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Are Celebrities the New Journalists?

I’ve just done something controversial. I’ve signed up for the GOOP newsletter.

This may ring a bell. It’s Gwyneth Paltrow’s nifty little way of sharing lifestyle advice with the masses. Old news perhaps, but you may have also noticed she’s on the cover of the May issue of Harper’s; and of course inside she talks about GOOP.

Critics and journalists may have panned it for being gushy and self-indulgent but I have to say having browsed the GOOP site that I find it somewhat inspiring. The tagline ‘nourish the inner aspect’ may sound a little new-agey to some, but in today’s toxic rat race, it makes some serious sense.

I just don’t get what the problem is with this venture, or indeed her. Granted, she’s not the most exciting of celebrities. We’ve never seen her falling out of a taxi without knickers, and perhaps her husband Chris Martin isn’t the most dynamic man on the planet. Then again, if she’d chosen Brad Pitt she’d probably be in Jen’s shoes right now, unmarried and longing for a baby rather than playing at ‘earth mother’. Still, she’s been privy to a life that many could only dream of and I can’t help but feel that half of the backlash has been for this reason. Envy. No one likes a Mrs Perfect now do they?

So what does Gwynnie think of all the criticism?
"There was a brouhaha in the beginning there, which I thought was very interesting, because people don't like you to step outside of your box. Also, journalists are terrified of celebrities having a journalistic voice. You can spend your life worrying about it or you can just do what you're doing. Especially if you're doing something just to be nice, just to share and have fun. I don't have advertisers or anything, and I would never want to."
You have to give the woman a pat on the back, even if it’s just for the use of the word 'brouhaha'.

I’m with every narky journalist out there; I’m petrified, if not a touch green. Regardless, I see that as no good reason to pan GOOP for the sake of it. Aside from the odd typo (see, she’s not that perfect), and occasional ‘duh’ recommendation, it’s not a bad read. Admittedly, I don’t earn Gywnnie’s megabucks so I do find the prices of many of her gushes out of my range. Still, they're nice to fantasise over in the same way that one would paw over designer handbags in Vogue. Nothing wrong with a bit of aspiration.

I’m also stoked to see that she recommends Pizza East in Shoreditch. I can’t exactly imagine La Paltrow troughing down a 10” cheese and tomato (even though she claims that - gasp! - she eats white flour), but I could imagine her approving of the wild rocket, fennel, almond and parmesan salad. I’ve not dined there yet, even though I walk past it every day, but I’ll definitely be popping this one on my to-do list for the weekend. Waiter, I’ll have what she’s having.

Cocoa Loco

I was born eating a chocolate bar. Growing up, I remember having phases where I’d obsess over a particular variety. In fact every childhood memory is time-stamped by what foil-wrapped goodness I clutched on pocket money day. My paper bag from Blee’s newsagents was always choc full; quantity not quality was the game.

During the 80s a pound would buy four Mars bars or twenty fingers of fudge – because one was never ‘enough’. Nothing however would beat the simplicity of a Dairy Milk or Galaxy. Sometimes I threw caution to the wind and tried a newfangled bar (remember Spira’s?) or for a change a Milkybar; but I’d always return to the chunky creaminess of the two cocoa stalwarts.

Sunday nights were a notoriously chocolaty affair, but Mum never kept the ‘real’ stuff in the house – a wise move for sure. After an afternoon of stove-tending (nothing to do with the wine then?) our parents were infirm. Their only hope was a dose of Heartbeat and a share-size bag of Maltesers. “We’ll get you some Mum!” (and split the change from a fiver).

By my teens I was a hardened addict. My demands became unreasonable as I held out my hand for more dinner money. How else would I afford two bowls of Wellington Fudge pudding, or for that matter a vending machine treat? Oh the joy of morning recess! Breakfast was long gone, and the invention of flying cars was closer than lunch – my little chocolate break became the holy grail. One time I remember being chastised by a teacher for fellating an Aero in front of my friends. In my defence, I was only trying to make the bubbles melt. This way you get a good fifteen minutes out of it.

Then the freedom of university and vampire hours struck. With no parents around and free reign over my shiny new credit card things started to get out of hand. At first, it was just the odd Friday night king-size bar in bed. Soon enough though, I found myself in ASDA at 3am scourging for Choco Pop Tarts. Slutty perhaps, but when you’ve 1000 words to write by 9am you need to stoop to such levels. So, chocolate became my little survival kit. Physically, emotionally, I needed it. Boyfriends dumped me but I didn’t care. I had Ben and Jerry’s fudge brownie kisses to see me through the night. Even when funds dried up I marvelled at the versatility of the Coco Pops box. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, dessert, supper…it was always choc o’ clock.

Graduation brought about a classier me. Red wine and squares of 85% dark became the perfect escape after a day in the office. If anything I thought I was doing myself a favour - after all red wine and dark chocolate are filled with antioxidants, right? Still, I’d never look a Dairy Milk in the mouth.

But inevitably it had to come:  The Guilt.

It’s safe to say that recently I’ve become something of a health nerd. I’ve always been interested in it, but never had enough willpower to implement the geekery into my own lifestyle. When several things started to go wrong in my body and no doctor seemed to have an answer I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’ve chosen the holistic approach, and even though I can’t recommend it enough, it’s been one of the hardest things I have ever done. I’m not growing my armpit hair, or drinking urine but my lifestyle (particularly my diet) is radically different. I can’t eat this and I certainly can’t eat that – I won’t bore you with the details but put simply, my life is just one big ball of fun right now. Sense the sarcasm.

Where does my beloved chocolate come in? You guessed it: it’s very, VERY bad.

The bog standard stuff contains masses of unrefined sugar and pasteurised milk. I knew this anyway, but one mini-binge (a giant Aero and half a giant Galaxy) following a lengthy ban confirmed this indefinitely. I just can’t handle it anymore.

I went back to the dark stuff and things got a whole lot better. Then I decided to go sugar-free, and things got better still, but I still craved chocolate. I’d read about the wonders of raw cacao (chocolate, healthy?) so I purchased a giant pouch of the powder. It wasn’t cheap so I assumed it was the good stuff and began adding it to rice milk as a daily treat. Vanilla pod and a pinch of Xylotol sweetened it up, and for a moment I was almost fooled into thinking it was a Frijj. Perhaps not. Still, I wasn’t sleeping at night, even though I was taking evening hot baths with lavender and Epsom salts, drinking camomile tea and turning the lights out way before 11pm. Then I stumbled upon a very evil article (consequently leading to many more evil articles).

Apparently, raw cacao is toxic - even more so than the sugar-infested dairy stuff. If you take enough it can have hallucinogenic qualities similar to LSD (if that’s your bag). Oh and that insomnia? Probably cacao induced. Even Jeremy Saffaron one of the early pioneers of the raw cacoa movement has given up using the stuff.

So what’s my plan of attack? Do I ban chocolate completely and turn into a crazy bitch every time someone unwraps that luscious foil in front of me? Do I diddles. I know that chocolate in any form is not as health giving as say a bowl of spinach. However, I do know that the super dark stuff (like Lindt) can be of some benefit. A study showed that sufferers of ME fed just two squares a day noticed a considerable improvement in their condition. Some, who had given up work, went back to their day jobs. Of course all studies need to be taken with a pinch of salt, as one minute scientists say something is good for us and the next it will give us cancer. This being said, dark chocolate can’t do much harm to the average Josephine if enjoyed in moderation.

What I do know is that my days of bingeing are over. I will continue to enjoy the odd couple of squares of Lindt and on occasion (like I just did for Easter with no ill effects) I may indulge in a small amount of the dirty cheap stuff.

As for that big bag of raw cacao, I have a few friends who would be very interested…

Bicycle Belle

The word bicycle for me conjures up all sorts of images. Pulling ‘wheelies’ whilst chewing Hubba Bubba, rude and sweaty commuters in spandex (shudders) and my favourite…

…free-wheeling over Parisian cobbles in a Breton striped tee, basket loaded with breadsticks, Merlot and Brie.

I want to ride my bicycle. “Liar, you don’t have one”. Sigh. I want to ride A bicycle. Any bicycle will do.

But there’s one condition. It HAS to have a basket on the front. 

Sometimes a simple want for a material thing grows over time, the idea manifests itself in your subconscious, occasionally popping up and waving to remind you of its existence. Until it becomes a need.

My recent obsession with two-wheels hit me quite suddenly. As a lorry would me if anyone were stupid enough to give me said wheels.

I’d like to blame TFL (how we Londoners LOVE those rants) for relieving me of my annual travelcard. Although, I suspect it’s more to do with moving to Shoreditch. These things are EVERYWHERE.

See? Officer, I am being stalked.

Without getting all fluorescent and sweaty on you, what better way to endorse my new healthy urban existence than cycling through London Fields every morning to work?

I’m all about the health see? Which is why I really cannot live a moment longer without the Pashley Princess. Technically I’d be living on the street, seeing as they cost around a months rent, but that’s beside the point.

Sporty little number isn’t she?

Alright, alright, you’ve got me. I’ve lead you here under a guise. A false pretence of sorts. This is absolutely nothing to do with my recent health kick at all.

That basket may be perfect for filling with algae-filled water bottles, but quite frankly I’d rather sub them for wine bottles. “Quick call the nurse! That girl appears delusional.” Apologies, various fantasies as to the death of Mr. Lent are currently favoured over my usual waking up next to a Teasmade (more on that another time).

What it really comes down to is this. I am obsessed with cutesy kitsch. Obsessed.

From Blythe...

To retro telephones...

I am, in that respect a total girl. Or is it gurl...? Anyway I digress. Back to my vapid fandom.

Oh Pashley you are spoiling me, for she is so pretty.

I mentioned the bicycle fantasy to my girlfriend Claire and she laughed. OUT LOUD. I hasten to add, Claire’s not one for laughing. She reads books. Serious books. And, she has a Filofax. I asked her what was so damned funny about the idea of me putting leather to pedal. Granted I’m not exactly Miss Marathon 2010, but I’m hardly Waynetta Slob.

“Oh no, not at all!” she proclaimed, “only I was wondering how long it’d be before you decided to get one of those posey little bikes with a basket on the front – I can totally see you on one of those.”

I’m hoping she 'sees' me like this...

Urban chic.

Or this?

 

Dream on girl...

Or maybe this?

Mmmm, yes. Perhaps. 
Off you go Miss Hepburn. Off you jolly well go.

The reality is I wouldn’t look quite so flawless because:

a) The ride from Brick Lane to Columbia Road would never be sober. So arrest me.

b) I’d have to start eating bread and cheese again – of which I am most definitely NOT eating right now, and

c) my Breton striped tee  would get awfully ragged (through overwear) if not a little tight (see bread and cheese).

Which leaves me to ponder: how does one manage to stay on one's bicycle whilst under the influence?

Answers on a postcard please.

Turning Wine Into Water

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. For many Christians it signifies a time to make a sacrifice. Whether you class yourself as religious or not - assuming you booze your way through Christmas day and fill your face with Cadbury’s come Easter Sunday - then this includes you. But who am I to preach? I can hardly say that between Brussels sprouts I think about Baby Jesus. In fact, I’m positively atheist – unless hedonism counts as a religion. However, as a once christened infant I thought I should at least try to give up something pleasurable for the next forty days. So, I’ve decided to bin the booze.

Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve no wine in the house and I’ll throw out the mouthwash; just in case it all gets too much. I’ll even rope my unsuspecting, binge-drinking boyfriend into the madness. If I can’t have a glass of red on a Friday night, neither can he. 

“But what about Hot Chip next Friday?” he smirks.

He has a point. How the hell am I going to get through forty, yes FORTY days without so much as a sniff of liquor when practically every social activity undertaken by urban twenty-somethings revolves around drinking? Restaurants, bars, nightclubs, dinner parties, gigs, even the trendy hairdressers are at it now.

I’m surrounded by alcoholics. Unless…I can convince you all to join me.

I’ve pondered this one from all angles, carefully weighing up the pros and cons and seemingly there are an awful lot of reasons why a drinking ban is a good idea.

Hello Sunday mornings! Remember those? Reading the papers over eggs and tea or running around the park. Chances are you spend most of them with the curtains drawn and a packet of aspirin by your bed. How many times do we wish for more hours in the day? Rub the lamp people, because this wish is about to come true.

                                                                                                                                

Your body will thank you for it We all know that drinking is bad for you - just ask the 9,000 people who die each year from alcohol related deaths. Seriously though, do you remember when you were younger how much energy you had? Waking up at 7.30 am without the need for a crane to drag your carcass out of bed. How you spent your days playing, running, jumping, dancing and laughing (maybe I was just exceptionally hyperactive). Alcohol saps the body of energy, making you feel tired and run down. Agreed, adult life is stressful, but If you feel like this regularly a detox could be what you need.

Glow like JLo Drinking wreaks havoc on the skin causing blemishes, premature ageing and giving it that dull, dehydrated appearance. Louis Vuitton luggage may be chic, but never under the eyes.

Sex matters Alcohol may like to play stupid cupid (we’ve all pulled someone we’d rather forget thanks to one too many) but it’s hardly an aphrodisiac. Alcohol numbs your nerve endings making sex even harder work than usual. For men there’s the curse of ‘Brewer’s Droop’ – the inability to perform. Worse still, side effects aren’t necessarily limited to one night, it can go on for weeks following a heavy session. And ladies? You might be feeling randy, but Amy Winehouse in a bra is never a good look. Not to mention the loss of sensation in your lady playground. It’s not like we don’t have enough trouble having an orgasm.   

Be happy Alcohol is a depressant. How many times have you ended the night sobbing into your G&T Drink less, smile more.  

Win friends and influence people They don’t call it truth serum for nothing. Imagine waking up without that dreaded ‘what did I say last night?’ feeling. Friends will welcome, the new, less honest you.

Get rich quick! Never mind those online scams, this one actually works. The average young Brit spends around £30 a week on social drinking. Quit now and by Easter you’ll have saved over £120 which is more than enough for a flight to Paris.

Drop a dress size...without dieting A small glass of white wine can add up to 165 calories depending on its sweetness. Ditch the drink and you could save yourself a whopping 1200 calories a week (more than a McDonalds Extra Value Meal) without changing your diet. Size 8 bikini, yes please.

Relax, don’t do it! At the end of a hard day, there’s nothing like a glass of Sauvingnon Blanc to ease away stress. The problem is, drinking impairs the brains ability to wind down properly causing you more stress the following day. Instead of hitting the bottle, try a hot bath filled with lavender oil, light some candles and flick on some soothing sounds. 

Sweet dreams Sleep deprivation is a modern epidemic with one in three of us claiming we aren’t getting enough (that's eight hours). Getting drunk may help you to pass out quicker, but alcohol induced sleep is likely to be more fitful and interrupted, leaving you less than refreshed in the morning.

So there you have it, ten reasons why going teetotal is a genius plan, and ten reasons why you should feel smug about it. This isn’t to suggest that it’s going to be an easy ride. You will no doubt experience withdrawal symptoms during the early stages (but I’ve got that covered, see the poem below) and you'll probably come up against some opposition from your less than virtuous peers. You may even get called boring. GASP! However, come Easter Sunday, you can boringly update your Facebook status to “En route to Paris XOXO”. Just don't forget to upload pictures of your glossy, skinny baguette-eating self upon your return.

WARNING! For withdrawal purposes only:

I knew there would come a time when I’d desperately needed a liquor hit. So, I dug out this poem (admittedly written while heavily under the influence). Apologies if this throws any fellow booze banners into relapse.

Remember: just say no.  

The importance of drinking wine in solitude…

An icy draft caresses my rose pink cheeks

as a charcoal sky creeps in through the open skylight

slamming it tight, I shut out the noise that ricochets through the city beyond.

Sinking into the chocolate futon

I peel away foil to reveal a cool glassy curve;

piercing the cork, a rubberised screech escapes the jade bottle neck,

spiralling into a spine-tingling pop.

A deep glug resonates, filling the glass with its velvet warmth;

my glass angled to release its toxic kiss, as a flirtatious ripple sends 

a ruby cascade flowing onto my eager tongue.

Illuminated by vanilla candlelight;

waiting for my capricious lover to unleash his seductive spell,

I trace the glass with my finger,

adopting a position of lascivious recline.

With deep breaths I inhale the syrupy atmosphere,

sipping once more from the poisonous cup;

the weight of my captor numbing the limbs that used to ache.

A heady buzz transcends into a crescendo of wild abandon as I relinquish to my guilty pleasure.

Consumed by hedonistic desire, I pour again.

Heavy eyed and smiling as the bottle empties,

leaving only a bloody residue; it flickers in the candlelight like a sordid post-it; reminding me only of my weakness.