, and jojoba oil. Anyway, I’d lost the damned thing, so didn’t send it to LBE. But when I found it the other day, I tried it again. I only used a tiny amount – about a pea sized dollop for my long hair – and rubbed it thoroughly into my hands to warm it first, until they looked like the white face of a mime artist.
M: And wow! It’s great.
E: Aha! The celebrities (or rather, the faceless PR drones who make up their ‘recommendations’) are right!
M: Rubbed this way onto wet hair, it transforms into a sort of liquid, emulsified styling creme of gorgeousness. And gives sleek, controlled, voluminous blow dried hair that doesn’t get gunky or greasy for ages.
E: Whoa. That’s pretty amazing. LBE, you won’t be seeing your hoof glue.
M: Nope, sorry LBE. This one’s all mine. Better luck next time.
E: Who is Jergens? Should I be aware of his work? He sounds like a Danish exchange student. I bet he’s probably a mate of the freakishly youthful looking Ole Henriksen. Or do I mean Henrik Olesen? Who knows. They are probably raising money to go interrailing by selling beauty products.
M: Finnish, perhaps. In any case, he probably eats a lot of herring.
E: I should imagine so. His essential fatty acids would be through the roof. And they’re cheap when you’re saving to go to Amsterdam. Tell me more.
M: Well, you know how moisturising and I do not really see eye to eye?
E: I am aware of this. Moisturising isn’t a close friend of mine either.
More one of those people who you have to do a fake smile at across a busy bar, then ignore and pray they don’t come over.
M: Moisturising, in a nutshell, is a bastard.
E: Yeah. Boring too. A boring bastard.
M: So, you will imagine my surprise when I bought my third bottle of this.
E: Bloody hell. What is it, exactly?
M: “Jergens Naturals Skin firming body moisturiser with pomegranate extract”. I realized the other day that I have been using it every day. And do you want to know why?
E: Of course I do. Tell me!
M: It claims to “visibly firm cellulite prone skin”.
E: Yeah, and allow you to fly to work on a gilded unicorn. How many times have you heard that one?
M: Well, let me tell you, my friend, it is TRUE.
E: True? Truly truly true?
M: TRUE. TRULY TRUE. I mean, I’m no leaping gazelle. I am very very far from being a leaping gazelle. All smooth, furry lithe limbs, delicate face and golden eyes.
E: Mmmmmmm so pretty.
M: To give us some background here, I had foie gras and bakewell tart tonight. For dinner. Again.
E: Good dinner. I applaud your choices. Not unsalted plaice fillet en papillote with some steamed spinach?
M: No. My thighs. They are dimpled. And this, THIS! This makes them less dimpled.
E: I am quite amazed. Totally amazed actually. I mean, you know how much I want to believe.
M: Actually, they are not really less dimpled. The fat is still there. But it strengthens the skin and firms it and, what, thickens it? So that the fat is less visible.
E: Smoothes it perhaps.
M: Yes. VISIBLY. The bottle says in 2 uses but that is a lie. I noticed the difference half way through the second bottle. Coincidentally, during water week.
E: Ssssssh we will not speak of that.
M: Do you want to know how much this costs?
E: Of course I do. £100 for 30ml? Rodial stylee?
M: No. It is cruelty free. And Paraben free. And Made in the UK for low carbon miles whatever the fuck that means. And it’s… £4.99.
E: Ha! Less than FIVE of your British pounds! A cheap, non planet flaying cellulite remedy.
M: This, my fellow cellulite miracle searcher, is a HG. I mean, it’s obviously made of embryos or something (“96% natural ingredients”). Stolen embryos bought on the Chinese black market.
E: Too dear. Probably pigeon embryos.
M: I have used many cellulite creams. MANY.
E: Ha. I think we can agree we both have.
M: Tell me about some of the crap you have used.
E: Well. I have used Vichy Lipometric, Caudalie Firming complex, Shiseido Body Creator, Sisley Celluli-Pro, the collected works of St Jeanne de Piaubert.
M: Did she burn your cellulite at the stake?
E: No, she made me wear ill-fitting cycling shorts. And her pump dispensers kept breaking. The only one that did anything was the Vichy. And it just gave your skin a metallic sheen. I liked the metallic sheen. I felt a little bit robotic.
M: I had a rather expensive Karin Herzog duo that was made of oxygen and old grannies. That’s what it smelled like, at least. Various sticky ones. I hate those sticky ones. Those stupid tubes with the tiny tiny plastic massage heads attached to them. And the serums, that you have to keep in the fridge.
E: I had those big patches you stuck on your bum cheeks, like nicotine replacement therapy.
M: And, of course, there was the infamous Philips Celesse of DOOM.
E: Ah, yes. The Philips Celesse is probably a post in itself. And do you remember when I wrote to a cellulite pants doctor to try and get him to send us some? He never replied, bastard.
M: We would have tested them faithfully.
E: You realise we could be richer than oligarchs if we had never embarked upon cellulite treatment madness.
M: Yes. Especially considering that most of my cellulite treatment madness took place in my late teens and early twenties, when I had perfectly acceptable thighs.
E: It’s probably best not to think of it. We’ll cry. Where do you get Jergens from? Your local youth hostel? Hanging out with Ole Henriksen and Dr Brandt? Did you take off his backpack and coax him out with the promise of a can of cider and a tiny joint?
M: Yes. You will find him filling up on the free Danish pastries in the tawdry canteen. Boots, dude. Boots. Always freaking Boots.
E: Wow. Boots. 4.99 and. IT. WORKS. I need a lie down.
M: One last thing.
M: I think I’ve found the magic ingredient on the back label.
M: It says it has: “Helianthus Annuus seed oil”.
E: Ahahahahhahahaahaa. Anus seed oil????? You can see why it’s cheap.
M: Yup. Whatever, my thighs are smooth.
E: I’d keep that hidden in your backpack under your crumpled miracle towel, Jergens.
E: Yesterday: I bought and consumed three 50cl bottles. It was like my soul was dying. I am an enviro-vandal! WHAT OF KARMA?????
M: Karma doesn’t believe in plastic.
E: I mean, water is all very well, but that’s the planet I’m flaying.
M: I seem to remember you having some dependency issues with your central heating
E: Hmm. No comment. I didn’t see you complaining when you were here huddled in your blanket.. no hang on I DID see you complaining.
M: You know how I dismissed the coconut water the other day?
E: Yes, I recall. Grey. Tasteless.
M: Well, I drank the whole carton yesterday. Like a lunatic. It may not taste like the real thing, but it’s thirst quenching like the real thing.
E: And? Do you feel refreshed? Are your arms all sinewy?
Mi: No, I just want more. MORE. MORE TASTELESS PSEUDO-COCOWATER. They must sprinkle it with opium.
E: I see, it’s like Whiskas.
M: Whiskas? The cat food?
E: Once you have tasted it, no other beverage (or in the case of Whiskas, cat food) will do.
M: You eat cat food? Dude.
E: NO I DO NOT EAT CAT FOOD. I eat crisps. Leftover fishfingers. And this evening: a handful of frozen peas STRAIGHT FROM MY HAND. It’s Lord of the Flies round here. No cutlery. nothing. But definitely not cat food.
M: Are you quite, quite sure?
E: Shut up now.
M: So, I think we can both agree that we more or less had our water quota this week end, yes?
E: Yes. Plenty of the stuff today, more’s the pity.
M: Which brings us to the end of Water Week. Despicable, spiteful Water Week.
E: Yes. THANK FUCK YOU ARE OVER WATER WEEK. M, my skin has never looked worse. Not even when I was 14.
M: Why is that? We have disturbed the badness.
E: Yes. Oh god, we messed with the natural order and look what has happened. Water! it is supposed to stay in the bath and stuff.
M: Yes. Possibly useful for boiling pasta. But drinking it? No.
E: I have a big spot on my chin. I never get spots.And the rest of my face is a mass of small irritations. I am not even posting a picture of myself because I would like to sex again at least once in my life, and once that picture is out there, that would never be possible. Nope. Nuh-uh. No “after” picture. AFTER THE APOCALYPSE.
M: I thought we had a deal.
E: I am reneging on the deal.
M: Pffff. My after picture looks significantly better than my before picture. Though that might have more to do with the dappled spring light and the full afternoon of napping.
E: Well. GOOD FOR YOU.
M: Can I see though? I want to see. We don’t need to post it.
E: This is going to be like one of those LOLcat things. “U sed those pikchurs were privut. Why u put them on interwebz?”. But I trust you, M. Here you go. Seriously. you will see. It’s like it’s not me. It’s another person.
M: Oh my fucking god, you weren’t exaggerating! What the fuck!
E: I KNOW! I KNOW I KNOW.
M: You look like that little runt from upstairs who was arrested the other week.
E: Water has turned me into a ned. Great. Fucking brilliant.
M: A 14 year old ned. But hey! Water! It has miraculous anti-ageing properties! It’s turned back the clock by 20 years!
E: Fuck you and your miraculous properties, water. That is my conclusion for the week. And I will NOT be continuing to drink you. What is your conclusion for the week, M?
M: Well, obviously, I had disastrous monkey face for most of the week, so that wasn’t good. But, looking at my after photo (which we also won’t post), my hair is freakishly glossy and well behaved. And I don’t look quite so grey. Although I do still have brown bags under my eyes, but that’s because I don’t sleep.
So my conclusion for the week is: drinking more water is all very well, but if you don’t get any sleep you’re still going to look like shit. The end.
E: Ok. And there we have it. Highly scientific conclusions from team Facegoop.
M: I am going to keep it up. Or at least, try to drink a couple of glasses in the morning.
E: We need to talk about water. But I am warning you, it is not good news.
M: Talking of hydration, when I was in the hippie stronghold earlier today, I saw a carton of that designer coconut water endorsed by Madonna, so I bought some. £4.49.
E: Please tell me it wasn’t for a tiny juice box?
M: No! A carton, like a normal juice carton.
E: Ok. Continue. Have you tried it?
M: Well, you know how fresh young coconut juice is basically like heaven liquified? Take a couple of clouds, a few angels, some divine sunbeams and squeeze them into a coconut husk, or shell, or whatever you call them. WHAT ARE THEY CALLED????
E: Shell! Shell is fine! Chill out.
M: Well, this isn’t like that, at all. It’s kiiiind of like that. But grey. And flat. And a bit acidic. It’s PANTS. But it’s rich in potassium. It’s Potassium-rich PANTS. I am ranting. Stupid dumb ass expensive coconut water DE MON CUL. Next time, I will wait until the real thing is at the chinese supermarket, and I will hack at it with my giant meat cleaver as I usually do. The neighbours will not be pleased. But my wallet and tastebuds will thank me.
E: I like the sound of the machete and the hacking. It’s been a long week. But the madonna juice sounds vile. Ok, my turn. I have comprehensively, totally, fallen off the water wagon today. I have had two glasses. That seems like plenty. I was losing the will to live. Action was needed. So my hydration needs today have been met by 3 cups of tea, an espresso, and a gin and tonic. Water can fuck the fuck off .
M: Hmph. I think the gin and tonic can count. The rest, no.
E: Well, I don’t even care. Fuckit.
M: It’s Friday. Fuck off Water Friday. I need to pee.
E: Water can kiss my non-Ryanair branded ass. Sorry about the experiment.
I am a failure.
M: It’s ok.
E: No, it’s not. Sorry, Facegoop. I have let you down. I have let myself down I have let water down. And I still don’t give a shit.
E: Our water diaries are boring, aren’t they? Almost as boring as drinking water.
M: Yes. No one wants to read the mind-boggingly dull details of our mundane existences.
E: So today, whiny water chat instead of diaries. I am not hating the drinking process quite so much, but I see absolutely NO benefits. Water is just pointless.
M: Actually, my skin is clearer this morning and I have not wanted any crap food for 3 days. No chocolate craving, no cheese craving, no ghee craving. I am also noticing a certain looseness round the lardy arse area, which may or may not be related. I may have to Weigh Myself tomorrow.
E: That is not my experience at all, and I think you are lying. I had to have a cup of tea and a Caramel in the bath last night. My body was aching for toxins. I’m just bitterly resentful that there’s no room for all the shit I would like to be eating due to the swilling gallons of water in my stomach.
M: I had steamed broccoli for lunch. STEAMED BROCCOLI.
E: I am appalled. I had a milkshake. This is working out better for you than me. No fair.
M: Also, I cleaned out my cosmetic drawer. It is tidy. Ish.
E: And you believe this to be water’s doing? Madness.
M: All I know is that I had four glasses of water before 11, and I was a flurry of activity this morning. I even sorted through my receipts, which I normally only do if someone threatens to lower me into a pit full of oversized rat-spider hybrids.
E: You are falling into the dangerous clutches of the water cult. I am sending in the cult deprogrammer with a family-sized bag of crisps. What I hate most about the Water Challenge is the way it keeps me from drinking as much tea as I would like to.
M: Well, that is because you are British, and foreign, and weird. And your blood is 87% tea. Strong tea.
E: I need pints of it to survive. PINTS. If my tea levels get any lower, I will end up in super rapid detox like a crackbaby in ER. In order to avoid that I had 2 pints this morning so there is no room for water. I have not had any. There is simply no space.
M: I could dip you in a cup of hot water if I wanted a nice comforting beverage.
E: In a normal week you absolutely could. I am dry and full of tea. I could be a new concept from Tetleys.
M: Water week is messing with my time perception. On Tuesday, I thought it was Saturday. Today, I’m convinced it’s Wednesday. WTF, WATER?
E: WTF indeed. I wake up thirsty. what the fuck is that about?
M: I always wake up thirsty. That’s just central heating, you weirdo.
E: Yeah, well I don’t. Never. And the heating is OFF. Spring has arrived in Belgeland, possibly for as long as 24 whole hours.
Basically my assessment of the Water Challenge so far is that it is a complete fucking drag. I can’t see any health or appearance benefits that would make me want to continue. However we are only halfway through.
M: Yes. You may have a last minute turnaround yet. Like a Ryan Air plane that you think is going to take off, but it doesn’t. Except in reverse. And with less advertising. And you don’t have to fear for your life.
E: That image really isn’t working, is it? I mean really? No. Apart from all the things you mention, I do not have a yellow harp painted on my arse.
M: No? You should check. Maybe you do.
E: Oh, I don’t think so. There is no way I am looking at my arse. I have been eating so much shit during water week that it has doubled in size
M: You might find it dewy, and plump, in a good way, from all the water.
E: Eewww. I don’t want to find it at all. I don’t want to look at my arse, I don’t want to drink water. What I actually want to do is sit in the sun with a very small very strong espressso. And DRY OUT.
Day 3, still spotty. Stomach feels marginally less distended, which I attribute to the gin and tonic last night.
Conference call from home. Have glass #1 while preparing and glass #2 during. About half way through the call I am desperate, but DESPERATE to pee. I sneak into the loo with the cordless phone, hand over the mouthpiece. A girl’s gotta do, innit. The peeing is actually less disruptive to the call than the moment some time later when I get bored and click on Heatworld, leading to ear bleedingly loud pop music being unleashed on our legal discussions.
Call ends and I force down #3 and pee again before leaving the house. Charleroi – an industrial wasteland where I am heading for some species of ironic guided tour – doesn’t seem like the kind of place likely to have welcoming public conveniences on every street corner. I am seriously hampered in my mad dash to catch the train by the swilling, gurgling weight of my stomach. I am so out of breath when I reach the train I succumb to a mad coughing fit that just won’t stop. I have no water with me. Oh, cruel irony. An old lady hands me a Smint, disapprovingly.
Get a weeny bottle of water from a vending machine in Charleroi station. 1euro20! I could get a chocolate coated waffle and a packet of TUC biscuits from the same machine for less. What with that, and the 40 centimes for the ladies loo attendant, hydration is an expensive business in this country.
The urban safari through Charleroi is in fact exceptionally hard core cardiovascular trespassing, with slagheap climbing, jumping through fences and squatter dodging. I crack open my tiny bottle in the transit van, but Nicolas, the guide, makes sad eyes at me and says his mouth is “pateuse” from talking all day. I give him half.
We stop for a milkshake at Charleroi’s premier (only) mall. Nicolas, my guide, pronounces the word ‘mole’. We ask for a glass of tap water with our milkshakes which practically causes World War Three among the serving staff. A tiny half full glass appears. It has probably been spat in by Charleroi’s finest. I drink it. Between this and the half bottle, I reckon I have managed #4.
Finally home. I would actually quite like a drink, but one with a FLAVOUR, and possibly alcohol. I settle for eating all the cheese off the top of the children’s pizza and a glass of H2Blah. #5
What, more? Really? Fuuuuuuuuuck. I get stuck halfway through. Filled with nourishment ennui, I neither wish to eat, nor drink. I have prawny, vegetabley, dullness for dinner. I feel about 5 months pregnant. I limp through #6. I probably really need it after inhaling the toxic soup that is Charleroi air, but my body tells me what it actually needs is cocktail. Pints and pints of cocktail.
I think really really hard about disused factories full of rotting chemicals and decomposed pigeons and taxidermy rat kings to force myself through #8. It works.
Total: 8 (told you I was a single-minded, try hard, competitive bitch) Verdict: Why am I doing this again?
Go to hell, water lover.
Whose stupid idea was this? And why am I waking up at 6:40? Can’t be bothered with the stale water. Thankfully someone knocks me out with a soft mallet and when I come to, I am wrapped in a blanket at my desk, typing.
My mint tea makes me hack up phlegm. This is the only fluid that will pass my lips until lunchtime.
I’ve given up on doing anything productive today. I’m fairly certain sticking a hot poker into my right eye would be more fun than drinking anything, but I gulp down a glass of the transparent stuff anyway. It tastes disappointingly like water.
13:30 My Barefaced Beauty (stupid name) minerals have arrived, hallelujah! Praise be the Dark Lords of the sorting office. I spend much time sifting tiny amounts of powder out of tiny containers. Water… I have heard of it, but I’ve never seen it. Why is the powder clumping around these dry bumpy bits on my skin?
We’ll gloss over the afternoon. Shhhh.
I employ trickery by filling my glass before I’ve emptied it. In this cunning way, I go through 5 glasses in 4 hours. Bwahahahahhaha.
Total: Fuck, still 7. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE. And shut up about the mint tea not being water. Verdict: I see a trend emerging. Tomorrow, I tackle my problem head on by DRINKING IN THE MORNING.
This is day 2 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week. Day 1
Wake up still feeling bloated, which is of course all water and nothing to do with the mountain of crap consumed yesterday. I have tea and crêpes. No water. And shout at the children. Wobble to work, feeling heavy. Is this how a hydrated, natural human is supposed to feel? I don’t believe it. You couldn’t run away from predators like this.
Work. First Glass. Blah, whatever. I don’t hate you, you’re just pointless. Look in mirror of truth – I have a spot just above my lip. It’s either water, or Crème de la Mer gel (a present! from someone who got it as a freebie! I can’t afford Crème ). I know who I’m blaming.
Feeling oppressed by the water burden ahead of me, I drink #2 standing by the coffee machine and bring #3 back to my desk. Coffee is awful. Water is awful. There is no milk in the building to make tea, only small containers of Belgian coffee creamer. Waaaa! I sneak down to a meeting I am not even attending and smuggle back 6 mini croissants, proper coffee and orange juice. This water regime is destroying me.
Drink #3 on conference call. Drink the orange juice too. Feel gross forcing more liquid into my groaning stomach, but I LIKE orange juice, dammit.
I am DYING to pee and conference call is still not finished. I bark staccato answers, dictated by my full bladder, to remaining questions. On the way back from the loo, I get #4 and ignore it. You’re not the boss of me, water.
Headache. I take a Nurofen with a miserly sip of #4.
Finish #4 and have consolation steak and chips in the canteen. No vegetables. I haven’t eaten this unhealthily for ages. This is all your doing, water.
Uninspired, I slump off to the water fountain and stand there, drinking #5. See, the secret thing about me is, I might be lazy and slatternly and half-arsed, but I really really like to WIN. I will not be beaten by this. I go into the ladies to pee, yet again. When I come out, I look in the mirror. My skin! It’s, it’s AWFUL. All the left side of my face is spotty. I have water-induced leprosy. I take #6 back to my desk, sulkily and try to mineral powder over the evidence.
#6 is almost bearable, but then, I am having a pretty shit day. Water is the least of my worries. I throw caution, and bladder control, to the winds and have #7 too. Oddly, #7 is possibly the easiest yet. I have no theories about this.
#8 is not easy. It is the thing I would least like right now. I would like something of a similar colour, but with ice, and approximately 40% proof.
Total: 8 glasses Verdict: Fuck you water, I won’t do what you tell me. Except pee. That I will do.
6:41 I wake up and take a gulp of stale water from last night’s untouched glass. I have given myself the day off but my rebellious, uncaring limbs carry me to the living room, where I sit, dehydrated, sinking deep into the dark clutches of the interweb.
I scrutinize my face in the mirror. My eyes are blood shot and my skin a ripple of grey with red patches. There’s an odd, dry area of skin developing all around my mouth. I feel betrayal mixed with resignation. I retreat.
I snap out of my browsing trance. I have managed one full glass all morning. I’m not sure how it got to me. I force down a second glass. At lunch, the leftover curry salt rush gives me the mother of all thirsts. The 3rd glass feels like a thimble. I have the strange swimming palpitations usually associated with eating a tub full of MSG.
I spend an hour making a blueberry tart in our hot, tiny kitchen. Afternoon tea is a blur of cups and saucers. There may have been a 4th glass of water involved. I lie down on the carpet. The feeble daylight pathetically pushing its way through the dirty windows makes my face hurt. I hear cruel laughter and the release of a camera shutter. I don’t care.
Against my better judgment, I head into town for a small shopping trip. I wander aimlessly round BHS, snapping pictures of paper bins, the weight of a 500 ml water of bottle in my bag making me slump in the manner of a sulky teenager. I’ve lost the will to live. I find myself sitting in the makeover chair at the Bare Minerals counter. I am laughing nervously. I need to pee.
I’m in the toilet of a drab, dismal shopping centre. This is where all hope comes to die. I drink half of the bottle in retribution.
Lemon tea with ginger at a friend’s house. I’m pretty sure it counts as water. Special water with magical properties. I end up second in a Mario Kart race, my best score ever. Lemon tea with ginger is the nectar of the Gods. My head is pounding.
Back home, the last of the bottle helps me to swallow 2 ibuprofen tablets. I inflict water torture on a handful of unsuspecting gyoza. There’s kimchi and soy sauce involved. Another glass seems inevitable.
Total: 7, probably Verdict: I spent the whole of this Tuesday thinking it was Saturday. Water is messing with my mind, like a particularly slippery brain worm.
This is day 1 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
The before photo. We are not happy.
I never EVER drink water. Quite literally. I drink:
Tea. Usually the unhealthy black with milk Yorkshire Tea kind, strong enough to trot a mouse on.
A couple of Diet Cokes a week.
And that is all. I don’t even take pills with water – tea works fine. I must have been functionally dehydrated for about 6 years now, since the last time I drank water in any quantity was whilst breastfeeding my second child. Very occasionally, perhaps about once every two months, I get seized by a deadly thirst, but when I slake it I have to add Sirop de Grenadine to the devil’s beverage, or it won’t go down. I am not looking forward to the Facegoop Water Challenge. I thought it was a horrible idea, but M is persuasive*.
I take a photo of my dessicated Monday morning pre-make up face in the bathroom of destiny at work. Gross. I fill a first cup of water and drink it, alternating with coffee to take the non-taste away. One down. I need to pee. Normally I can sit at my desk all day without moving a single muscle – this is stealth exercise. I hate it already.
I try glass 2 without coffee. It makes my fillings ache. I think about the futility of human endeavour and eat an apple. This is more or less normal for a Monday.
Headache. I raid the chocolate cupboard, which involves stealing the key from my colleague’s drawer while she is in the toilet and claim two cheap and nasty Guylian “caramel” seahorses. Decide to wash my Nurofen down with water #3.
As I am hunched over the water fountain a colleague comes up. “What ARE you doing?” (see? My drinking water excites comment). I explain. “You shouldn’t drink too much if your body isn’t used to it” she says “Like those people on Ecstasy who die from drinking too much”. Great. I look forward to my brain swelling up and exploding out of my ears. Maybe this headache is the first sign?
Mini-Twix. This is supposed to be about the water, so I reckon my usual diet of trans-fatty chocolate miniatures must be continued. Controlled testing. On the back of the Twix, I manage to force down the remains of glass #3. Did I take a Nurofen? I can’t remember, but my head still aches.
13:28 After a large lunch I decide I need a muffin. NOW. I eat it. I blame water, possibly water on my brain. The experiment will be cut short it I top 20 stone. I go and get glass #4. If I check my Twitter feed as I drink, I can kid myself it’s, well, not water.
I need another Nurofen, so I go and get glass #5 to wash it down. I crack and get a coffee too. I drink # 5 while I wait for the coffee and bring #6 back to my desk. I feel bloated and I am starting to get water reflux.¬†
I force down the remains of #6. Bleugh. There will be no more water for some time.
I eat a fistful of lardons whilst preparing dinner. Salty. A good moment to force down #7. After #7 I feel I am fully justified in eating 2 fairy cakes and having an honest to goodness mug of tea. Before my dinner. What the fuck is happening to me? The children gulp down glasses of the stuff and ask for more. Weirdoes.
I have to write this stupid diary so I have the last glass. It is leftover from dinner, sitting next to me, taunting me. It is the glass that bursts the camel’s hump, or something. I feel revolting. The thought of doing all this again tomorrow makes me want to hurl.
Total: 8 glasses Verdict: The thought of starting again tomorrow makes me want to bury myself alive. In the desert.
I like water. I really do. I just forget to drink it.
I hate having to remember about it. I hate having to go to the kitchen to rummage through the piles of dishes to find a clean glass. I hate having a bladder the size of a walnut and having to go to the toilet all the freaking time. Water. Go to hell.
I get up and spend a half hour messing around on the internet. I inevitably end up having to leave the house in a mad rush, limbs flailing and laptop falling out of my bag. I manage to guzzle a half glass of last night’s stale water before rushing off, while muttering dark curses under my breath.
I buy a bottle of water at my workplace’s canteen. It’s 5 pence more expensive than a cup of tea. My body tries to trip me up in the stairs in retaliation. Twice.
I run around trying to fix things before the start of my lecture. I am hot, and a bit sweaty.The bottle sits on the table, staring at me malevolently. Can YOU fix this projector, water? No? Then STFU.
First half of lecture over. I have spent half the day talking. I’m pretty sure that’s -3.5 glasses, at least. I guzzle the water with my lunch of potato wedges and pasta sauce. Really, canteen, you are spoiling us.
I fill up my bottle in the girl’s toilet. The sign (above) says “drinking water”, but I have been reliably informed by the janitors that this may not strictly be true. Whatever. I have a challenge, janitors. A BEAUTY challenge. I take a picture in the tiny toilet mirror. Someone has scribbled “You are beautiful” on the wall next to it. I recoil in horror at the results.
Lecture finished. I have miraculously finished the second bottle of water to calm a coughing fit.
I sit here, typing up this diary, fighting off a vague headache. I’ve forced myself to drink another glass. It tasted faintly of lamb curry and banana muffin. I feel queasy. My boyfriend brings me another glass. He gets the evil eye.
Total: 5 glasses. Maybe 6 if you’re lucky. I’ll drink another glass during the night so let’s call it 7. Verdict: uuuugh
M: I have chronic moisturising deficiency syndrome. Zero discipline and a box full of half empty creams I never use. I usually walk around obliviously with crackly, itchy, flaky crocodile skin. And yet I must have this, because someone on the interweb said it made their skin plump and dewy and they couldn’t stop touching themselves after using it. I want to be that body butter perv. I NEED to be that body butter perv.
E: Plump and dewy. That makes you sound like a seal. I would check the smell before you buy, because it might actually be blubber. A seductive blend of carrots and blubber. However I have also heard good things about the Yes To Carrots. So I say Yes to the Yes to the Carrots. Or something.
2. A haircut £50 or whatever the demon spawn are charging these days
M: I have long, thick, unruly hair that tries to smother me in my sleep. I also hate going to the hairdresser’s. They are a vicious, manipulative, extortionist breed with a deep rooted hatred of curly hair. It’s probably been about a year since my last torture session haircut, which means I now look like an 8 year old hippy. I had high hopes of getting my hair cut this Easter in Singapore, where I once had the most awesome dry cut ever from a hairdresser who barely spoke a word of English, but the trip’s been cancelled. Bollocks.
E: Haircuts. Believe me, it’s a heap more scary when your hair lives on a stand in the bathroom and DOES NOT GROW BACK. I love my hairdresser (John Vial at Real Hair , considerably more than £50 but worth it for the gossip alone), but even he is fallible, and I have been surreptitiously trimming the last one with the kitchen scissors for weeks to get rid of the slightly mullety effect at the back. I actually love going to the hairdressers. You get magazines and hot beverages and scurrilous gossip. M, what kind of person can only cope with getting their haircut in SINGAPORE? You are a weirdo. Get a fucking haircut. The end.
M: For my birthday last year, E. gave me a lovely Chanel Précision eyroller thingy that is wonderful for depuffing and refreshing eyes after a long session of obsessive compulsive stats checking on the computers. This version has concealer mixed in. Yay.
E: I am also in thrall to the roller. Mine is YSL Somethingorother. It is cool and lovely and lives, mysteriously, on the bathroom floor. We will speak of it at some point. All hail to the rollers.
M: My sister the actress slash model wears this, so naturally I covet it like any self respecting younger sister would: with seething bitterness and bile. It’s a pretty shade of pinky red that will look lovely and polished on summer skin.
E: Ha! Summer skin. Are you ‘avin a larf, M? I don’t even know what that is. Does it look good with blue? Bluey grey? Morgue tones? No? Ok, you keep it.
M: I am pretty rubbish at applying makeup (50% clumsiness, 50% can’t be bothered), and find fat pencils much easier to cope with. This is a sheer, glossy, moisturising version of my favourite Nars velvet matte lip pencil. I want one of each. Apart from the purple one. That one can go away. It’s not wanted here.
E: The names are wrong. The purple one should definitely be called Crime. Lip Crime. Apart from that I approve. Go ahead.
6. Urban decay eyeshadow primer potion £11.50
M: There’s a small, hidden bathroom on the third floor of my workplace that gets a huge amount of natural daylight. It has this tiny mirror that never fails, in the glorious afternoon sun, to make me gasp at the sight of my oily, crêpy, smudged, pockmarked face. The interweb confirms this potion is good at “creating smooth lids that are super powered eyeshadow magnets”. The interweb is always right.
E: Oh man, that sounds exactly like the Toilet of Truth at my workplace. I have to shut my eyes when I go in there to avoid the crushing evidence of my mortality and chins, which has occasionally caused awkwardness. “Super-powered eyeshadow magnets”. Please get this M and we can test it. I will hold pots of eyeshadow 30cm from your eyes, and we will test just how magnetic they actually are. But only for a laugh, because I don’t believe in it. Not for a second. Does it have wheat protein and ions and nanoparticles? No. Well then. It can’t possibly work.
7. Nars Cruising lipstick £17
M: ‘Mr’ ‘Nars’, guapito, I have better things to do with my time than to lust after your pretty nude lipstick. No? Oh. Fine. Gimme one. And I’ll take one of those Alhambra eye duos while I’m at it. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE.
E: Get me one too before you go. However, Cruising? Really? Dude, call it ‘anonymous shag behind a tree’ and have done with it.
M: This terrifies and fascinates me in equal measure. Not exactly cheap, but it uses lasers and space pixies to remove your leg hair for up to 12 weeks. I’m pretty sure I would give up on this after about 15 minutes, but I still want it.
E: Another sci-fi choice from M. Space laser pixies. That’s got to sting, no? I am putting on my smug, hairless face here. For £300 you should have beautiful Brazilian ladyboys stroking your leg hair off, not a small eletrical appliance.
9. Guerlain Midnight secret £58.00
M: The midnight secret is that I may have accidentally surreptitiously stolen some of this from E’s bathroom when I visited her last month, but you have no proof against me. Apart from the glowy translucence of my cheeks. It’s amazing and a full review will be posted here soon.
E: It is amazing. It smells good. It makes you feel like Audrey Hepburn. I have to resist using it every night. I mean, I function with a permanent sleep debt due to taking my laptop to bed with me every night. That’s exactly what Guerlain had in mind, right? Not parties and shit. Right? RIGHT? Sob.
M: Still on the lookout for a weightless foundation that won’t break me out, I continue to be slowly brainwashed by all the mineral foundation love out there. I don’t really want to try the Laura Mercier because she is out to get me. Barefaced Beauty’s powder has just four ingredients in it, no evil bismuth oxychloride , and a carefully thought out colour range. I ordered samples of this recently, but the bastard postman still hasn’t delivered them. Where’s my magic powder, postman? HUH?
E: The postman is wearing your powder. Look closely the next time you see him and check his face. Poreless, flawless? He’s got your Barefaced Beauty.
E: Because it’s a pen you draw on your face with. Usually I am wiping the pen OFF the faces. I want a turn. Also, it looks cute and it’s a stain and not a lipstick, what with my Condition (Pervasive Lip Colour Fear Syndrome). I want to branch out into something a bit fresher and pinkier and I thought I might be able to cope with this.
M: Ooooh! It’s lovely. They should sell them in multi-packs, like felt tip pens.
2. Serge Lutens – L’Eau
E: I think this is an emperor’s new clothes scenario. I like it because it’s Serge Lutens who is like a druid of perfume, and one of those demented genius types and also because there’s a whole concept and years of scent boffin thought gone into it. This, according to Magda in Selfridges, is your ‘day off’ fragrance. ”It’s an anti-perfume” says Mr Lutens, who seems to have been smoking the carpet again “A breath of pure mountain air”. I didn’t meet him in Selfridges, sadly. It’s not supposed to be a fragrance at all, or some such bollocks. It’s supposed to just smell clean. It does smell clean, that’s for sure. Cleaner than anything in my house, any of my clothes, cleaner than me. Cleaner than I have EVER BEEN. It smells of Persil and OCD. But for some reason I want it. Want want want. Maybe I just want to be clean for once? I tried it a couple of weeks ago, walked round thinking ‘eew, that smells like washing powder” all afternoon, then spent the evening and the next day obsessing about how I could get my hands on some more. So whatever he put in there definitely works. Catnip for humans.
Man, trying to find the price for this, I have had to read a shitload of florid bollocks. Fragrance writers and parfumiers are loons. The end.
M: I passed out after the word “perfume”. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
3. Serge Lutens – Sa Majesté La Rose
E: I tried this on at a friend’s house and now I want it. It’s not an intimidating, complex, bottom notes of foxes arse, scent. It just smells of roses, innit. Proper fat roses that you want to shove your whole face into.
M: Getting a headache just from reading this. Next.
E: I read about this recently and it sounds like the biz. It smells of roses and it’s a body exfoliant. Two excellent points in its favour if you are me. It’s made of ground up rose thorns, which just sounds ace, if painful.
M: The packaging makes me want to eat macarons. I’m not sure that’s really going to help with body smoothness.
E: £100, but there is a VIDEO. About a woman who lost 4 inches on her stomach with this stuff. That’s incendiary for me. I just have to have it. I spent a long time staring at it in Printemps Beauté at New Year, but I was with M and she wouldn’t let me buy it. Bitch.
M: I don’t remember that. But I do love the title of the product page in my browser: “Tummy Tuck, Boob Job, Slimming – Reduce Cellulite”. Classy, Rodial.
E: I just want to believe in this. Want, NEED to believe it works. I was the person who bought Stri-Vectin to use for its original, anti-stretchmark application. Nah, didn’t make a blind bit of difference, and I doubt this would either, but I love the Nip/Tuck style inflated claims, semi-hysterical testimonials, packaging and glossy Miami arses on the website.
E: I have wanted this stuff for a good year without ever managing to get it, and now I want it even more. I particularly like how it says on the website “OFFICIALLY CHOSEN TO BE FEATURED AT THE 2010 OSCARS CELEBRITY RED CARPET GIFT EVENT”, a phrase which seems to contain several words too many. Does this mean Jeff Bridges got some in his goodie bag? That pleases me no end. ALT is famous for its claim to make your cellulite disappear in NINE MINUTES. It’s the big daddy of nonsensical cellulite creams, and for that I love it. Also note the reassuring qualification “Not using human stem cells”. Er, good?
M: E would totally steal your stem cells if she could. Watch out.
What’s on your wish list? Gratuitous spring lamb photo by RATAEDL.
E: This should come with a health warning, because it’s actually a narcotic, not a beauty product. Do not operate heavy machinery or combine with alcohol on pain of death. It should be prescription only. And kept in the locked cupboards at the back of pharmacies that the junkies try and raid in gritty films. With the methadone and whatever.
E: Actually, what am I saying, it shouldn’t even be legal. It’s like roofies. You lose all muscle control, all free will. I bet heroin is exactly like this. Maybe less potent. Twenty minutes in a bath of this stuff, and you feel like all your bones have been removed. Probably one of your kidneys too.
M: A plague of Elemis upon you and your kin.
E: Have you been drinking it? Don’t drink it. What kind of crazed thrill-seeker are you?!
M: (dreamily) I once had a flatmate whose girlfriend worked in a spa. She was very fond of Elemis, so there was an unlimited supply of Super Soak and I could use it whenever I wanted.
E: I am surprised you ever managed to move out. Out of the Elemis CRACK DEN. I can imagine you all lying around, never moving, taking bath after bath after bath, the air a heavy fug of juniper and and clove and lavender. Filthy junkies.
M: It was the flatmate who spent a lot of time indoors. And liked to polish the kitchen cupboards.
E: He had a girlfriend? Impressive. There’s hope for us all.
M: He ALWAYS had girlfriends. He once broke his penis on a girlfriend and ran around the flat screaming.
E: Eh? Are you kidding me? Is that a thing? How the FUCK? HOW CAN YOU BREAK A PENIS?
M: There’s a ligament or something. There was blood and screaming. Apparently it’s very painful. I was in my room thinking WHAT THE FUCK.
E: Oh my god. I feel a bit sick now. Well, if you will live with Elemis smackheads in an Elemis squat, this kind of thing is going to happen.
M: Where IS my fucking Elemis?
E: You’ve spent your giro on Elemis again, haven’t you?