Sunday Confessional

The internet, it has been said, is a dangerous thing, because the presumed anonymity encourages people to confess to far more than they would in a face-to-face conversation. I was reading the Observer Magazine today about blogging horror stories, people who've lost jobs and relationships because of revealing too much online.

I found it interesting because I've never been a woman to keep secrets, online or in real life. I'll happily tell people I've known only a short time how many lovers I've had (five, but I've set myself seven as a goal, I just think it's a better number. Although I read an article once about how the eighth person you sleep with will be the one you go on to marry, so maybe I should try for that? I never did like even numbers though); about weird sexual experiences (I wouldn't say it was a "worst" experience, because I was arse over tit in love with the guy at the time, but I was slightly taken aback that he apparently favoured the Hollywood for himself, and he was a little overweight, so his stomach made this soft and vaguely discomforting slapping noise the whole way through); all about my insecurities about my appearance (my eyes are too small and my mouth is too big, red lipstick makes me look like a niche-market sex doll run amok, like a porn version of Mannequin) etc.

I'm always harbouring painfully unrequited crushes which last for years because I apparently find rejection or total emotional unavailability a turn-on; I get the feeling these sorts of things are supposed to be secret but my friends get sick of hearing about it because I can tell everyone about my feelings except the person that inspires them, although I'm sure they most end up knowing because I've told so many other people, and because I blush every time they so much look at me.

It's strange, I've always envied Kate Moss, not only for her looks, her career and her life, but also for the fact that she is a global icon whose name everybody knows, yet no one knows very much about her. It's not that she's secretive, but she somehow never gives much of herself away, so half the continued fascination with her is because she's so totally unknowable. I'm the opposite of that - I want people to like me, but I go about achieving it by giving too much of myself away, which ironically probably makes people think I'm a weirdo who embarrasses them by saying completely inappropriate things.

Actually I retract that slightly, I *am* over-eager to please, in all situations (I have about a dozen good bye cards from various temping jobs that say "thanks for making all the tea!" or some variation thereof), but for all my crippling shyness, I'm just not a particularly reserved person - sex is a valid and entertaining topic of conversation, in my opinion, and I quite like making tea. I can't fucking stand small-talk; I've almost been thrown out of cabs for taking the conversation from "terrible weather we're having" to "I can't believe you voted for him, you fascist cunt" in three easy minutes.

In a way, I don't think the online scare stories apply to me; I don't link my blog to my Twitter, though I do link to my blog on Twitter. My username would identify me to my friends but not really to anyone who didn't know me, but I do use real photographs of myself and I imagine it probably wouldn't be that hard to track me down if you really wanted to. On Facebook it's easy to think you're only posting to friends, but like anyone I have acquaintances and work colleagues as "friends". Largely I think they're not interested enough in my life to bother reading my self-involved streams of conciousness, but maybe I *should* watch my mouth.

So the question is, do I reveal too much, too easily? It'd be interesting to see how much of this was left if I subjected it to outside editing.

A view from the other side: reviewing an LFW review

Friends, followers and strangers who glance at my Twitter feed occasionally - you know me well enough by now to know that it does not take a lot to make me angry. I've come close to punching people who press the button at pedestrian crossings when it's CLEARLY ALREADY LIT on a shameful number of occasions. If I blogged every time something pissed me off, I'd have little, if any, time for anything else. So you know that this must have really annoyed me:

http://dianaes.posterous.com/pierre-garroudi-royal-collection-aw-2011

I don't normally read fashion magazines/blogs, because for a model, such as I am, I have alarmingly little interest in the genre. I know what I like, I don't really need someone telling me what I "should" be wearing, thanks. But self-Googling is an affliction that affects us all, so of course I was going to check out the reviews of the show I modelled in (completely against both my will and better judgement, I'll add).

I understand the appeal in the bitchy style of review. It's fun and you get to show off how very witty you are. Lord knows, I do it myself all the time. But would I write it differently if I knew what was going on behind the scenes? I like to think so. For the sake of accuracy I shall henceforth point out what this journalist might have changed if she actually had a clue.

On accusations of "cheesy bum wiggling": Pierre, the designer you so readily praise as though he were nothing to do with his own show, was the architect of his own misfortune on this score. Models were instructed, by him, to "walk like a cat". I'm not sure if cats wiggle their bottoms when they walk, in a cheesy manner or otherwise, but that was what he wanted; he demonstrated himself. Signs were up all over the backstage area saying "Walk sexy - swing your hips!!!". So please don't criticise us for doing what we were told to.

On accusations of "sleazy pouting and winking at the camera": again, the models didn't magically come up with this idea on their own. There was much fraught discussion of how we were going to look like absolute idiots if we went along with the poses we were instructed to pull. But a good model does what she's told, and that's what we were told, by both the woman heading up the organisation (who this journalist seems also to think is blameless in all this) and the designer. Again with the signs: "Be sexy, bitchy, playful and FLIRT" was also plastered around the dressing area. You wana know why people were winking at the camera? Probably because they were instructed to "flirt with the camera". Yeah, that cheesy old line. Not one "sleazy" pose wasn't pre-approved - the woman organising the catwalk made us practise our poses all night and shouted if they weren't flamboyant enough. So yeah, maybe ask WHY people are behaving in a strange manner next time, because there's usually a reason.

On snarks about "the shaky footwork of unexperienced (sic) models: first up, and I know people hate to be pulled up on spelling and grammatical errors, but it's inexperienced models. IN. Do you not have a spell check? You should turn on the automatic spell check thing that most modern operating systems have. The word "unexperienced" came up with a squiggly red line underneath when I typed it. There are forces in this world greater than yourself. Accept that and accept their help. You'll be happier for it, I promise.

Secondly, we weren't all newbies you know. I'm the model that tripped and provoked the simultaneous gasp from every person in the audience. I'd have laughed were I not so mortified. Why did I trip, when I've actually been doing this for more years than I should let on if I still want to get booked for anything? Shitty, cheap-ass, ill-fitting shoes, in a word, Well, several. You know when Naomi Campbell, supermodel, fell arse-over-tit on the catwalk? It clearly wasn't because she didn't know what she was doing, it was because she was wearing platforms that really should have never made it out of the design stage on health and safety grounds. And so with the shoes last night. These weren't couture, they were New Look, spray painted with shit stuck on the front and the heels. "Embellishment" I believe you'd call it in your line of work. Nothing wrong with New Look shoes, obviously (although it's nice not to have to stuff your shoes with tissue because they're too big); the problem is the DIY. There were large net flowers stuck on the front of my shoes. Not a problem in and of itself, but there were also loosely attached strings of beads that suck out from underneath the flowers. Beads and net - a couple made in Hell. As I walked, feet perilously close together, as instructed (apparently, that's how cats walk), the string of beads on one shoe snagged the net on the other. Over I went. I damn near broke my neck, so I'll thank you not to snigger.

Finally, on the journalist's sincere hope that Pierre will next time "invest in the right cast to better execute his idea". Yes, one can only hope he'll sack that bitch of a woman who insisted we pose like inpatients at a sex addiction clinic. And if he wants better, less "unexperienced" models, the tight bastard might consider paying them. He's not a new designer, he can afford it. Instead, he recruited models through open castings advertised on those dubious "model connection" websites where anyone can upload a web cam picture and call themselves a model. Those of us with agencies did rather wonder why we'd been sent there. All so he can save a buck or two. You reap what you sow.

A retrospective realisation of sexism

A few years ago, I was bridesmaid at a friend's wedding. We picked our own dresses from a big wedding warehouse type place (seriously, *thousands* of dresses), the only rule was we had to all get the same colour (colours were very precise and had different number for different shades, so we all matched exactly).

Anyway, my friend and I both found dresses in our size, and had alterations made by the instore fittings people. Mine needed to be taken in a little, owing to the fact that I am, as we are by now all aware, ridiculously thin, but without asking me, the woman took it upon herself to sew giant fake foam breasts into the bust.

At the time I thought it odd, but didn't concern myself much more with it. Now, and call me slow on the uptake as well you may, I've just realised how fucking sexist it was! "Woman has small breasts, must want/need enhancement to be attractive"! Fuck off. It didn't make me more attractive anyway, from a certain angle I looked faintly like a blow-up doll.

Picking holes in substance abuse statistics

I'm pretty sure everyone will by now have seen the world's new favourite statistical finding - cocaine users over the age of 35 are seven times more likely to die than cocaine users under the age of 25. Now, it's unlike me in the extreme to get involved in anything to do with drug use, largely because no matter how hard I bloody try, I am seemingly destined to live a frustratingly clean, law-abiding lifestyle forever and also because I'd never actually advocate taking or legalising drugs because I do have my qualms about them (the children of over-protective medical professionals are destined to live their lives wrestling such internal conflicts). So yeah, don't expect it to become a running theme of my notes or anything. BUT - the statistic, which keeps being bandied about with very little further information seems very misleading to me, and although I've sat here, waiting for some nice scientists to come along and debunk it, none have appeared, so I've determined to take on the challenge myself, despite the fact I have no scientific background and everything I say will probably be wrong. So, here goes:

1.) How is this a fair comparison? The number of drug users under 25 is a MUCH smaller sample than over 35, unless people are starting their kids on coke at five, like the French do with their children and wine. More people, higher likelihood of a death occurring. This is maths for nursery school children.

2.) As I said, over 35s is a larger sample and hence includes a larger range of ages. People in their late forties and fifties taking drugs, specifically drugs like cocaine is far from unheard of (please welcome to the stage Mr Keith Richards), at the same time people in their forties and fifties are more likely to have developed additional health problems that can occur with age - high blood pressure, angina, late onset diabetes, etc. Decades of the sedentary sort of lifestyle we Westerners seem to have got down to a fine art means people in middle age are more likely to be overweight and/or out of shape. All of which means the risks of potentially harmful activity such as drug taking are significantly increased as the body is in less of an optimum condition to deal with the added strain. (Please note, I'm not saying turning 45 means you instantly become fat and unhealthy, all you need to do is eat well and keep active, just observing that a large portion of society is loathe to do this).

3.) The average 40 something cocaine user is probably not wholly new to the game. I don't think anyone knows for certain what the cumulative effects of several years of cocaine use on the system are, but I'm doubting they're good. Add to the mix that drug users are likely to be more than well acquainted with our other popular vices - alcohol and cigarettes, which we KNOW are bad for you - and yet again you're presented with someone who's not as healthy as someone who literally hasn't had time yet to build up the register of health problems that go hand in hand with an unhealthy lifestyle - so it's not a fair comparison.

So in conclusion, while all this means that yes, the over 35s do incur a higher risk of death than the under 25s if they use cocaine, it's only *technically* true, in the same way that its *technically* true that mohammed is the most popular boys name in the UK if you take into account all eleventy billion different spellings of it, and ignore the fact that it's customary in many interpretations of Islam to include the name Mohammed (or one of its variations) somewhere in a male Muslim child's name.

The promotion of this little "fact" this week has annoyed me because the very premise seems flawed in that ignores the 25-35 age group. What's their risk? Do they not exist, or matter? Once again the media has left me feeling totally disenfranchised. Perhaps the statistics for this group are anomalous, so they've been left out? Very odd, given that all things considered, 25-35 is probably the group amongst which the highest level of cocaine use occurs, being that it's expensive and a favourite of money-rich, time-poor young professionals. I don't trust this at all. Plus, it struck me as rather ageist. Like "35 is too old to have fun, and if you try you WILL DIE". Not that you need to take drugs to have fun, OBVIOUSLY, as I've written about here before, else I'd have had a spectacularly dull life up to now, and I am, quite frankly, effervescent and generally all-round brilliant at parties; but it does have that tone about it, whereas in actual fact, if you're an otherwise healthy person in their thirties or forties, I can't see that the risk is going to be that much higher at all. Of course, their ridiculous age-grouping means they include people of 70, 80 and 90 etc in the spurious statistics for "over 35", and I'd imagine the risk is seven HUNDRED times higher once you reach pension age, but if you're still up for partying at that age I think I'd have to say fair bloody play to you.

So I'm going to Japan

I'm sorry, I've been neglecting you, dear, dear seven followers of mine. What can I say. I'm in Berlin and it's too hot to think. That's why this is going to be a short post. I could import over all of the moany posts I've been doing on Facebook, but since I so rarely post anything positive on here, I thought I'd spare you that and jump to something modelling-related (that being, after all, the nominal topic of this blog).

The salon which cannot be named is taking me to Japan for a week, to do a show. Possibly a couple of shows, I don't know yet, I've not seen my schedule. My point is this. I'm being PAID to go to Japan. You know I rarely brag, so allow me this one moment to revel in the marvellousness of it all, before my life, inevitably goes pear-shaped again.

Much love from Germany. Out.

Why I hate Wimbledon

Largely, I hate the players. I can't help it, I've always had a strong sense of of moral fairness, and inherent dislike of privilege, which dooms me to not get on well with Wimbledon. Say what you like about footballers (and I do, bunch of egotistical, over-paid, would-be rapists), at least a fair number of them just started playing at school and went from there. Tennis players are literally bred for purpose. I haven't heard of any of them gestating in a lab yet, but we can't be far off. Look at Murray - he's the product of his mother's junior tennis player factory. Was reading about another female player the other day, who'd been playing since she was three - normal children do not just pick up a tennis racket and start playing of their own accord at age three. The children who do that, and end up playing professionally at Wimbledon 10-12 years later are the ones who have wealthy, upper-middle class, incredibly pushy parents who decided that little Cedric or Cedrina was going to make them even richer than they already were when they were still just a dollar sign in their father's eye. For my tastes, if someone is going to get very, very rich for doing comparatively little, they should at least have not come from an extremely privileged background to start with.

Plus, Wimbledon brings out the worst in the press. I know this is not the players faults' but I'm taking it out on them anyway. Every year the same thing - the more attractive female players (although that's a suspiciously high number of them, again, bred for purpose) are on the cover of FHM in their scanties - not that they wear much more on court - promoting the idea that no matter how intelligent or talented you are, it's still your body that's your most important asset. Actually, that is their fault.

What's not their fault, but is equally, if not more abhorrent is the tabloids publishing endless photos of female players that just "happen" to have been taken when they were jumping and their skirts have blown up. The film crews continually zoom in on the blondes in low cut dresses in the crowd shots.

All of which leads to the tiresome debate the blows up every year around the Williams sisters, in which people will mutter about them "dominating" women's tennis, whilst making it quite clear that their actual problem is that they have deemed them insufficiently attractive (and for a large portion of that, read insufficiently white) to be on tv. Completely forgetting that fact that sport is still nominally supposed to be about athletic prowess, not how many swimwear advertisements you can book. GAH.

The Manic Street Preachers aren't male prostitutes, but of they *were*...

To amuse myself at work today I was playing "if the Manics were male prostitutes, what type of male prostitutes would they be"? I have no idea how or why I came up with that, but this is what I decided:

Nicky - Upmarket, Belle de Jour type "escort"; would demand champagne and silk negligees in expensive hotel rooms (he would be wearing the negligee).

James - Classic "tart with a heart", would work in a brothel, offering a sympathetic ear to his socially inept clients, one of whom would eventually sweep him off his feet and marry him, a la Pretty Woman.

Richey - Down by the docks confusing the sailors; would later tell the press he was conducting an experiment into the unstoppable depravity of male sexuality.

Sean - Skulking around the red light district in dead of night, he would lure unsuspecting johns down dark alleyways then whip out a knife and rob them.


Tell me I'm wrong on any of these!