"Everyone Is Wrong!"

Author's Note: This is far from an accurate exploration of anarchism. It is simply my own musings. If you want to find out about anarchist theory and history, I'm not the one to ask to write about it.

It was a very merry Christmas morning with my partners parents. Presents where being unwrapped after a brisk walk, observing rail workers on overtime striving to restore a collapsed line. Our two dogs had suitably exorcised their bowels of the nights poo-plug and danced merrily in bogs and excrement. For them, the day was already complete as they periodically lifted their heads to enquire as to the contents of wrappers and paper packages but since bird feed was seemingly the most popular gift this Christmas they seldom unfurled themselves from their beds. Thankfully, I received no bird feed though I did receive the gift of a bin which is honestly much more fascinating than it may first appear. Closely following the bin - honestly, it's great and ferments and everything - I received a tea towel. Once again, much better than it sounds. This tea towel was red and black with the traditional anarchist symbol of an A & O. I was aghast. This tea towel was wonderful! Nonetheless, my opinion differed from another's;
"Anarchy, pfft, that's just saying 'everyone's wrong'"
I promptly ignored the comment and continued to thank my partner, Jenny, for such a rad gift.

A few hours passed and we were on our way to visit my parents and the previous family 'critique' of anarchism became the topic of conversation and giggles. Nevertheless it has stuck with me for one reason, it is that it's not a comment that is entirely false. It simply lacks further clarification like all passing comments do. The lines between ignorance, naivety and misunderstanding are far from clear. In this case, there could have been an unhealthy combination of all these factors. Still, the statement that anarchist theory professes the idea that 'everyone is wrong' is true to an extent.

Let's think about it for a moment. If we are to understand that anarchism is based upon many, rather simple, principles and one of them is the principle that 'no one and no thing is more qualified than you are to make decisions that directly affect you'. Thus, submission and authority are totally rejected; a society of masters without slaves is envisaged. So, let's face it, when it comes down to your own existence, the decisions that affect you, passions and pleasures that help define you and enable personal wellbeing, then anything which interferes with this is inherently 'wrong'. At this point we can also see the reasoning behind the principle that personal liberty should only be restricted at the point where it interferes with the liberty of another. Accepted as pure theory, these principles are widely accepted. How these principles are put into practice is different and opposition to anarchism mostly resides at this point of immediate departure between theory and practice; "Anarchism is a great idea but..."

Anarchism, if it is to be a philosophy, is a philosophy of action. Anarchism, if it is to be politics, is fiercely anti-political. Anarchism, if it is to be a theory, arises only out of the struggle to live it.

With this in mind the statement 'everyone's wrong' obviously hasn't been explored fully. To restrict personal liberty when it interferes with the liberty of another is to acknowledge conflict between persons that has always existed and will continue to exist even in a free anarchist society. Rather than attempt to shroud this conflict with hopes and promises of 'social peace', which always rely on violence and authority to implement, the whole history of anarchism has been the project to expose social conflicts such as class, gender, race etc and propose methods of exorcising these conflicts once and for all through a radical transformation of everyday life through social revolution. What has always brought individuals together in these struggles have been their mutual interest, an understanding that freedom can not exist whilst any exercise of power over the individual is permitted and their desire to create a better world for themselves. Whilst the foundations of 'social peace' are authority, violence, capital and religion, the statement 'everyone's wrong' may well become 'everyone's wrong but us' and adorn the robes of priests, the bosses luxury hybrid, police uniforms, every court and every party slogan.

However, that's not to say experiments in anarchism haven't been flawed. In fact, because of their flaws, theory has been critiqued, practices have been radically transformed and yet the basic principles of anarchism are still firmly held. Practices may, thankfully, vary hugely and whilst some pass the test of time, others are sincerely rejected. Yet, once again, the principles remain and how these are put into practice adapt to a constantly changing universe, a reality that is unfathomable and a species of animal that is far from predictable.

Everyone's right, to an extent.

My Dear Temporal Lobes

The words he consumes shifts to the indistinct. The vacant space of an abyss opens itself within the already open book. Music that had enraptured him becomes tangible in the ether, his hands grasping at each beat and slur passing. No protest passes his tongue but the screams echo deafeningly in his stomach, rising to the throat but no more. The eyes tell the secret, it's all in the eyes. His right one is dragged half-closed by a weakness draining himself from his own right side. His hand impotently grasps at anything tangible, losing itself to it's own weight whilst thoughts run themselves manically on doubt over particulars like the grain of wood running along the floorboards he finds embracing him. Removing things from places, inattentively pulling, desperately pleading mechanically and unconsciously for reality to acknowledge him. Blunt nails on the ends of those beleaguered fingers scratch at the floorboards beneath the bed, lodging themselves underneath, digging into the varnish, rasping along the grain. Teeth bite themselves, scraping his bottom lip and those eyes, those eyes lost in this dream that seizes him. Those desperate, despairing eyes will remember only the terrors that break through the shroud of haze. Minutes pass like hours and seconds. Then a body, silent.

Those eyes cover themselves in tears. The nightmare comes to an end in the middle of the day and without a gesture of sleep, rest or peace. What follows follows, lingering like a wreck. Hours pass bereft of contrasts and a day aches itself away.

Only after twelve long months did I find myself in a position to piece together a reflection of what it is like to have a seizure. Yet it remains consistently cold and inadequate. Unavoidably cold since I find it impossible to relate clearly to my own experiences; the sense of fraud, of a counterfeit reality in which any recollection proves only that which wasn't true. Inadequate since this is only a snapshot, the bartering of infinitely abstract experiences into an inherently deficient language.

“Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?” and sometimes “Do bats eat cats?”, for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it.

What I still find remarkable is how, years before my diagnosis, the experiences I could relay to others in a coherent, albeit vague, manner became the very experiences that isolated me. “I ran out of work in complete terror and I began to think the police were after me and I came round an hour and a half later and nearly seven miles away.” That very sentence led me all the way to the psychiatrist. Maybe I was a bit loopy, I had to be for this to happen. It wouldn't be a first for my mental health to be put under scrutiny, I had been doing that for years, yet this wasn't the hypo-manic fiend that cycled around at 4AM and woke up his friends demanding they play in the park with him. This was something completely different. This was a hell I hadn't mapped out. Nevertheless, it all passed as quickly as it arose. So back to life, endeavouring to ignore the anomaly. Yet, inevitably, the anomaly began to return like all anomalies do; slowly and subtly.

"What a curious feeling!” said Alice. “I must be shutting up like a telescope!”

I hate Radio One at the best of times, I particularly hate it when I have my head secured down whilst it penetrates an MRI scanner. Not only could I not stop imagining myself being stuck up the arse-end of a robot but also, since I couldn't move, I couldn't stop shit music fucking my ears. It's hard to decide which was worse, the scans, the early mornings travelling to and from the hospital, or finding out that the sudden onset of seizures, paranoid delusions, panic attacks, spiritual encounters maybe a result of a brain tumour. Of course, since I was found not to have a tumour I wouldn't say it was a big deal, though it was at the time. It screwed up my life. However, ask me to divide up arbitrarily the whole array of events and judge them individually, I would tell you to jog on. All of it was a complete mess. My fantastic job was fucked up by my brain and the Tories, my friendships stretched or broken, I slept on a floor, I drank as much as possible, I gave myself to nihilism. Still, over a year later, I'm trying to pick up the pieces, constructing my life anew whilst nostalgia for the better times aches my bones and the years force themselves upon everyone around me.

“But it’s no use now,” thought poor Alice, “to pretend to be two people! Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make one respectable person!”

Each day I take 1200mg of Sodium Valproate and 40mg of Fluoxetine. Seldom am I lost to despair and seldom do I take the turn and lose myself completely. Furthermore, I'm building and constructing a new life for myself that provides the space for all of me, without an exception. Though, it's not the end and never will be. The anomaly is always there like a shadow. On darker days it shrouds everything, on brighter days I take pictures of it falling from my feet.

Please click here for further information on epilepsy and first aid for seizures.

The One I Dream

This is a strange town where the young children pester my legs to give way, in which they rise to my eye level and I can’t use them any longer. I crawl distraught and helpless towards the entrance of a busy shop cluttered with customers paying me no attention as I lie on the floor. The door is brown, wooden and with beautiful glass that shimmers with outside, running itself through my hair. I lay in awe of it. Still no help comes. A young tall blonde comes to my aid.

We are in bed together. I kiss her lips as we break out into bursts of rapturous laughter. I hold her breasts, lit by the moonlight that caresses them and gently tongue her nipples. She moans.
My legs are slowly beginning to work again but slowly. Ever so slowly.

We’re together as a couple now though she grows increasingly distant as I begin to walk, desire to run again. She’s showering and I call her from the doorway that’s unusually left open. Jumping out whilst quickly wrapping herself in a towel she demands that I leave.

I join familiar strangers at a bar. Unfamiliar young men, aggravatingly loud and obnoxious perform their chores from a distance. I arrive suddenly amongst them where they boast to me that they have spiked two girls drinks. My lover appears in amongst her crowd of friends. I try desperately to tell her the situation but I can never finish my sentences, my tongue trapped at the silence between words. A girl begins to feel ill-at-ease so I begin a fight with the group of young men. It doesn’t result in much as my arms fail to release themselves from by my side. A police officer arrives, becoming verbally offensive. So I confront him too, he apologises and tells me he’s just the stripper. I am confused and desperate for a kiss from my lover that I am being denied. I have to leave. I leave.

Day breaks and I’m now outside. The sun’s slowly rising and there’s a partial solar eclipse but the moon is very small so doesn’t block out much of the sun. However, the sun appears to be growing larger and larger. It passes through several stages, morphing into patterns and pictures and visions of George Méliès. I call her, the only her, telling her that the world is beautiful outside but she doesn’t respond. I turn around and I’m in the familiar living room and I’m looking at the world through the window now.
I look out again. The sky is a child-like blue with wispy white cirrus clouds breaking like waves in the sky. Everyone around me points to the sky. I must be back outside again now. Absorbed in what I observe for an eternity.

There it is! a planet much closer than it ever has been before! It has a green tint to it’s ethereal blue and it’s spherical shape is perfectly visible. It can’t be Venus, they all say. But how can it be Neptune, the planet it looks ever so akin to, since that is ever so far away?
The sky becomes my salvation. I must call my lover again for if we witness this spectacle together all doubts regarding our love will be dispelled immediately! By the Universe they will disappear! She arrives by my side. I point the majesty of the Universe out to her. She replies, telling me she is leaving.

I find myself in a living room full of her friends and they can feel my despair. “You fell in love with her didn’t you?” a young man declares. My love is on the phone upstairs so I stand just to wait. The stress becomes too much and I lose myself.
In the garden I knew too well as a child, I’m digging through the grass, disorientated and absent.
She comes to me as I am recovering, attended to by her friends, and she asks me for a departing gift; a tin of baked beans. She kisses my cheek. I dash off.

The supermarket is poorly organised. An old friend Scott, surprises me and as he is working there he helps me find the beans. We run around playfully, though both of us slip and fall in the very same place. We’re now at the counter both buying tins of food. His fellow employee rips the labels of his purchases and puts them through the till as damaged and thus reduced. I clasp the one tin of baked beans in my hands tightly and pay the normal price.
Outside the supermarket freshly fallen snow litters the car-park and a friend of Scott drives us in his Land Rover, letting me steer halfway. We arrive back to the house that shelters my lover from the blizzards. The living room is still full of her friends and piles of luxurious gifts line the stairs up to her bedroom. The lonely pathetic tin of baked beans I hold tightly to my chest I notice is slightly dented and I cry. Quickly, I make a card from bits of rubbish and I cry further.

Darkness has fallen outside and a gentle aching boredom takes me out to play in the snow. The snow melts in my hands and weeps. I do handstands in a wandering shopping trolley, much to the amusement of kids playing in the street. I continue further and roll down a small car-park in it.

She’s there. She’s there meeting up with another. At first they look just like old friends until they kiss like old lovers. With a glance over his shoulder she sees me, confessing no guilt as she giggles at me rolling around in a shopping trolley. I melt and weep.

On a coach with a good friend we’re returning back to the hills. Drizzle falls from low flat grey sheets creating grim spectacle lacking any colour. Through a break in the soot rendered trees, I spot the beginnings of a funnel cloud above a lost and distant hill. I announce it to my fellow passengers. It becomes a small tornado rolling down the hillside. Some worry, some just watch it journey along. It passes next to a tiny bridge jumping over a small river and we all watch the water get sucked up in tiny droplets.

The Turn

The words he consumes shifts to the indistinct. The vacant space of an abyss opens itself within the already open book. Music that had enraptured him becomes tangible in the ether, his hands grasping at each beat and slur passing. No protest passes his tongue but the screams echo deafeningly in his stomach, rising to the throat but no more. The eyes tell the secret, it's all in the eyes. His right one is dragged half-closed by a weakness draining himself from his own right side. His hand impotently grasps at anything tangible, losing itself to it's own weight whilst thoughts run themselves manically on doubt over particulars like the grain of wood running along the floorboards he finds embracing him. Removing things from places, inattentively pulling, desperately pleading mechanically and unconsciously for reality to acknowledge him. Blunt nails on the ends of those beleaguered fingers scratch at the floorboards beneath the bed, lodging themselves underneath, digging into the varnish, rasping along the grain. Teeth bite themselves, scraping his bottom lip and those eyes, those eyes lost in this dream that seizes him. Those desperate, despairing eyes will remember only the terrors that break through the shroud of haze. Minutes pass like hours and seconds. Then a body, silent.
Those eyes cover themselves in tears. The nightmare comes to an end in the middle of the day and without a gesture of sleep, rest or peace. What follows follows, lingering like a wreck. Hours pass bereft of contrasts and a day aches itself away.

'Lucida Console's Dog Days' Review

Hamish sat at the desk, his eyes about to expand beyond the confines of his face from all the coffee Greg and I had been pumping him with. All the while the household crisp binge is in full-swing. I parted ways for a few hours occasionally to scribble irrelevantly into a moleskine, sipping even more coffee and striking poetical poses. Upon my return Hamish would still be there tapping at the keyboard. I picked up a beat on the drum kit beside him to elevate the mental poisoning messing up his mind, only to worsen it. His pained expression left me retreating.

I continued with my wanderings desperate for company. Both Greg and Hamish were busy working on projects so I was left to thinking about mine. Too much thinking that left me morbidly awaiting a chance to indulge in a box of Biere Speciale. Hamish would emerge from his hobbit hole, get deep on another cup of poo-brew, eat his tenth bag of crisps and settle in front of the SNES for a round of Mario. Only when he'd indulged to the point of agony did he return to the room, close the door and begin tapping away once again.

For two weeks this continual cycle turned unrelenting apart from the boozey evenings, games of 1983 edition Trivial Pursuit and heated discussions regarding higher education courses at the University of Bodmin.

This was samsara, my friends.

More than two months later I am finally presented with the product of Hamish's hard times...his 'Dog Days'.

I had arranged to meet Roo, Andrew and Hamish for their show in Exeter, introduce myself to the Dirty Tactics guys and venture with them around England until Brighton where I would wave them goodbye and good luck as they left for Belgium. It was a bright summer morning in Brighton when I said my goodbyes. An hour later, after dragging around my suitcase right through the whole town, I sat in a cafe reflecting on the week. I became insanely jealous I was unable to go with them as I had intended a few months previously. "Shit happens" I mumbled to myself and tried not to drift off thinking about all the 'crazeeeeyyyy' times I could be having. It was on the train into London that I was reminded of the very reason as to why I hadn't. Life can suck at times. Three of my best friends off on one of the most enjoyable experiences of their lives, which they will never have again and I can't share it with them.

I don't feel the same way now.

'Dog Days' will make you laugh although why, I don't know. It's not some hipster crap with fashionable cultural references nor a contrived piece of comical writing. Something amusing and entertaining naturally flows. The depictions are intelligent rather than pretentious and it's this that makes 'Dog Days' accessible to a punkrock scene that's thankfully still uncool and unfashionable. Nevertheless, this doesn't mean it's undaring. It's honesty of life on the road dispels those romantic ideals that even this very punkrock scene appears to hold dear as a sign of success and popularity, proudly declaring that touring and playing punkrock can be a horrible experience at times with very real problems and difficulties. Only avid Vice magazine readers and private-school kids turned 'bad' would find being either too cold or too hot, very hungry and relentlessly horny an overall enjoyable experience.

It almost at times reads like a Greek Tragedy: the tragic hero struggling to make order of his unjust and chaotic fate...but will Hamish die unfulfilled in the end? For the audience, this tragedy allows us to sense an underlying essence, which is almost indescribably pleasurable to read. Still, each character appears very much burdened with all the errors of youth within the overarching theme of metaphysical solace and it's with this that we empathise.

There's also a closeness of experience. Embracing the chaotic nature of the tour as all-important; not just on its own, but as it is intimately connected with some kind of order and purpose. This magnifies each person on this journey, but only so far that their actions and experiences are one and the same with all ordered human experience. There is a harmony that can be found within the chaos. A love and a yearning in addition to an acceptance and a will to experience. It makes this little book rather special. Not as a quick laugh but as a true reflection of the paths we willingly take in everyday life without alluding to any ideal or fashion for justification. 'Dog Days' doesn't put Hamish, the rest of Bangers, Dirty Tactics, or anyone else mentioned, on a pedestal nor does it condemn. It discusses a bunch of guys, driving around Europe playing music and dealing with whatever happens in whatever way they can. It is with this sincerity that it offers everything and confirms nothing.

 Buy Lucida Console's Dog Days here;

Hamish's Blog;

Fashion in the Cosmoss

It wasn't until a few years ago I suffered from a serious delusion; I happened to be believing that fashion was about nothing more than the wearing clothes. Never have I been so ashamedly wrong. Horribly, I continued to think of myself as 'fashionable' simply because I myself wore clothes. I wore clothes all the time so I was very fashionable. My logic was thus;

Clothes + Human = Fashionable

Clothes + Dog = Cruel

Clothes + Chair = Washing

For some reason, despite having concern in regards to my appearance I mostly limited this to my face and hair. T-Shirts were a popular item, as were jeans. Back when I was 13 years old I thought the larger the pair of jeans the more fashionable I would become. This turned out to be not only false but also dangerous. They acted as flags in the breeze, alerting nearby Rockport wearing testosterone riddled twiglet teenagers that someone with at least some brain-cells - although all of the naive variety of course - was hanging around being fashionable. Not wanting to die I eventually cut down the size of my jeans and thought that fashion was merely an excessive indulgence that could easily dictate the rest of a persons life for the worst. How foolish of me!

I can't remember exactly when I came to realise that fashion was much more than simply the size or quantity of clothes one wore but I know I wasn't happy! Utter disappointment was felt and I nearly did something crazy like sigh into a refrigerator. Being an intelligent young man I consulted a dictionary;

fash·ion[fash-uhn]

–noun

1. a prevailing custom or style of dress, etiquette, socializing, etc.: the latest fashion in dresses. 

Ah ha! So I wasn't far from wrong. Alas! I was just a little confused, that was all!

Promptly, I began to explore the fashion world using the torch of knowledge that dictionary.com has empowered me with. It was like playing Zelda. Horrible, disgusting monsters began leering over me with their uncouth mannerisms. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to stop looking in the mirror and go outside. But, oh no, flip-flops and board shorts with a hooded top and beany hat...in January. I threw up. If my mouth wasn't so full of vomit I may have shouted at this young seasonally-perverted man. Running deliriously I fell into the arms of the one I loved and wept. From that day on I announced to the world that I shall renounce my old ways and become fashionable and stylish. My etiquette will be gentlemanly and I shall socialise vigorously. Still, even now, there's much to be done. Fashion is just so...weird...unfathomable even.

It must signify an enormously unhealthy level of boredom in our civilised society if we concentrate so much time and energy on inventing fashions and styles. Though, do we? Of course we have professionals in the field but that doesn't necessarily mean it is vitally important to an individual. No more so than say bread. Bread is an essential component to our civilisation yet I seldom give it more than a thought. Despite this, it's big money and there's a whole industry dedicated to it. Does this mean every single person cares a lot about bread? No. It's tasty, mildly amusing, interesting and necessary. We may once in a while go crazy, bake a loaf, fail and not try again till we forget how awful we are at doing it. For similar reasons, the vast majority of us don't make our own clothes. We could learn, of course we could do that. Most of us however won't and would prefer to spend the time queuing or doing something equally as fun.

I'm left puzzled. If we all wear clothes, picking and choosing from a massive variety of different and constantly changing styles, colours, and sizes, then who is it that chooses what we choose? Who and what chooses what type of fashion is fashionable?

Remarkably, I have a friend. She is a womenswear fashion designer based in Manchester and is currently working as a freelance designer since completing her BA Hons in Fashion Design. Already she has co-owned her own successful fashion brand and currently works on various personal and professional design and styling projects. Her style has been described as 'casual-chic' and enjoys both commercial and conceptual projects. All this information I stole from her blog; Narcissist. Apart from it having some rather brilliant clothes on there it also has young ladies wearing them, which is rather lovely. I wanted to discuss with her the relation between fashion and what is fashionable. So I did...and I'm very thankful...

The CosMoss (TCM); I'm going to start off with something boringly typical. Fashion, for myself, used to mean simply what clothes I or others wore and now it seems to simply be an industry like any other. As an 'insider', what is 'fashion' for you?

Jo Whiteing (JW); Fashion is a huge industry these days but personally for me it's the usual cliché of fashion being an expression of yourself. It's one of the few things that most people have complete control over and a way of being creative through necessity - If you don't think you're the best dressed around town then choose to wear something different!

TCM; Neatly for me, what you've alluded to is what I would refer to as the 'fashionable'. To be the 'best dressed' we have to be fashionable, yet this doesn't mean simply the wearing of clothes, they have to be the right clothes, with the right fit, the right style, colour, material...I could easily go on.
In my eyes it is the fashion industry that creates what is fashionable for people, so if several designers were to saturate the market with certain styles, this would become fashionable. Or is the industry more responsive to overall shifts in culture rather than leading it?
As a young designer, what is the effect of what is 'fashionable' to your work? As a creative artist, do you feel more influenced by the power of the industry you work in or public likes and dislikes?

JW; The industry is lead by a variety of different things. Popular culture and styles that trickle down or up the fashion ladder all have an impact on 'must-have items' and the seasonal shift in trends but I think most consumers tend to buy into the trends without realising.

When you're aware of the next predicted trend, it becomes almost impossible to buy without considering or at least recognising how your new purchase will fit in. Though this means in some respects you're always influenced by what is 'fashionable' at the time (because only things that are currently fashionable will be on the shelves) it doesn't mean that your choices are purely based on what's in vogue; most people don't pick up an item and think 'i'll buy this just because it fits in with the up-coming military trend' personal taste usually leads the decision.

Also in the current zeitgeist 'anti-fashion' is, ironically a huge trend so almost anything goes and even people who think they aren't conforming are more so than anyone.
I don't feel hugely influenced by current trends when buying or designing garments - though that would depend on the brief I was given and how commercial the result needed to be. For my personal work I tend to stick with the items I know and like.

Plus you have to bare in mind each season there are at least 5 or 6 very broad trends such as '1950's, Underwear as outerwear or military' which can encapsulate a multitude of different design features. These trends can then be repeated year on year and come in and out of fashion, which means there are a lot of clothes which can fall under each trend bracket, even if they weren't designed with that intention at the time.

TCM; Hmm, yes. Do you feel that there are any styles that are timeless, not ebbing and flowing with other trends?

JW; Not really - there's a lot of items that are timeless but they still come in and out of fashion on a short term basis. There's the practical side of this; the fact fashion changes with the seasons to match the weather and therefor the requirements of the wearer.

There's also the style side, where fashion tends to look to the past for it's influences so 'copycat' trends come round and round. Sometimes styles are seen as timeless but I would say this is more of a personal idea - possibly when the wearer has a connection to a piece and will wear it continually.

There are some garments that are generally classed as timeless, such as the 'little black dress' but this couldn't really be considered a trend as there are so many style options for garments under that title so the LBD changes with the seasons and times like everything else.

TCM; I find all this amazingly bewildering! What advice would you give me if say I had a date and wanted to look radical? Something smart but not stoic, shows off my figure a little, something that suggests "gentleman" but hints at "badass".

JW; I literally can't answer that - because it's all down to personal taste. I can't even pin-point what kind of clothes I'd want to arrive on a date and see the boy in, so to recommend for someone else would be hard.
The only thing I'd say is that if you're choosing clothes for a date you want to be your most comfortable and confident, so go for something that you've worn before and know is a killer outfit, and if you're not a 'gentleman or a badass' don't decide to be one for the date, you'll just feel awkward!

TCM; Would wearing a tie be a little too formal or - utilising your opinion as a heterosexual female - would it make you think 'this guy seriously wants my arse and I like it'?
If you happen to be a bit of a badass would you recommend any specific outfits suitable both for a hot date AND a fight defending your honour?

JW; A tie would be a no-go! I would probably think you wanted to get your hands on my tax return rather than my ass!
I'm not sure I can think of a hybrid outfit that would work for both a date and a fight scenario...maybe that should be the concept for my next collection! It's definitely untapped.

TCM; I'm thinking 'Spy-Wear'... Good pockets would be useful. For bullets and gadgets, one for snacks, another for all the condoms needed. Could you try and sort this out for me?

JW; Of course - Taking into consideration your earlier requirements for 'something that shows off my figure a little' and the fact you want it to be practical for fighting I think some sort of Lycra number would be the best :P I'll whip it right up!


Jo left me feeling befuddled yet excited, eagerly awaiting an amazing fighting outfit that probably won't surface. However, she has helped me realise why I walk into a clothes store and begin to weep. Other than that, I don't have a clue. Fashion is weird. I'm not sure if it actually exists other than as a theoretical umbrella. Much of what we do is personal but the personal appears to be very influenced by outside factors, which are endlessly numerous. Thankfully, if the fashion industry was to dissolve completely we'd still wear clothes...and maybe I'd finally be a fashionable guy. Or dead, murdered by a vengeful catwalk model hungry (as usual) for revenge and pesto.

Bloody Hot Cup'a Gravy

Oh what a tasty treat! A personal favourite that's getting hot on the scene, literally. First consumed by delusional peasants on the hills of the Peak District, it has increased in popularity ever since the advent of modern day capitalism. It is said that Engels enjoyed the occasional Cup'a Gravy after being introduced to it in Rochdale by a two year-old cotton mill worker who had no lips. This recipe gives a bourgeois twist to the whole thing...

Ingredients;

Gravy Granules

Freshly boiled water

Hot sauce

Method;

Following the instructions on the packet, proceed to make one whole cup of instant gravy.

Stir lots.

Add hot sauce to taste.

 This picture looks better sideways.