Top of the Shops?

I love few things more than discovering a great new uber-cool bar, restaurant, club or boutique that no one else knows about, tucked away in the back streets of London. So imagine my delight yesterday when a dear friend of mine who works in the fashion industry took me on a jaunt to some of London’s best vintage clothing stores. Having deemed me suitably serious (ie obsessed) about fashion, she decided to let me in on the secrets of a select few.

It was fantastic. As I danced around the stores, grabbing brightly coloured dresses, belts and beads – and simultaneously wearing quite a few of them as well – my companion reclined on a leather couch with a black coffee, nursing her hangover and imparting the odd piece of advice. I was in my element. Until… somewhere between the ra-ras and the ruffles, there it was. A beautiful vintage dress from the 1980s, with unique pleated high neckline and elasticated sleeves. Except that it was not unique. The unmistakeable cut exactly matches a gold top I bought 2 months ago from Topshop’s Unique range; part of its favourite fashion-forward, limited edition line. Of course, having read Fashion Babylon, I know that everything is ripped off from vintage stores and cyclically rehashed from eras past, but to see it in all its glory in front of my very eyes – for the princely sum of £8, I might add – was quite disconcerting. There are 49 other people walking around in the same limited edition Topshop Unique gold top as me, but no one else has the similarly-cut £8 vintage dress (especially not after tomorrow, when I have it altered by my dressmaker).

So, vintage dressing is now my new thing. It’s not the end of the road for me and Topshop, though. However, I shall be limiting my Topshop visits to 2 a month.

Autumnal Chills

I woke up this morning and found that my feet were freezing, and a kind of chill had entered my bones. I dragged my little electric heater out of its place under the table and plugged it in before I could bear to face the day (3 pints and 10 cigs last night also probably added to this general torpor). So, girls, Autumn is here. So much to look forward to - buying big, woolly jumpers; not leaving the house all day on a Sunday but sitting in front of the TV watching American trash, and not feeling guilty; bracing walks in the park; fireworks night!

Copy-Cat Hair

It's all over London. Everywhere. Suddenly, everyone has a version of my fab haircut, a long version of the Pob. Most of them are v bad versions. When I had mine cut, I was so thrilled with it that I called the salon every day for a week to tell my hairdresser, T, that he is a creative god.

Marie Antoinette

A bit of a theme seems to be emerging here, as I, like L, went to see a film about a Queen recently. This one was about a rather more resplendent and tragic figure, Marie-Antoinette. I have been obsessed by Marie-Antoinette ever since I did my talk on her in my 'A' level French oral and have always thought her a particularly sad figure, someone who was totally overwhelmed by events entirely beyond her control: married off to a prince she did not know aged 15, feted by the world, then brutally thrown out of her gilded cage, sent to the Conciergerie, forced to watch her son being turned into alcoholic and accused of incest, then finally beheaded. She was always nothing more than a cipher - either for the dynastic ambitions of the Habsburgs, or the revolutionary enthusiasms of the infant French Republic.
I, like L, am a staunch anti-monarchist, and for the dual reasons that L outlined: it naturalises class privilege, and places unfair burdens on normal human beings. However, watching Marie-Antoinette, I reflect again upon that fascinating woman and the way in which her life path was entirely dictated by historical circumstance. And maybe this is the function the royal family serve; to remind us all that really, we are all dictated to by historical circumstance. Perhaps really my life is as determined by my birth and the socio-historico-political habitus in which I live as Marie Antoinette's. Maybe we are all really victims of fate and the idea we influence our destiny is a necessary illusion. The film, while showcasing the decadence, and gorgeous to look at, finishes early, on the (what was to be unsuccesful) flight to Verdun. Sofia Coppola, so good at investigating the vagaries and insecurity of post-adolescent women, doesn't send her heroine to the guillotine. The film then shies away from its ultimate message, that its throughly modern Marie-Antoinette couldn't have her cake and eat it, not in the end. And neither can we.

Sex In This City

Now that I am "in my thirties", having become increasingly cynical, single-minded and self-obsessed, with no money, assets, or man, I have decided to - tentatively - begin the search for the latter: a Man.

My doctor kindly reminded me on Friday, during an appointment he summoned me to in order to discuss my unresolved gynaecological issues, I am (and I quote) "already" 30, and "one wouldn't want to leave such issues until one is 39, has travelled the world and got to a good place in one's career and changes one's mind and decides to start having children" (he has never let me forget the time I waltzed into his surgery, aged 18, and begged him to refer me to have my tubes tied, following some article I had read in some feminist journal. He talked me out of it).

And I am 30, and despite being blessed with a v wide, ever-expanding network of friends I love dearly, I have never had a relationship. (There are several theories behind this, all of which will no doubt come to light as I relate my dating disasters in the coming months on this blog.)

So I am on a mission to see if I really am too independent, self-obsessed, obsessive-compulsive, neurotic, argumentative, intimidating control freak (for I really am all of these things) to ever form a functional relationship, or if I am just plain unlucky.

Watch this space.

Joining the Size Zero Debate

Well in case you were wondering – or are indeed bothered – I did it.

Three-and-a-bit years of food diaries, calorie-counting, superfoods and supplements, not to mention the kickboxing, marathons, spinning, weights, squats, lunges and running down (thankfully not up) Haverstock Hill at 5am, beginning a 15-mile run to the gym for more training.

I have lost 35 kg. I have dropped 5 dress sizes. I weigh less now than I did at age 13 after I had completed a series of sessions with a dietician my mum used to send me to for weekly sessions (nothing else could ever as effectively instil a sense of unattainable perfection in your teenage daughter, believe me).

So last Saturday night, as I sashayed into P’s engagement party (aka The Naughty One Who Never Blogs – there, we’ve all said it now), wearing this lovely 60s-style animal print shift dress from Warehouse (I love my leopard print so much) in a Size 6, I should have felt a sense of smug achievement.

I did not. Life was so much simpler when I was a Size 16 and resigned to the fact that having been big all my life, I would never be thin; the best I could hope for was a Size 12, and the diet would start tomorrow. I could eat what I wanted without appreciating the significance of carbs or calorie counting. I could just be. Now, a substantial part of my day is taken up with ensuring I have a stock of low-fat, low-GI food on me at all times, so that I am never tempted to reach for the chocolate. If I have to eat out for dinner, I make sure I book the table myself, so that I can fit in an intense training session first, and work out how to burn off more fat. Much of the rest of the time is spent obsessing over whether my tummy is more rounded than it was yesterday, or wondering if the muscle group I trained yesterday is hurting me enough, or if I trained hard enough this morning. Oh, and I somehow fit in a full-time career and social life around all of this.

And I defend both my sanity and my right to live like this. I may go over-the-top sometimes, but that’s symptomatic of my obsessive personality. Ironically, it is the same drive that has enabled me to lose 6 stone that is now striving for what is perhaps a spurious perfection. Dress size and weight loss are the zeitgeisty issues of our time, and yes, I admit it: I am a fashion victim, a stalwart subscriber to popular culture, and I want to be in on the action.

The whole Size Zero debate has spiralled out of control. I am with the columnist who wrote about this in last week’s Sunday Times (can’t remember her name). Models have always been thin (and Size Zero refers to the American Size Zero, which is actually a British Size 4). We have to make a distinction between a full-blown eating disorder, and using diet and weight loss as manifestations of our own obsessiveness and neuroses. In the case of the former, this article pointed out, the issue for an anorexic woman is about control, so she is hardly going to be affected by what others say/think/do about their own weight. Regarding the latter: how offensive to be told, sympathetically, that I am a victim, a weak woman who falls for society’s idealisation of what a woman should look like. Well, yes, I do. Many of us do. I cut and style my hair in a certain way. I wear particular clothes. I use make-up to present my face in the way I wish it to be seen. I mean for god’s sake, I am just as much under the influence of bloody fast food advertisements and outlets as I am Size Zero models everywhere I go, and I would never set foot in one of those places (which incidentally I think ought to be banned on health grounds).

Let’s get one thing straight: the truth is that most women want to be thin. I have learned an enormous amount about the bitchy, coveting, competitive nature of all women throughout my experience of losing weight. Everyone is very happy for you until you become thinner than them. I recently bumped into a friend of my mum’s, someone I have known since birth. She ignored me – something I suspect had much to do with both her daughters having ballooned since they gave birth a year ago - until someone said to her “look how much weight D has lost”, to which she replied “Oh? Have you lost more?” (I had lost 12 kg and dropped 2 dress sizes since I last saw her), and then added, crossly “do you eat anything?”

This is the other interesting issue: no one can entertain the possibility that you have got off your arse and worked hard to achieve something; if you have lost weight, you must surely have an eating disorder. Two people in the last week alone have complimented me on my weight loss, and then asked me – in public – if I am bulimic. Can they not entertain the possibility that I have just worked bloody hard? When people ask you how you’ve done it, they don’t want to hear that you have cut out refined carbohydrates and sugar, and that you have spent the last 3 years getting up at 4.30 am to train, that your body is in constant agony or injury. They want you to tell them that it can be done easily and immediately, simply by settling down on the sofa with the remote control and scoffing cream cakes. Bloody hell – if it were that simple, I would sell my secret. Could this be yet another manifestation of our collective disdain for hard-working women whose dedication results in some achievement? After all, it would be socially unacceptable to go up to someone who is overweight and ask them if they overeat.

Don’t assume that losing weight transforms your life for the better. It hasn’t in my case. I have always – generally - been a confident, outgoing person. But I am definitely more insecure about my body now. Before, I couldn’t compete using my body, so I didn’t. Now I have one more thing to be judged on, and while in the past, an extra bulge was the least of my body hang-ups, now the tiniest sign of bloating is cause for major stress. It is also difficult to break old patterns of thinking. My friends S and S are getting married in December, and as soon as they told me the date, my immediate thought was “shit! Only 3 months to lose weight for the wedding”, and then I realised that actually, I’m at my target weight/size and do not have to crash diet (to no avail) 2 weeks before the wedding (as I used to do), to fit into my dress.

The greatest lesson I have learned throughout the whole process, though, is that anyone can achieve anything, but it takes time, dedication, perseverance and patience. Most people are not prepared to nurture that drive and put in the work. And therein lies the real problem: in our culture, we are programmed to want everything now: fast food, drop-in nail bars, even lunch-time plastic surgery – it’s all about a quick fix and making things easier. Look no further than the modular, coursework-heavy education system in Britain for an example of the steady erosion of good old hard work.

I may be obsessed with my weight, but ultimately, I am always obsessed, paranoid and neurotic about something (it’s in my genes!). This was the case long before I ever picked up one of my beloved fashion magazines, and will no doubt continue long after the Size Zero debate has subsided. My diet and exercise regimes, while incomprehensible and much-criticised by others, have nurtured my drive, determination and work ethic, and this has impacted positively on other areas of my life. The real victims of current societal trends are those who think everything can be solved with a quick fix. So next time you feel the urge to criticise Size Zero-ism, consider what you are really rallying against: is this perhaps something you secretly aspire to? Or do you fear other women’s achievement?

If Only....

I was listening to You and Yours on Radio 4 this am(I need to interject here and say Radio 4 was on form this morning, from Belinda and Mark Oaten on Woman's Hour to a piece on how hedgehogs have been affected by global warming) and they had a feature on the teaching of history in schools. Apparantly it is going through one of its periodic crisis and there is worry that children are being taught the 'wrong' history, not enough history, etc etc. I cast my mind back to my own days studying history at school. It was always one of my favourite subjects, and I can still recite all the Kings and Queens from Henry VIII to Elizabeth 2 (I'm very hazy pre Tudors, and I get a bit muddled up about how many Georges there were). But I do remember the most pointless, stupid, annoying, misguided exercise we were forced to do at GCSE. One of the elements of my History GCSE was "History Around Us" which involved going to Berry Head to 'study' the Napoleonic fortifications there (or rather the ruins that remain). Fair enough. The worst bit, though, was an 'empathy' exercise we had to do, where we imagined we were a solider living in the barracks and writing back to our loved ones about how wet, cold, miserable etc we were. What exactly was the point of this? If only I could do this piece of coursework now, I would write the following:

My Dear Eliza,

So I am up here a -shivering on Berry Head fort, waiting to fight that old Frenchy Napoleon. But it is really a bit of a miracle I'm writing to you, isn't it, considering that I am a poor farm labourer drafted into service here, and that I've probably never had any formal schooling whatsover, considering that the barracks in these forts were only manned until 1805, and the First Education Act didn't make primary schooling compulsory until 1870, and even then it wasn't free. But my darling I love you so much I somehow miraculously acquired literacy! Also of course, I'll have to sell my body to send you this letter, considering that before the introduction of the penny post on 5th December 1839, postage was hideously expensive. As a labourer I'd probably earn about 4p a day - the same as it costs to send a letter 7 miles! Any furtherafield and it would be 6 pence. Stil, telling you how cold it is and how I'm playing cards with the lads is worth that expense, even if it is a tad anachronistic.
Of course, I am a bit disturbed that a 20th century schoolchild is entering my head. Can't imagine schools encouraging 'empathy' dairies for Holocaust victims, or getting kids to pretend to be Pol Pot. But hey I'm just a soldier in some war no-one remembers very well. In fact, let's not tell the kids anything about the politics of the actual war, or why and how what Napoleon was up to mattered, as long as they show they can imagine what it was like to be in a cold stone building before the invention of radiators, TVs, and I-pods. Cos, yeah, that's history, and that's how to make it cool.

With all my love, Jamesxxx

At school, to make these letters extra authentic, we smeared the paper with cold tea bags and dried them in the oven, so the paper went all crinkly and brown. I'd do that with this letter too.

for a detailed explanation of what when on at the forts (really) see www.torbytes.co.uk/op/tm7/lv2/item370.htm

Small World

I know the director of Everything is Illuminated! she is a colleague from work! Does this count as a virtual celeb spotting?

I Do, I Do, I Do

On Saturday, my good friend C got married, in Wales, at Llansteadffread Court. We all traipsed out to the countryside from London, where, as the poem I read says (Wordsworth The Prelude) we were "free/free as a bird to wonder where I will." The setting was fabulous - very Jane Austen, complete with water feature, haha, cows, misty mountains, and small churchyard (and devastating graveyard in which one family lost FOUR children in the same month - January 1836). Autumn is more advanced out there as well, and there were proper big huge shiny conkers around. P, C's brother, has finally cut his hair and shaved off his sideburns and looks about a 1,000 times better. He became my pseudo other half for the duration, as I had thought would happen, as we were one of very few people who had not a significant other to bring.
Weddings are funny things though, aren't they? C is into her alternative, bohemian thing (charity shop shopping, non-matching plates, composting) and wanted her wedding to be as laidback and informal as possible. It was lovely, but in the end, fairly traditional: I don't think there is anyway these things can escape tradition. I used to think maybe you could reinvent the tradition from within but now I am more hardcore and don't really see how you can reconcile feminist consciousness with marriage. When P complained to me that he was fed up with people asking him when he it was going to be his turn, I told him he should tell them it was a bourgeois instrument of patriarchal oppression that he refuses to perpetuate. His 2nd cousin, a particularly haughty blonde girl said "yeah, and everyone would just think you were sad, and no-one would know what you mean!"Then P pointed out at least you would know who you were going to spend New Year with. So this is what the argument for marriage has boiled down to: not looking sad to silly blonde girls, and not feeling lonely on 31st December. Having said that, once she'd got over her terrible nerves and anxiety, (she hadn't slept for over a week worrying about it!) C looked incredibly happy. I really wish her all the best.

Mid Week Kulcha

Saw excellent production of Everything is Illuminated at the Hampstead Theatre last night. I did buy the book by Jonathan Safran Foer when it came out in 2002, but I only read about 2 pages before I became frustrated by the dense, arrogant prose. It has been gathering dust on my bookshelf ever since. Must try to read it again.

Celeb Sightings

Spotted, in Belsize Park, en route to my colonic hydrotherapy appointment: Abi from How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria, looking v theatrical and studying a script with another girl.

The Devil Wears Prada

Made a rare trip to the cinema last night to see The Devil Wears Prada. (You'd think I would make the effort to see something a little more high-brow for my annual visit to the cinema, but no.) At one point, S noticed that I was literally drooling over the clothes. And I am so inspired by Emily Blunt's fabulous eyeshadow collections that I was up until 1am searching for my green eyeshadow, so that I could recreate the look for myself. I shall be taking myself off to Shu Uemura later today to recreate her gold eyeshadow look.

What is it about this Rainy City?

Julie Burchill once famously observed (if you are an avid JB reader like self) that London is a city full of people who are so busy reading Time Out and neurotically hurrying to exhibitions that they haven't the time to fulfill the simple things in life, like finding someone to shag. I have to say based on the last few months I would be forced to agree, having lived a celibate yet cultural London existence.

I came back to Belfast this weekend for my friend J's B'day. I got a taxi straight to the pub,and we stayed there for a few hours, and then headed back to the flat for a party. I was already pretty pissed by this point,and enjoyed dancing about to Abba and flirting shamelessly with this random boy who was there (a friend of a friend). We ended up snogging to Avalon.

Now, this is where the story gets complicated. By about 4am, everyone had left, apart from myself; J; D, J's boyfriend;random snog boy; and G, a friend of D's who is staying, as he, his wife and baby live far away and he has to crash. Random snog boy wants to stay and have sex with me in the lounge. G also has to sleep in the lounge. I have to sleep in the lounge. No-one knows what to do. J and I go for a conflab in the bedroom and D joins us. J has dug an inflatable mattress from somewhere and is halfheartedly unwrapping it, saying that G can always kip on that in the bedroom if I want the lounge to have sex with random snog boy. I'm not sure. We start to giggle. Then G enters and smiling his most charming smile says, "F, are you sure you want to sleep with this guy? He doesn't even know your name". (If that was one of my criteria, I wouldn't have a sex life, but anyhow). By this point I've lost interest in random snog boy anyway, and know would just be going through the motions. So I say no, not really, and G says, don't worry, I'll handle it, and leaves the room to go through to the lounge and tell random snog boy to go home, sans shag. G and I then retire to our separate sofa beds in the lounge. I'm ready to drop off when G starts asking me what I saw in random snog boy. I tell him it's flattering to have someone pay you attention. He said he thought he wasn't good enough for me. He then most randomly asked me if the fact I had a PhD made me less likely to sleep with people! I said no. He then reached out of his sofa bed and reached out to my sofa bed with his arm across the 2 feet of floor that divide us. We held hands. The tension was fizzing. We were looking at each other, silently holding hands. He begins to rub my hand. Still, we say nothing, just squeezing hands and very gently touching plams. I can feel a kind of nervousness in my stomach. G whispers to me, "Can I come and sleep in your bed", and the tension breaks. We are all over each other, it is so sudden and urgent, and (cliche though it is to say) we just click with each other. We seem to know just what to do and how, and it is sexy and fun and uninhibited and silly and great. We proceed to have sex all over the place for the next hour or so, as quietly as possible, as J and D are asleep next door (though as I told J the next morning and now she has told D, maybe such discretion was wasted). As we lay in bed together the next morning, G told me he felt many emotions, but not guilt. He sends me saucy texts through the day, making me giggle, esp when I am in posh restaurant having dinner with J and D. I feel guilty though. The boy has been married for all of 2 months, has a baby girl, and another on the way. What is it about Belfast? There must be something in the air, because these things just seem to happen here. So now I am heading back on a plane to a far more cosmopolitan city, one where I can indulge my love of art and theatre, but I can guarantee that won't happen.

Making a Tabloid Tit of Myself

Oh god, cannot believe what I have just done. Is veeeeee long story (obviously), but have just agreed to (shudder) be interviewed for a feature on gynacological health in a tabloid newspaper. Do not know what I was thinking or how I could possibly have agreed to it. But they are paying next to nothing, AND they will print a bloody photo. Am completely mortified. Must find way to get out of it. At least it's not in the Daily Wail.

Life in SW3

So this am, v early for self, and practically half way through day for her, I met the mysterious one who never blogs, aka P, to do a SHOP at Sloane Square. This was shopping with a mission, as we had 1hr 45 mins to find me an outfit to wear for a friend's wedding next week. Well, Monsoon is my new best friend. Though I had already bought a skirt in Ted Baker, so now have two posh skirts for this winter - how madly extravagant. P and my's taste in clothes is diametrically opposed. I am basically incapable of wearing anything other than jeans, boots, and oversized jackets, and tops that are 2 years old. My hair is always a frizzy mess because I can't be bothered to do anything other than shampoo and condition it (occasionally it freakily looks vaguely normal, but is nothing to do with me). P was v strict with me today, not allowing me to try on any cardigans (not even slim fitting black ones), and making me buy a jacket that I thought was too small but apparently fits me fine - hmmm. Actually it is always v affirming to go shopping with P, as is sort of opposite of going with mother. Mother: You'll never wear it/ it's too tight/ it shows your huge stomach/it's white, you'll dirty it in two minutes. P: it looks gorgeous, you should definitely get it/ Or (if looks hideous) no it's cut all wrong, what bad dress making!
I left P to rush back to her normal job rather than being wardrobe consultant to self and carried on wondering down Kings Road by self. This was a mistake, a girl from Devon/ Belfast cannot cope with on rush of consumption possibilities. Was suddenly madly desperate for Greek Korres shower gel (bought some of that actually), fine Merino wool tights, funky hair clips, new glossy hardback books, white and blue be ribboned bras, bright pink ski jackets, chocolate tankinis etc etc. Found self in kind of daze at 3:30pm staring at the hairbands in John Lewis thinking "mmm, I need some of those for swimming" when was jolted back to reality and realised that I'd already spent £100s.
As I was having a restorative latte I witnessed a slice of SW3 life. A young woman with long blonde hair and a Catherine Deneuve esque trench coat was pushing a Bugaboo and had a small blonde haired boy with her. He, aged all of about 3, was wearing a bottle green blazer and a CAP. All of a sudden he stopped running and ground to a halt and began to wail. "Henry, you're jolly well walking. You've been walking BEAUTIFULLY til now and you're JOLLY well going to carry on. " Henry simply jumped up and down on the spot and wailed some more. "We're just going to JOLLY WELL stand here IN THE RAIN until you stop." Henry didn't seem particuarly perturbed by this, and carried on jumping up and down and saying "No no no". "I'm NOT carrying you". "Pleeeese." This carried on for 10 more mins. Time for the big guns. "Mummy. IS. Going. TO....RING. DADDY in a minute." She whips out her mobile and dials. Have sudden hilarious vision of top flight banker/lawyer being interrupted in meeting for wife to tell him she can't get his son to walk down the street. "Daddy wants to talk to you now." Unfortunately, Daddy's patriarchal authority was somewhat undercut by it being delivered by mobile phone, as Henry refused to speak into it, and just carried on wailing. LOVE Henry, think is great child, and poor kid, if you are going to force him to be hothoused from aged 3, is it any wonder he is bloody knackered and can't be arsed to walk? Mummy eventually put him in his raincoat and marched him to the bus stop, saying "You'll JOLLY well know we can't get the BLOODY bus everyday."
By the way, I am now celeb spotter extraordinaire. I saw Bob Geldof wandering down the road. He was wearing yellow trousers and a big blue coat, and had his arm round a girl who looked young enough to be his daughter (maybe she WAS his daughter). They went into Boots, and I felt v ashamed of self for posh Greek shower gel. I expect Bob buys Boots own and gives the difference to the African poor. Well, I *hope* he does.

celebrity sightings

On Saturday night, we were out celebrating (if that is the word) D's 30th birthday. Now at least she is vaguely in the same ball park as me. (Though was v sweet of L to suggest I am Samantha because of raucous lifestyle, also think the fact I am somewhat older than the other girls also counts).

Well imagine our shock and surprise when it was revealed to us that none other than uber trendy stand-up comedian and Kate Moss shagger Russell Brand was at the table just along from us at the restaurant where we were eating! I managed to take a bad, blurry photo of him snogging a young blonde thing (not Ms. Moss) but alas my camera on my phone is so crap Heat magazine would not be able to publish. Various other cameras were offered to me, but I did not have the necessary chutzpah to walk right up to him and snap him, as would be a bit of an invasion of privacy. My friend J has a huge crush on the Brand (she is going to have him on her post nuclear apocalypse island) and so was v jealous.

In honour of this sighting, I am now going to list all the 'famous' celebs I have seen during my London sojourn, this highlighting the vibrant and cosmopolitan nature of the capital (or the low rent nature of celebrity these days, take your pick).

1. Maggot from Celebrity Big Brother walking down Holloway Rd.
2. Jenny from Teachers (the one who got to snog Andrew Lincoln) in Brown's, Islington Green
3. Craig from Big Brother 6 on the tube, Piccadilly Line.
4. Rob Brydon (well back of his head as my friend said "that's Rob Brydon") walking down the street near the BFI (Charlotte St, I think)
5. The man with the multi coloured beard who does voice training on Fame Academy, walking down the same bit of street - it is obviously a medja mecca
6. Russell Brand in Gilgamesh snogging a young blonde girl.

This is in just two months - all I managed in 4 years in Belfast was Andrea Corr and Tim Robbins (though I guess at least Tim is 'A' list).