Group Info

Save me, glossies, save me!

Tag:china toys,glossies


A year ago, US writer Cathy Alter was a binge-drinking, sugar-sucking wreck, shagging a feckless colleague called Bruno. Now she is happily married and eating vegetables. How did she did do it? By following the advice of glossy magazines. Every Brief Guide to Constructive Dismissal UK word. She had Elle in her ear, Vogue at her throat and Oprah (O magazine) up her nose. She describes it all in her book Up for Renewal.

On reading it, I puke and puke again. I have agreed with my editor that I will emulate Alter, spending a week following the advice of women's magazines - my nemeses. I despise Tatler, Harper's and all their evil spawn. Whenever I hear the words Style Bible, I reach for my garrote. I blame them for all the evil in the world: greed, bulimia, blusher, but I duly go to the newsagent and find them on the shelves, preening with self-love. I take them home, spread them out and howl, "Save me glossies, save me!" and immediately I see a list of impossible demands. Take your Brain Shopping! Linger over Love Time! Say Goodbye to Fungi! Stop Stress Making you Fat! Think Yourself Happy! Wear a Romper Suit! Decode Your [censored] Dreams! Feng-s[censored] Your Arsehole! (OK, I made the last one up.)

And the more I stare at the pages, the more surreal the advice becomes. Cosmo suggests I stop emotionally dumping on my cat: "Is Your Cat Your Counsellor?" Prima suggests that, when tidying, "gather up items left downstairs and take them all up in one go". Thanks Prima! There is, according to Company, a correct way to board a plane. Step 4 is to "eat an avocado".

I suddenly feel disorientated. Am I in my bedroom? Or am I standing in the middle of Wembley Stadium, with 86,000 Jewish mothers shouting at me?

I start at the top, with Tatler. Admittedly, Tatler doesn't really give advice. That is not the point of Tatler. The point of Tatler is to float above you, taunting you with your disgusting plebbiness. This month, Tatler says I should go and buy a solid silver lid for my Marmite, and a 14-carat gold bra. This is not so much a "tip", as an incitement to burning down the Cond Immortal Love: Letter From The Past Collector's Edition Nast building, while wearing cheap clothing, no lip gloss and a smile.

But wait. Tatler also recommends a "Fabulous on High-heels Master Class" given by an ex-ballerina called Sarah Toner. She teaches women how to walk in heels, saving super-stylish fembots from falling over and bashing their brains out on their occasional tables. Now, this is interesting. I have had a pair of 4-inch Gucci spikes in my wardrobe for five years. They are what my sister calls "car shoes". I don't wear them; I use them Ideas For Art Projects For Kids to kill flies. I put them in my bag and go to see Sarah in her studio near King's Cross.

She is slim and smiling. I wave the shoes at her. I don't think I can possibly learn to walk in them. "We're not going to put the heels on yet," Sarah says, and makes me do some stretching exercises. Afterwards, my body is so relaxed that when I put on the spikes and try to walk, I can do it. Easily. I feel exhilarated. I didn't think that Tatler published anything worth knowing about. I thought it was all Buffy de la Fluffy Muffy marrying Baron Von [censored] and laughing at the proles all night long. So I feel slightly angry too.

I turn to that manifesto for malevolent pencil-women: Vogue. Vogue doesn't really seem to have any advice either, except to The Role Of Diagnosis Center In Medical buy everything you can lift with your spindly arms. This month they are pushing tartan, denim and romper Keeping Pace With Business Marketing suits, but there is absolutely no point in browsing for designer clothes. They don't make them in my size. How do I know? Because I once walked into a Louis Vuitton store with 1,000 and demanded a dress in a size 16. "Sold out, madam," they sneered. "Don't you want fat people's money?" I screamed back.

Perhaps I should do something with my hair. A friend once told me it resembles the ears of a friendly dog. "Dual texture is one of the season's biggest hair trends," declares Vogue, in its customary splice of malice, advertorial and idiot-speak. The accompanying photograph shows a woman with two hairstyles on Immortal Love: Letter From The Past Collector's Edition her head. The first has been stolen from the corpse of Maria von Trapp. The other is the bottom half of a squirrel.

So I call Toni and Guy, and a few hours later I am dashing A History of Online Banking through their doors. The stylist snips and blows and tongs, and two hours later my hair is half soup-bowl, half poodle. I look like Jean Harlow. I love it. But as I cycle away from the salon, it rains. My hair whimpers, sobs and hurls itself under a bus. By Immortal Love: Letter From The Past Collector's Edition the time I get home I look like Animal from the Muppets.

But no matter. A new mistress is whispering in my ear. It is Elle. The magazine splays open on a page about breast treatments. The first suggestion is to inject my [censored] with "filler". This will inflate them for a whole year. No. So how about a "Thalgo bust modelling treatment"? This involves "the application of an intense thermal mask designed to enhance elasticity and maintain bust firmness". Please, no. I am afraid of beauty therapists. I was once awoken from a massage in Switzerland by one playing a xylophone.

But I go to the Aquilla salon in London's Knightsbridge, where another incredibly smiley woman takes me to a windowless room. I imagine it is the sort of room that Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria tortured people in. I strip off and she exfoliates my [censored] with long, sweeping motions, as if she is playing the piano. Then she wraps my [censored] in gauze, and smears it Hidden Expedition: The Fountain Of Youth Collector's Edition with clay. The gauze hardens and when she pulls it off, I have a piece of gauze with an imprint of my [censored] on it. Wow. My [censored] feel soft. (I cannot believe I am typing this. I cannot believe I am reviewing the elasticity of my [censored] .) It's nice. It's fine. But what does it do? What is it for?

And so, onwards, wilting, to Cosmopolitan, the sex-crazed best friend you want to stab in the face. Cosmo does at least have a work ethic between multiple orgasms, between meetings, and she recommends calling Ros at, for advice. Ros is an intensely sane sounding Scottish woman. I Immortal Love: Letter From The Past confess to my chaotic work habits and she analyses them. Apparently, my chaos is "a badge of honour" that makes me feel like "a miracle worker". So we devise some mantras: I choose the slightly Stalinist "Order is Joyful". At the end of the session, I promise to have my printer mended, and to buy some lightbulbs.

Created: Jan 9 '16 · Admin: Liu Ping