When I am not working for the shallow, superfluous industry that is the media, I spend my free time drinking cocktails, driving, hailing cabs, getting excited about hot men and hot shoes, or spending cash in Primark buying my body weight in clothing. Because I was nicely brought up (by nuns, no less) and I am more than a little self-aware I feel intensely guilty about being an average modern woman.
In my free time I should not be driving around London (a big carbon sin), searching for even more shoes and dresses to buy (probably made by toddlers in sweat shops who’ve never seen the light of day), to wear whilst out drinking cocktails (which will probably give me cancer and stop me from having children). I should be acting like a better human being, exclusively using public transport, making all my purchases from ethically sound small businesses, caring for people less fortunate and frivolous than myself. Maybe do some volunteer work.
Because of the nun connection I am racked with guilt about exulting in being old enough to afford a Barbie-style wardrobe all of my own, but I can’t help myself. I feel if I get off the treadmill of frivolity I fear I will miss out on life. So this year, after shame attacking myself one time too many I decided to take the laziest form of action I possibly could. I went through every item in my vast wardrobe and edited it as much as my inner Barbie doll would allow, to sell my cast offs at a jumble sale.
Why a jumble? Well, car boot sales would require me to get up before 10am, and I can’t be arsed to ebay (too boring and nerdy). Plus, my friend Karolina who runs the sale promised rock and roll djs and cute boys would be there.
Preparing for the sale was actually yet another guilt soaked experience. Pricing all my items I was overcome with shame every time I found something I’d never worn, read, or even liked. I was looking at a waste of my money. A particularly bad moment came when I discovered this amazing dress I’d bought in 1998, for £45, when I was a student living on £35 a week. It is a fabulous dress, white with gold sequins, very Supremes circa ‘66, and the kind of thing all men hate. It still had the tags on and I never wore it because it made my hips look big. Hanging onto the dress was a downer because it still makes my hips look massive, and I will never ever wear it, but selling it for less than half the price I bought it for was nonetheless a painful option.
The worst part of it was forcing myself to sell old favourites I hadn’t worn for years. The brown suede mini dress I’d had since I was 17 and had some of the best nights of my life in, dancing, posing, drinking £1 a shot vodka, had to go. I would never wear it again, I was just hanging onto it because of our shared past of Good Times. But whenever I put the dress on I felt like a cross between Julie Christie and Barbarella, it was my dear, old friend. And what did I price the joy this beautiful friend had given me? £15, thanks.
If I was like this when pricing items you can imagine what I was like selling them. A stylish young woman bought my darling gold, black and red jumper for £3. (I actually haggled her DOWN! What was the matter with me? I think I just wanted it to go to a good home). I called out after it “Goodbye, we had beautiful times together!” And that’s when it dawned on me. I had had romances with all of these clothes. I was selling off my past relationships.
With every single item I could recall the excitement of hunting them down in a shop, trying them on to find a perfect fit, sick with anticipation of the Good Times my new item and I were definitely going to share. Then came the first few wears, the compliments from jealous friends, feeling smug if it was an incredible bargain. Next followed the heart of the relationship, when you get to know each other so well you know this item will pick you up and be there for you when you need it.
What goes wrong after a few months or even years when you forget about it and want to wear other things instead? The romance has gone. Deciding to sell these clothes was exactly like the emotional conflict when deciding to dump a boyfriend who was right for you for a certain time in your life but wrong for the long term. You get wistful about the good times you had together, even though you know you don’t want them. And you definitely don’t want to see them with someone else.
Keeping my white PVC mac festering at the bottom of my wardrobe was like stringing along a guy I wasn’t that interested in but still wanted the ego boost. Ultimately it’s very bad karma on both parts. That’s why when I sold the mac on Sunday I graciously told the woman who bought it that it looked better on her, and it really did. But as she walked away I thought, maybe if I’d have worn it one more time. And then I looked at the £10 note she’d just given me and felt great. You’ve got to let things go to let better things come into your life. And the same goes for guys too.
Who is she?
- Elizabeth Curran
- London, United Kingdom
- I have blonde hair and I wear a lot of black eyeliner. I like to have a good time, all the time.
Saturday, 24 November 2007
Why I Hate Jarvis Cocker
Teenagers, especially teenage girls, are supposed to be totally contrary, unpredictable wayward creatures, falling in love and hate as fast as you can say mood swing. They hold seemingly lifelong grudges that can last years or sometimes hours, until they decide that they love what they formerly found so repellent.
By your early twenties you’re supposed to be able to think rationally and might even begin to appreciate all that stuff you decided to hate because you thought it would make you look cooler. But I’m realising that who I am now is almost entirely based on who I actively decided to be as an unreasonable teen.
My whole life would have taken a totally different path if aged 15 I hadn’t have decided that I wanted nothing more to do with boys with short hair and crap clothes and from that moment on would only go out with guys who looked like rock stars. When I die and my love life flashes before my eyes I’m going to see a succession of Liam Gallagher wannabes (major poseurs), These Animal Men men (great kissers), Brian Joneses (became gay), a Kula Shaker (pompous), a few Jimmys from Quadrophenia (adorable), a Steve Marriott pre-Humble Pie (adorable but drank too much), several Mick Jaggers circa 1964-1976 (AMAZING kissers, great dancers and very funny), the odd Rod Stewart (stupid and boring), a Barry Gibb (heart-breakingly magnificent), a Klaxon (two-timer) and a George Harrison (liked drama too much).
The only reason I was interested in any of these guys is because their (generally insane) dress sense was what my 15 year old self would have been impressed with. So why haven’t I moved on? Alright, I’ve moved on a bit: I no longer view having a boyfriend with a Northern accent the height of chic as I did way back in ’96 (in fact, after dating so many of them in my teenage days I’m getting turned off by it), I now find men who dye their hair and wear make-up a major passion killer (leave the cosmetics to me boys, I no longer need a pretty boy because I’m not scared of real men anymore). I go out with guys who look like nobs because I’m still pleasing my inner teenager.
And it’s not just my adolescent boy passions that are still burning, the biggest grudge of my teenage years still rages within my heart. Great balls of fire come out of my mouth whenever I start talking about Jarvis Cocker. It didn’t have to be this way, in fact it started off so beautifully. Aged 13 I listened to the John Peel show and heard "Babies" for the first time.
I kind of liked it, but truthfully, I thought liking it would make me cool, so I went out and the next day bought His N’ Hers and then spent the next six months or so listening to the album from the floor of my bedroom, gazing meaningfully at the pelting rain against the window, whilst composing dark intense poetry and moulding my face into a mysterious, tortured pout which would remain on my face for the next few years. Basically, that album made me a teenager.
Then, a few years later Different Class was about to come out. I was beyond excited and remember breaking in my black PVC knee high boots (Emma Peel was my style icon at the time) traipsing from record shop to record shop trying to find the CD single for "Sorted for Es and Whizz" that had been banned (got the last one from Barking’s Mr CD, yes!). At the time I had pretentious conversations with Mr Kula Shaker-a-like boyfriend where we discussed freedom of expression and how Jarvis was the Malcom X of our generation. The Monday the album came out I ran from my school to the Our Price in Ilford (that stank of sweat so bad, why? Was it heat from the East London adolescents anxious over which Charlatans album would make them coolest? Answer: none of them), grabbed a copy, ran home and waited to be overwhelmed.
I was overwhelmed. By vitriol. In a matter of 4 or 5 songs Jarvis Cocker had gone from being the coolest, sexiest, cleverest, most stylish man to walk the planet to a greasy haired pervert trying to seep into young minds through his music and his cool, brainwash them and try and create some freakazoid Jarv-army. Suddenly and instantly Jarvis had become the enemy. The song lyrics of album track "I Spy" gave me the creeps, Jarvis describes getting revenge on the middle classes by infiltrating the minds of their kids. I wasn’t going to become one of those kids Cocker!
I ended up dumping ole Kula Shaker for another Liam-alike because Kula thought the album was the best thing since Penguin started selling the entire works of Karl Marx for £1 a volume (I told you he was pompous). I lost respect for my girlfriends who started saying "Jarvis, phwoarrrr!" round the playground and I sneered at boys in Indie clubs who dared chat me up after I’d witnessed their fey, limp wristed Jarv-wannabe dance moves. Jarvis Cocker turned me off so much he drove me away from what should have been my golden era, the Britpop years, into an obsession with everything from the sixties.
Then the hate rotted and manifested into something much stronger than being grossed out by a song. I started blaming Jarvis for blighting my adolescence and making me think the world was a much more pervy, fucked up miserable place than it actually was.
Listening to His N Hers as a little 14 year old child I thought life was all about your boyfriend shagging your sister, being anorexic, being in love with one man but living with another. I pouted along to the beat but I thought the world was so dark and scary. It was a horrible way to learn about life. I wish I’d’ve discovered the Small Faces a lot sooner, no incest or self harm in their songs about Rooty Tooty Auntie Renie. Jarvis was the man that came to symbolise everything that I hated about the modern world. What an arsehole!
And I have kept that grudge ever since, for about 11 years, totally trusting my adolescent judgement. So as a bit of an experiment I decided to challenge it. I would go and see Jarvis’ show at the Astoria and see what it did to me. Could he win me back? Did he really want to start a Jarv-army? Was he as sinister as my intense teenage self deemed him?
I guess I’d done the classic "meet with the ex- boyfriend and show him what he’s missing" thing, getting my hair back combed into the biggest bouffant it could manage, wearing a brand new coat and a very adolescent "think you’re going to impress me buddy?" look on my face.
Although the show was fun (he really was trying to impress me, he covered Black Sabbath’s "Paranoid"), I thought he was a bit lame, like he’d lost his mojo. He kept telling the audience anecdotes and trying to make us laugh, really, he seemed desperate. I walked away from the gig finally realising Jarvis wasn’t capable of mass manipulation, he was the new Bruce Forsythe.
And he may be dark and see the world in a fucked up pervy way, but with 11 more years life experience under my belt I knew that that was because he wanted it to be fucked up and pervy. I had a little superior swagger and wiggle as I left Jarvis, in the same way that you do when you meet an ex-boyfriend and, I hate to admit ever thinking this, realise you’ve won.
If I could leave this column on my confident wiggle I would. But I can’t. I have to tell you the truth. Two weeks later I got up close and personal with Jarvis at the NME Awards. The first time I saw him that night he and his wife were walking two steps ahead of me and Jarvis was blatantly groping her arse under her extremely short skirt. Again, I had that elixir of "I’ve won! He is definitely a pervert! I am so much better than him!"
Until 6 cocktails that is. Yes, after draining the free bar I staggered over to Jarvis in my new high heels, I have no idea why. Instead of telling him "I used to think you were a greasy haired pervert, and you know what, you are!" I said to him "You’re such an inspiration! Thank you for His N Hers! It changed my life!", and insisted someone take a picture of the two of us. Here's the evidence damning me to my own personal hell:
Months later I am still having a mighty Shame Attack about that drunken slur. If he were an ex-boyfriend he would be thinking "She still loves me. I’ve won." It just goes to show folks, an 11 year hatred can evaporate after a couple of strong cocktails in the same way a teenage girl’s passion evaporates into vitriol after a few song lyrics. Does this mean I’m still shallow? Maybe it’s time to grow up.
By your early twenties you’re supposed to be able to think rationally and might even begin to appreciate all that stuff you decided to hate because you thought it would make you look cooler. But I’m realising that who I am now is almost entirely based on who I actively decided to be as an unreasonable teen.
My whole life would have taken a totally different path if aged 15 I hadn’t have decided that I wanted nothing more to do with boys with short hair and crap clothes and from that moment on would only go out with guys who looked like rock stars. When I die and my love life flashes before my eyes I’m going to see a succession of Liam Gallagher wannabes (major poseurs), These Animal Men men (great kissers), Brian Joneses (became gay), a Kula Shaker (pompous), a few Jimmys from Quadrophenia (adorable), a Steve Marriott pre-Humble Pie (adorable but drank too much), several Mick Jaggers circa 1964-1976 (AMAZING kissers, great dancers and very funny), the odd Rod Stewart (stupid and boring), a Barry Gibb (heart-breakingly magnificent), a Klaxon (two-timer) and a George Harrison (liked drama too much).
The only reason I was interested in any of these guys is because their (generally insane) dress sense was what my 15 year old self would have been impressed with. So why haven’t I moved on? Alright, I’ve moved on a bit: I no longer view having a boyfriend with a Northern accent the height of chic as I did way back in ’96 (in fact, after dating so many of them in my teenage days I’m getting turned off by it), I now find men who dye their hair and wear make-up a major passion killer (leave the cosmetics to me boys, I no longer need a pretty boy because I’m not scared of real men anymore). I go out with guys who look like nobs because I’m still pleasing my inner teenager.
And it’s not just my adolescent boy passions that are still burning, the biggest grudge of my teenage years still rages within my heart. Great balls of fire come out of my mouth whenever I start talking about Jarvis Cocker. It didn’t have to be this way, in fact it started off so beautifully. Aged 13 I listened to the John Peel show and heard "Babies" for the first time.
I kind of liked it, but truthfully, I thought liking it would make me cool, so I went out and the next day bought His N’ Hers and then spent the next six months or so listening to the album from the floor of my bedroom, gazing meaningfully at the pelting rain against the window, whilst composing dark intense poetry and moulding my face into a mysterious, tortured pout which would remain on my face for the next few years. Basically, that album made me a teenager.
Then, a few years later Different Class was about to come out. I was beyond excited and remember breaking in my black PVC knee high boots (Emma Peel was my style icon at the time) traipsing from record shop to record shop trying to find the CD single for "Sorted for Es and Whizz" that had been banned (got the last one from Barking’s Mr CD, yes!). At the time I had pretentious conversations with Mr Kula Shaker-a-like boyfriend where we discussed freedom of expression and how Jarvis was the Malcom X of our generation. The Monday the album came out I ran from my school to the Our Price in Ilford (that stank of sweat so bad, why? Was it heat from the East London adolescents anxious over which Charlatans album would make them coolest? Answer: none of them), grabbed a copy, ran home and waited to be overwhelmed.
I was overwhelmed. By vitriol. In a matter of 4 or 5 songs Jarvis Cocker had gone from being the coolest, sexiest, cleverest, most stylish man to walk the planet to a greasy haired pervert trying to seep into young minds through his music and his cool, brainwash them and try and create some freakazoid Jarv-army. Suddenly and instantly Jarvis had become the enemy. The song lyrics of album track "I Spy" gave me the creeps, Jarvis describes getting revenge on the middle classes by infiltrating the minds of their kids. I wasn’t going to become one of those kids Cocker!
I ended up dumping ole Kula Shaker for another Liam-alike because Kula thought the album was the best thing since Penguin started selling the entire works of Karl Marx for £1 a volume (I told you he was pompous). I lost respect for my girlfriends who started saying "Jarvis, phwoarrrr!" round the playground and I sneered at boys in Indie clubs who dared chat me up after I’d witnessed their fey, limp wristed Jarv-wannabe dance moves. Jarvis Cocker turned me off so much he drove me away from what should have been my golden era, the Britpop years, into an obsession with everything from the sixties.
Then the hate rotted and manifested into something much stronger than being grossed out by a song. I started blaming Jarvis for blighting my adolescence and making me think the world was a much more pervy, fucked up miserable place than it actually was.
Listening to His N Hers as a little 14 year old child I thought life was all about your boyfriend shagging your sister, being anorexic, being in love with one man but living with another. I pouted along to the beat but I thought the world was so dark and scary. It was a horrible way to learn about life. I wish I’d’ve discovered the Small Faces a lot sooner, no incest or self harm in their songs about Rooty Tooty Auntie Renie. Jarvis was the man that came to symbolise everything that I hated about the modern world. What an arsehole!
And I have kept that grudge ever since, for about 11 years, totally trusting my adolescent judgement. So as a bit of an experiment I decided to challenge it. I would go and see Jarvis’ show at the Astoria and see what it did to me. Could he win me back? Did he really want to start a Jarv-army? Was he as sinister as my intense teenage self deemed him?
I guess I’d done the classic "meet with the ex- boyfriend and show him what he’s missing" thing, getting my hair back combed into the biggest bouffant it could manage, wearing a brand new coat and a very adolescent "think you’re going to impress me buddy?" look on my face.
Although the show was fun (he really was trying to impress me, he covered Black Sabbath’s "Paranoid"), I thought he was a bit lame, like he’d lost his mojo. He kept telling the audience anecdotes and trying to make us laugh, really, he seemed desperate. I walked away from the gig finally realising Jarvis wasn’t capable of mass manipulation, he was the new Bruce Forsythe.
And he may be dark and see the world in a fucked up pervy way, but with 11 more years life experience under my belt I knew that that was because he wanted it to be fucked up and pervy. I had a little superior swagger and wiggle as I left Jarvis, in the same way that you do when you meet an ex-boyfriend and, I hate to admit ever thinking this, realise you’ve won.
If I could leave this column on my confident wiggle I would. But I can’t. I have to tell you the truth. Two weeks later I got up close and personal with Jarvis at the NME Awards. The first time I saw him that night he and his wife were walking two steps ahead of me and Jarvis was blatantly groping her arse under her extremely short skirt. Again, I had that elixir of "I’ve won! He is definitely a pervert! I am so much better than him!"
Until 6 cocktails that is. Yes, after draining the free bar I staggered over to Jarvis in my new high heels, I have no idea why. Instead of telling him "I used to think you were a greasy haired pervert, and you know what, you are!" I said to him "You’re such an inspiration! Thank you for His N Hers! It changed my life!", and insisted someone take a picture of the two of us. Here's the evidence damning me to my own personal hell:
Months later I am still having a mighty Shame Attack about that drunken slur. If he were an ex-boyfriend he would be thinking "She still loves me. I’ve won." It just goes to show folks, an 11 year hatred can evaporate after a couple of strong cocktails in the same way a teenage girl’s passion evaporates into vitriol after a few song lyrics. Does this mean I’m still shallow? Maybe it’s time to grow up.
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