Oh, bloody hell, it's that Crimbo time again? Bring me buck's fizz to bed and make it snappy, Santa!
So, my Bond Villain set!
Albertine shot it in a bleak '60ies high-rise building designed by Erno Goldfinger. Goldfinger's iconic architecture (much like his personality) was more loathed than loved, which is why Ian Fleming gave the James Bond villain his name. So I walked a concrete "street in the sky" and found a strange retro-futurist flat, built for paranoia, isolation, violence and villainy, which put me into the spirit of a twisted yet stylish baddie in Monroe curls. Enjoy the gold-painted corpse of my beautiful victim whom I mercilessly grind into the bedsheets, and meet my faithful evil feline familiar with a scarred face and an evil gaze.
Also it's rather pleasant for me to read comments from certain members with potential latent homosexual tendencies cringing: "2 pics of man ass before we see you nude.... pass", oh no, you are trying to whack off and there's a DUDE, oh no, you MUST be gay, haha. Tosser.
Anyway.
When I, the poor tragic homeless moi, strolled into that council estate to see the new flat, well I wasn't too sure. I was faced with a concrete high-rise block, a brutalist architectural relict from the 60ies. My lover thought it was awesome. J.G. Ballard had based a novel on it. It's listed in National Heritage, and yet I'm a Victorian detached kinda girl and he's an A Clockwork Orange kinda chap. The nosy neighbour vigilante commune of purple-rinse grandmas gossiped about a rapetastic crackhouses like it was penned by Stanley Kubrick, but I've only seen artists hold mass photoshoots to preserve the beauty of this particular architectural affair. We painted the flat virginal white, and I looked marvellously virginal at it, in my paper decorators suit (the same week a criminal gang had sported exactly the same 6.99 bodysuit to rob a jewellery shop in Mayfair).
The weird thing is that this summer, when I got kicked out of my actual Victorian detached, and fucked off to Tokyo to while away the sweaty homeless days whilst not being able to face flat-searching, and I soaked my Japan sweat on a random totebag on my shoulder; the totebag had this arty print of the only other "sister building" of the house I ended up moving into when I came back to London two months later. There is a coincidence and then there is this well, the freaky premonition.
My house is OUTSIDE. Never have I lived in a place where the outside takes over the inside, no matter how much you decorate, feed or fuck. There is so much sky in the flat that it overrides all the indoors focus. I've never lived in a high rise to ever really notice the ceiling that hangeth above my city. Say, in the late morning I peel apart my faux eyelashes to the glowing skyscrapers of the financial district. I might be going about my business of writing a diary or torturing the cat, and the dusk falls all of a sudden out of a dramatic winter sky, and I suddenly get all funny, well there's no other way to put it my dear, a butterfly unfurls and starts careening around my solar plexus! It's a surprising feeling, catches me wherever I am, makes me nostalgic and horny and yearning and complete all at once, for no reason whatsoever the world changes. It's just the way the light hits the building and attaches itself to my guts through the floor-length windows. It's marvellous. I can't help it. You go about your business and then suddenly you want to die in a glorious agony of a sunset, and it's just that there is so much SKY in your flat.
If you visit, bring sensational newspaper cuttings. I'm wallpapering the bog in black and white, it's supposed to give one a bloody marvellous paranoia whilst taking a slash.
And, of course, finally, happy alcoholidays, pals!
PS Also, I appreciate the fact that I haven't been updating too often, but I don't appreciate the turn of events that include (not exclusively) cheesetastic messages that imply I might just be one of those lovely *approachable* ladies:
"you are too adorable!! how have you been? do you have a facebook or skype to chat sometime? hope to talk to you soon"
No.
"My name is Andy from England and I just wanted to say how gorgeous you look! I was also looking at your profile and your pictures look really cute too!"
Really, bitch puhreease.
Once again: not cute. Not Lovable. No chat, skype, webcam, no, just no. Try a message in a bottle. Or a mighty stiff whiskey and ginger, with a mighty good timing. If you're lucky. Or unlucky. And don't whine if you don't like it, either.
Twat.
So, my Bond Villain set!
Albertine shot it in a bleak '60ies high-rise building designed by Erno Goldfinger. Goldfinger's iconic architecture (much like his personality) was more loathed than loved, which is why Ian Fleming gave the James Bond villain his name. So I walked a concrete "street in the sky" and found a strange retro-futurist flat, built for paranoia, isolation, violence and villainy, which put me into the spirit of a twisted yet stylish baddie in Monroe curls. Enjoy the gold-painted corpse of my beautiful victim whom I mercilessly grind into the bedsheets, and meet my faithful evil feline familiar with a scarred face and an evil gaze.
Also it's rather pleasant for me to read comments from certain members with potential latent homosexual tendencies cringing: "2 pics of man ass before we see you nude.... pass", oh no, you are trying to whack off and there's a DUDE, oh no, you MUST be gay, haha. Tosser.
Anyway.
When I, the poor tragic homeless moi, strolled into that council estate to see the new flat, well I wasn't too sure. I was faced with a concrete high-rise block, a brutalist architectural relict from the 60ies. My lover thought it was awesome. J.G. Ballard had based a novel on it. It's listed in National Heritage, and yet I'm a Victorian detached kinda girl and he's an A Clockwork Orange kinda chap. The nosy neighbour vigilante commune of purple-rinse grandmas gossiped about a rapetastic crackhouses like it was penned by Stanley Kubrick, but I've only seen artists hold mass photoshoots to preserve the beauty of this particular architectural affair. We painted the flat virginal white, and I looked marvellously virginal at it, in my paper decorators suit (the same week a criminal gang had sported exactly the same 6.99 bodysuit to rob a jewellery shop in Mayfair).
The weird thing is that this summer, when I got kicked out of my actual Victorian detached, and fucked off to Tokyo to while away the sweaty homeless days whilst not being able to face flat-searching, and I soaked my Japan sweat on a random totebag on my shoulder; the totebag had this arty print of the only other "sister building" of the house I ended up moving into when I came back to London two months later. There is a coincidence and then there is this well, the freaky premonition.
My house is OUTSIDE. Never have I lived in a place where the outside takes over the inside, no matter how much you decorate, feed or fuck. There is so much sky in the flat that it overrides all the indoors focus. I've never lived in a high rise to ever really notice the ceiling that hangeth above my city. Say, in the late morning I peel apart my faux eyelashes to the glowing skyscrapers of the financial district. I might be going about my business of writing a diary or torturing the cat, and the dusk falls all of a sudden out of a dramatic winter sky, and I suddenly get all funny, well there's no other way to put it my dear, a butterfly unfurls and starts careening around my solar plexus! It's a surprising feeling, catches me wherever I am, makes me nostalgic and horny and yearning and complete all at once, for no reason whatsoever the world changes. It's just the way the light hits the building and attaches itself to my guts through the floor-length windows. It's marvellous. I can't help it. You go about your business and then suddenly you want to die in a glorious agony of a sunset, and it's just that there is so much SKY in your flat.
If you visit, bring sensational newspaper cuttings. I'm wallpapering the bog in black and white, it's supposed to give one a bloody marvellous paranoia whilst taking a slash.
And, of course, finally, happy alcoholidays, pals!
PS Also, I appreciate the fact that I haven't been updating too often, but I don't appreciate the turn of events that include (not exclusively) cheesetastic messages that imply I might just be one of those lovely *approachable* ladies:
"you are too adorable!! how have you been? do you have a facebook or skype to chat sometime? hope to talk to you soon"
No.
"My name is Andy from England and I just wanted to say how gorgeous you look! I was also looking at your profile and your pictures look really cute too!"
Really, bitch puhreease.
Once again: not cute. Not Lovable. No chat, skype, webcam, no, just no. Try a message in a bottle. Or a mighty stiff whiskey and ginger, with a mighty good timing. If you're lucky. Or unlucky. And don't whine if you don't like it, either.
Twat.
VIEW 25 of 49 COMMENTS
hezza:
see you in london soon.... for some drinks together babe 
kay:
Kisses stranger.