I can’t even begin to tell you how ridiculous/utterly disappointing my experience with Aspinal of London has been. Like seriously. I find it really hilarious when a “luuuuuuxurrrry company” who claim to care “oh so very much about cuuuuussssssstomer service” act like you should be satisfied with being treated like shit while paying extortionate prices for things, and then be grateful about it.
To reenact this pathetic, two-month-long-display of fuckery masquerading as customer service, we’ll need some actors. (Someone cue Tim Curry and that bitch from PRETTY WOMAN who’s all no-uh-uh-faces at Julia Roberts in LE BOUTIQUE FAN-Cee ’cause they’re about to play the part of dickhead shopgirls 1 and 2.)
So I had my gorgeous Chloe keyholder stolen and rather than just cleverly replace it with a gorgeous new one from a brand that isn’t ridiculous, I decided to try something new and buy something from Aspinal of London (or AssholeFAIL of London, if you prefer) and selected a keyring that was all “meh, you’ll do.” Seeing as I’d just had my keys nicked, near my house, my bank and travelcards along with them, and to top it all off it was fucking CHLOE, I wanted something to make mommy happy. My friend suggested this brand, except they only had the item in a tragic powder-pink with silver hardware, which just sounds dire, don’t bother to imagine it further unless you want to buy a large belt buckle and some flares and further embarrass yourself. I select it in Brown Croc and gold hardware, pay £50.00 (or thereabouts) for an item that I’m told will be sent out in two days (which I was okay with, because it took a week to get the stupid bank card sent out and everything – but I was making do with the stupid situation of my replacement key trailing down into the bottom of my bag every stupid day which was massively annoying, especially when you’ve just paid £50.00 to NOT have that happen).
Fast forward a week and a half and I’d still not received it. So I call head office to ask “uh, where is my item?” which they can’t answer and tell me to call the store. I do, and some dude answers like “HMMM I can’t seem to find your order, regardless of the order reference number you are providing me with.” He says “I’ll call you back” and then never does. Four days later, I have to call back again and explain this, AGAIN, to another ASS-ociate, who’s all “Fa fa fa fa fa” (that’s the sound of faffing about trying to sound really fancy while you make £7.20/hr in a shopping centre) “Oh my,” she says, “I’m simply ever so distressed that you have been subjected to such terrible customer service,” to which I’m all “YEAH, ME TOO.” She said she’s going to sort it out and get the item customized for me, which I was like “damn straight” about. Like, sorry, Luxury Goods Company, the price you pay for ME paying that price in the first place is not being completely SHIT at selling things. That’s why you get to charge LOTS OF MONEY for items of arguable “quality”.
So she’s said the “I’m Sowwy” and I’m semi-satisfied, and I’m set away to wait for my fucking keyholder to finally be sent out not TWO, but FIFTEEN days later. Does it show up? JE PENSE QUE “DUH”. I call in to say “uh, where is my keyholder” like 19 days later, and the GENERAL MANAGER of the store picks up and takes approximately 150 hours to find my order, which he then tells me is STILL IN THE STORE. Like SERIOUSLY, what the fuck, right? Like nobody else would be pissed off at this point? I explain to him that I’m not happy and he gets all SNAPPY SHOPGIRL BITCHY at me and is all “look, I’M trying to HELP you,” which seriously makes me wonder if working in RETAIL causes men to MENSTRUATE and then tells me I can’t complain about this shitty service – unless it’s in an email addressed to him. Like super bitchily. He then says “Look, do you want me to send it out or not?” all HOLDING MY KEYRING HOSTAGE #WTF. No, I want to just pay for it and have it kept safe in the store you DICK.
So fancy retail salesman gets all huffy and says “I am going to send it out myself” in that way that makes you wonder HOW MUCH SPIT is going to be in my salad if I send it back. I call head office and make a huge complaint, which they then ask me for in writing. He then called me and acted totally SOCIALLY INEPT on the phone, which of course I mention in my complaint. An Extract? Oh, OKAY:
I had a phone call about 14:00:00 today and said “Hello?” “Nikki? I’ts Jamal” (or whatever his name is.) I paused and had no idea who was calling me. An awkward silence ensued. He finally identified himself as the General Manager at Aspinal and told me he was calling to say that he had sent the item off and that it was going to arrive by 13:00:00, Thursday February 16th, Special Delivery. He also said that he had included a 10% off voucher with my purchase. I thanked him and said goodbye.
To be very honest with you, my first thought was that it was hilarious that he would offer me 10% off a purchase I would never make after my treatment at that store. My second thought was that he was trying to smooth things over so that I would not complain about his treatment and the overall unsatisfactory experience of Aspinal Westfield. Finally I thought how weird is it that this man would call my mobile as though he was someone I knew, call me by my first name like we are friends and like he hasn’t just been completely rude to me, and act like he was making some huge effort by enclosing some rubbish voucher? I had previously associated the brand with luxury and fine treatment, and now feel like it’s awkward and inept staff hawking goods that never actually arrive! Is this a luxury goods brand or an East-end market stall!?
Guess what’s AWESOME? This confirmed-BY-ASPINAL-HEAD-OFFICE “KNOB” of a manager can’t MANAGE sending a fucking package out, because following the next day, when I sat and waited for it to arrive and didn’t, I called Assholepinal AGAIN to say “where the fuck is my package that I’ve canceled my whole day to WAIT FOR” and girlfriend’s like “oh we HAVE IT ON RECORD that it was sent out and YOU WEREN’T THERE.” I’m like bitch, please, and decide the only way to get this stupid thing sorted out is to go to the Post Office and pick it up myself. And I give Postman Pat my name and address, and there’s no package. This fuckery goes on for 20 minutes while I explain that I have the tracking number and he finally retrieves it from the depths of the Royal Mail. AND GUESS WHAT – He can’t give it to me because the dumbshit shopgirl/man at Aspinal addressed it to MRS NIKKI at a completely wrong ADRESS. Like seriously? Who writes MEESUS NEEKEE on a parcel? FROM A “LUXURY GOODS” CO.? Want more hilarity? Even when GIRLFRIEND calls from Aspinal Head Office to say “FA FA FA FA FA MISUNDERSTANDING,” Postman Pat’s like “Sorry babe, we’re sending it back to Belfast to be DESTROYED.”
So this generated some response, and I find myself having to have hours and hours of further conversations with Asssholepinal of LonDON’T (like seriously this is going on and on and on) because they then send me ANOTHER stupid keyholder in the post and then I have to have all these “chats” with various members of their Head Office (like hours and hours and hours) when the stupid keyholder arrives at the end of FEBRUARY (um yeah SO gonna buy that £500.00 handbag next, right? Fuck you and your 10% off voucher that PS WAS DESTROYED IN BELFAST) and i’m STILL having conversations with then until on March 9th, the head of retail calls me, makes me go through the WHOLE store AGAIN for like the BILLIONTH time and finally said “OKAY, What can I do to “make this go away”? I’d like to give you a handbag….No, IN FACT… I want to meet you… PERSONALLY, in store, and go shopping WITH YOU.”
That sounds like HAPPY PRESENTS MAKE BAD THINGS BE QUIET NOW to me, what does it sound like to you? So she proposes dates, so that I can come down to their prestigious flagship store because the Chairman, Iain Burton, she said, would be simply horrified hooooooorrrrrrified about all this and she was mortified and blah blah blah. Like the maitre’d of afternoon tea at the Savoy just realized a profiterole came out shaped like an oblong and offended the queen. I cancel MY DAY/STUDIO to accommodate meeting her – which she then cancels! I get a note that says I’ve sent you a gift to make up for this.
So guess what arrives!? A shitty leather wallet that’s missing the little silver logo (basically 100% from the discount bin) and ANOTHER FUCKING KEYCHAIN! Like HMMMM lets just look around for bullshit scraps of NAFF we can send like it’s an apology to get out of having to do anything about this. My friends were like, um, are you serious, THAT SUCKS.
I sent them an email that said:
In my position, would you ladies not want to sarcastically ask “Oh, were there not any sale/faulty items or surplus stock in the brown croc?“ It also just feels a bit ridiculous as well to be given another keychain (particularly one that seems to have no function aside from showing off the Aspinal branding). I don’t quite understand the logic. Am I supposed to give that to a friend to introduce them to the brand?
I feel really perplexed/dissatisfied, if I’m very honest with you. I wouldn’t have generally had any “hopes up” or anything, but when someone says “we’re going to the Ritz” and then, last-minute, says “Oh actually, it’s the Best Western, and uh, we’re downgrading you to a single room” one tends to feel rather disappointed. You’ve said “Can I give you a handbag?” and sent me a really unimpressive, faulty purse which doesn’t even aim to correlate to my taste, and a matching (second, utterly superfluous) keyring, to make up for the key-holder I have said I already feel like binning after this whole mess.
So then they get girl-at-head-office-who-is-not-a-director to call me and say “i’m sorry.. I must have… terrible taste… perhaps I should arrange to have it TAKEN BACK” and I was like, taken back and WHAT? at point she gets all “um/er” because I think she thought I was going to be guilt tripped into the whole “gift horse” thing… but bitch, the GIFT HORSE you said you were sending me was a HANDBAG not a KEYCHAIN AND A CRAPPY BARGAIN BIN WALLET! She clearly cannot answer anything without a superior feeding her cue card bullshit, and after pressing “mute” on the phone 50 times, then says that essentially that the only thing Assholepinal will offer is to REMOVE THE UNSIGHTLY WALLET AND KEYCHAIN FROM MY PRESENCE. We say “bye”. I write this:
I appreciate the fact and sympathize with Rachael for having been put in the awkward position of having to “explain” that, and be on the other end of the phone with someone who is now quite upset (to put it lightly). However, when I told her how I honestly feel; as though I have been fobbed off with a gift-with-purchase-looking keyring (that really, really seems like a pretty dumb thing to send someone who just bought a key-holder with the space for several keys on it) and a may-or-may-not-be-current product (which was not at all in line with what was offered to me by Jill during our last conversation)…she responded, “well, I wouldn’t want you to have something you don’t like, so I can arrange to have it collected.” I asked Rachael to explain what she meant clearly, and told her I was very tired of this, was tired in general and asked, “will anyone be in touch with me? Is it like, have this or have a kick in the teeth?” She said she didn’t think it was “likely to go further if I chose to return the purse.” I told her that was actually hilarious, and asked if we both wanted to laugh at how pathetic that sounded. Especially in light of the “Oh Iain Burton would simply be just horrified” story I’d been sold the last time we spoke…. I told her it was like getting the free Lancome GWP as a Valentine’s gift and having to pretend to be happy. I further asked her again to explain to me what she was saying about “if I chose to send the product back,” and told her it felt like it was a “you can eat your broccoli, or you can starve” kind of an offer. It was infuriating to be placed on hold during her “coughing fits” and call me suspicious/100% psychic, but I really don’t buy it.
So guess what’s happened now? I get a free, all expenses paid GUILT TRIP from this retail manager who totally fakes this story that I told her I had wanted to go down to the Aspinal Flagship store not for a freebie WE’RE SORRY SHOPPING TRIP – but so that I can MAKE A STAND FOR LUXURY SHOPPERS EVERYWHERE!!!! and acted all like her nose was out of joint because SHE THOUGHT I WAS A REAL GENUINE LADY WHO CARED ENOUGH ABOUT THE BRAND TO TELL THEM ABOUT HOW SHITTY THEIR SERVICE IS!!!! And she CC’d me in with the managing director to make up this TOTAL BULLSHIT. So here you are, readers, complainers and general OH FFSers, my final paragraphs.
I think it’s completely absurd that you have fabricated this bizarre story of me wanting to come in-person to your store “to tell my story” (particularly as I had already wasted hours if not weeks indicating to your company how dire your level of customer service is), as though I have nothing better to do with my time – which I have indicated to you has been consistently disregarded by Aspinal of London. Why on earth would I do such a thing – scheduling a meeting with a the retail director of a company to fine-tune a luxury brand’s lack of basic customer service? It’s utterly ridiculous. Do you think I should next call Louis Vuitton and propose the national sales manager and I pop down to Caffe Nero and discuss their branding? That is complete fabrication and hilarious.
I told Sue on Friday March 16th, 2012, that I felt as though I was being pressured and “embarrassed” (by her suggestion that I was not “genuine”) into being satisfied with “this gift” I have been sent as an apology – after being invited to choose an item of higher value by Jill, further being invited to “go shopping” with Jill at your flagship store after she said she wanted to meet me personally, then being canceled on, after having altered my schedule to accommodate Jill’s schedule (which I have always maintained was not a problem even though it inconvenienced me greatly), then finally fobbed off with a product which Sue kindly valued for me at £135.00. This is the value of my time, my aggravation, my consistent patience with your inconsistency of service, and which is then, in my opinion, thrown in my face at the end of over 50 days of being patient and considerate with Aspinal of London, and all of you as individuals, when I finally get actually upset.
I went through the ridiculous situation I have outlined above. I have further attached all my email correspondence with Rachel, Sue and Jill, which show how polite and warm I was with them despite Aspinal of London’s failure to do anything but repeatedly waste my time over and over, and which I will be happy to post publicly, because this story is priceless, probably worth at least a couple grand’s worth of keychains.
If Aspinal of London is content that I should be grateful after this consistent maltreatment, I certainly don’t wish to argue it further. I will forever be grateful for the hilarious story of your shoddy customer service and inability to deliver on promises – which I’m sure will make me laugh for years to come.
So I’m on the London Underground today watching a mother get on with her totally “awkward phase” teenage daughter that’s wearing a similiar Aztec-print cardigan to mine and feeling like:
a) I’m so glad I know “my colours” because I remembered that when one is fourteen (and a half, JEEZ, MOM), sometimes one has yet to learn these things, and purchases of burgundy and black are the PRIMARK (or equivalent) staples of an otherwise ill-fitting wardrobe denoting “We’re not quite sure if the growth spurt has yet abate, so it’s hand-me-downs for you, Young Lady!” So glad I grew out of my (physically) awkward stage! Now to look forward to growing out of my (socially) awkward stage! LOLZ.
b) Moms is totally eyeing me up all “oh GREAT THIS is what I have to look forward to when I’M A GRANDMOTHER,” and I’m all “God, I’m SO GLAD I DON’T HAVE CHILDREN” and we’re sort of having this imaginary face-off in my head where she’s all like “One Day perhaps you will understand the true meaning of being complete as a WOMAN by performing your BIOLOGICAL DUTY” and I’m like “Yeah, that whole ‘ooh i’m a parent smugness’ doesn’t get old no matter how radical CARPOOL DUTY is, HUH?”
We have talked about this on nikkiawesome.com before. (I like that I said that as if I have a chat show, which in my head, I now totally DO, please see THIS VIDEO and mix it with high glamour – if that’s even more POSSIBLE.) I refer you to BABIES: WHO NEEDS ‘EM? (working title for the film) for my thoughts on offspringer spaniels and their reproductions, however, I was shocked to my foundations when I opened up the METRO to discover I have given birth to a child, who is 9 years old and residing in Texas.
Dear Readers, you are probably JUST as shocked as I (though probably not as inclined to notify Child Protective Sevices). I’ll give you a moment to process this, while I think of decorating my new baby’s bedroom with pop-art Warhol repro’s of me looking alternately surprised and new money-ish (is there any other way?), and turning my “FUCK OFF BACK TO ECONOMY” badges into diaper pins. Annnnnnnd we’re back.
The student, named only as Flint, promised Albert Ramon – a weatherman for local station KVUE – a place at his top table when he becomes ‘supreme Ultra-Lord of the universe’.
‘I will not make you a slave, you will live in my 200 story [sic] castle where unicorn servants will feed you doughnuts off their horns,’ Flint wrote.
‘I will personally make you a throne that is half platnum and half solid gold and jewel encrested [sic].’
The student, whose age is uncertain, proved he may have a career in creative writing ahead of him if either the meteorology or world domination do not work out as planned.
In fulsome praise, Flint said Ramon was ‘more awesome than a monkey wearing a tuxedo made out of bacon riding a cyborg unicorn with a lightsaber for the horn on the tip of a space shuttle closing in on Mars, while ingulfed in flames’.
Flint added: ‘And in case you didn’t know that’s pretty dang sweet.’
The letter, which has been shared, thousands of times online, also includes a drawing on the reverse of a unicorn presenting an enthroned figure with the words ‘your doughnuts, Master’.
Now that I am officially a parent, I will begin my SMUGNESS: 2012 campaign, which I will be taking over from Angelina Jolie (Thanks babes!) since she has bigger fish to fry these days.
I find it ludicruous that people continue to make statements all over the internet (and in real-life, shock/horror) about how “International Women’s Day Is EVERY DAY”, usually because some douche with half a dick either stopped saying “fat bitch” in the open office or is resentful because “girls get free drinks”. Or because you hugged your mom/sister/female cat.
In case you hadn’t noticed, women get paid (in this “progressive” part of the world) roughly 75-80% of what a man does for the same work, are far more likely to be the victims of sexual attack, are more likely not to report any sexual or domestic violence, sexual harassment or bullying, are more likely to feel pressured into feelings of low self-worth by 90% of the marketing directed at them, etc etc etc… Sounds great, huh? I LOVE how “International Women’s Day is Every Day!” (FYI – that was in a sing-song voice in my head because I’m being massively sarcastic and snipey – just thought you ought to know)
I had a conversation recently about feminism, and what it means to me in the face of current talks in the media about “aging gracefully, doing the same jobs men can do blah blah blah.” It seems to me that there are an awful lot of so-called ‘feminists’ that disagree with all sorts: cosmetic surgery (because clearly women only undergo it because they’re forced to BY MEN), makeup, dress-up, prostitution, provocative clothing/speech et cetera. Here’s my take on it, so listen up:
Being a feminist and being lucky enough to be a woman in the era and in the region that I am means that I CAN DO WHAT THE FUCK I WANT. I have the access to education and research to make my own decisions, and can then be responsible about the consequences of my actions. I can express my thoughts, feelings, and sexuality in the manner that *I deem appropriate, can feel secure that my rights will be (arguably) upheld by government when I indicate that they are in breach. I also have the right to change my mind about any decisions, statements or actions I have made in the past or might make in the future. I don’t have to answer to anyone or be held to some bullshit stereotypical standard of gender role that society has laid out for me, and if I do decide I ‘like’ something stereotypically “female” it doesn’t define me in my entirety nor does it devalue my social contribution as a feminist.
So how am I celebrating International Women’s Day? By giving you a song that, if it were written/sung by a man, would incite gender riots. Why the fuck not? I’m lucky enough to be able to write it, live where I live, have access to education, healthcare and human rights, and be a fucking AWESOME woman. It’s all part of this wicked gender disparity dialogue that is so, so, not done.
Thank you to http://www.guardian.co.uk for the pay-chart. Thank you to http://www.weareequals.org/ for their incredible “bond” video. Thanks to whoever made the above JPEG, which I totally stole. AS IT IS MY RIGHT – erm….. Cheers. x
Incited by tweet to keep up my birthday VOW (you know it’s serious WHEN….), I trekked through the daffodil-speckled tundra that is grey South West London to source my daily Twix.
I hit up the local shop, called Nisa (which has done my head in for almost two years while I’ve tried to figure out if it’s called “nice-Ah” or “Neese-Ah” and renders me so uncomfortable that I simply drop my purchases and run out the door. That and the fact that they’re generally shit/the only thing open late. However, we’re running with it) so as to get my #TwixFix.
PS – TwixFixin’ totally generated this new trend (as in WE [as in THE ROYAL 'WE']‘RE MAKING IT A “THING”) on Twitter, #IWouldWednesday (#IWW for short), enabling me to confess my recent heartache over the breakup between me and Ryan Gosling, thanks to a certain person who shall remain nameless saying “I guess you could call him ‘YOUNG JERKULES’ when you get mad at him” back in the Breaker High days. Thanks a bunch. Dear @ryangosling, #IStillWould.
As an aside (to this aside), is this whole TWIX MADNESS to be my documented downfall, like that guy from A MILLION LITTLE BURGERS or SUPERSIZE-MOI or whatever? Today we’re avoiding copyright infringement, kids.
Anyway, there I was, in Nisa, completely surrounded by the best and the worst Britain has to offer. I thought it might be a fancy treat to let all you Olympian freaks know what you’re in for before you get here with the expectation of “Classic English Delicacies”. You might want to pack low on clothes, high on that bread from LORD OF THE RINGS where they could just eat it forever and always be full or something, ’cause you’re headed into some serious Mordor shit WRT the food over here.
Issue Number One: Pomegranate and WHA?
What the fucking fuck is with some of the flavour-combinations here? REALLY? Grossville! I realize I am guilty of some food-sins (Baked Potato/Veggie Pate/Soy Sour Cream/Thai Hot Sauce, Dried Chow Mein noodles in Nutella – DON’T YOU JUDGE ME, *YOU* COME TO THIS BLOG, BABY), but this is really and truly unfair to force unsuspecting shoppers into fathoming.
Seriously? Pomegranate/Passionfruit INSTANT OATMEAL? Wtf are you thinking, Quaker Oats guy? Poultry Paté sounds just nondescript enough to totally convince me it’s made of chicken feet and feathers – another reason to embrace vegetarianism. Oh and if that wasn’t enough, HEINZ has come out with some (presumably equally vomitous) competition for their classic Spaghetti (LOL) and Meatballs – Spaghetti + Pepperoni. It’s not just for pizza anymore, Generic-Italian-Flavoring-Guy says!
Issue Number Two: That SHOULD NOT come in a can, mate.
The Header Said It All.
Um, I know I’m a vegetarian, but I’m pretty sure Americans generally don’t enjoy their American-Style Giant Hot Dogs out of a CAN. It goes down pretty poorly when they’re chucking them out at the ballpark. For future reference: avoid all products with ‘Ye Olde’ on them. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s a standard life-rule.
Issue Number Three: FOOD RACISM
Do I really need to explain this? What’s with the segregation of the Vanilla party and the Cocoa party? Oh, I mean, “Vagnilla”, or whatever that says. Either way, #Fail.
Issue Number Four: Foods & Labels that make you go ‘HMMMMMMMM’
HMMMM, indeed.
Random British Grossness. Really, “Daddies’ Secret Handjob Sauce”? Everything about this section makes me feel massively uncomfortable. Like I feel like my iPhone needs to go to church now.
Issue Number Five: Of All Travesties, HOW VERY DARE YOU
In the chaos leading up to the chaos that was my birthday weekend (obviously to be followed by my birthday week/month, et cetera, ad infinitum), I forgot to notify you via blog that it was my birthday. Don’t worry, in the absence of my bloggery, the shopping centres are still open, so don’t be shy, hit up the mall, tart up your shit and join me in vanquishing brain cells and whatnot forever (For ever-ever? For EVER-ever).
Friday (also known as ‘Birthday Eve’) did damage to the ever-delightful Kettners, one of my favorite haunts for being haunted by Oscar Wilde while consuming far-too-much-i-mean-not-enough-Champagne, my growing entourage noisily drawing up additional tables to seat latecomers and other well-wishing looky-lous. I was spoiled not-quite-rotten, but spoiled nonetheless, and that’s what’s important. There’s adequate time for rotting later, right, Oscar? Oscar Wilde floats mincingly past and nods his approval. (Can a ghost mince? Subject for another blog, she says, clearly, into her dictaphone. Fuck I wish I was exciting enough to merit the carrying of a dictaphone and saying “memo to self: important things. Cue end of Digression One.”)
Saturday was insane and therefore encouraged me to dress appropriately. I feel as though if one cannot wear whatever one chooses to one’s own fête, then life is simply not worth living, anyhow. My ensemble of choice consisted of wet look leggings, an exoskeletal style BCBG cincher, some insanely dominatrixey black leather ankle-boots/Diamanté dog collar and a lavender suede motorcycle jacket over a bra-cum-top. No, that was not a double entendre, but take it there, if you must, while Julie Andrews and I make this face:
Anyhow, hit Dorsia, which GQ.com instructed the masculinely inept across the globe would allow them to embrace their inner Patrick Bateman’s by finally managing to get that Sea Urchin ceviche in South Kensington. Unfortunately for the Sea Urchin, we hit it up about 11, though I’m sure it clamoured all day/night long for my munching on it. So Sowwy Ceviche!
As I am L’officiel Imported American Psycho, of course death-defying destruction of all things liquor-related commenced well and truly in advance of our arrival, and we further annihilated both Grey Goose bottles and glassware as well as alienating members of the Made In Chelsea pretty committee once again (because I always fail to recognize their ‘celebrityness’ and never fail to be adequately inappropriate, insulting and generally good fun), this time asking Spencer Matthews if he planned on running down any Snappy Snaps, later. For fun. To be fair, dude looks like George Michael, which it a total compliment anyway, so don’t get all nah nah nah nah about it. Just ask him if he’s got faith-ah-faith-ah-faith in some sort of investment thing, because I think he’s supposed to either be a broker or play one on TV. I don’t actually have a TV so this excuses me from all but what underlings indicate are “need to know” current affairs issues, such as the cat who says “No, no, no, no, no”and the French Bulldog who cannot turn over, gets lazy, gives up, and then tries some more. That shit is GOLD.
Stumbled around South Kensington and Fulham like detectives with every clue (or Clouseau) leading to the arrest of all cardiacs, whether incited by Class A drug or level of Camembert melted on necessary 4AM Baguette party. Actually, I was very respectable this year and only required Valium to get through a bunch of estate agents waking me up at 9 AM on Birthday-Day to traipse overeager mothers-and-babies through my gorgeous house, which was incredibly off-putting, as far as birthday treats go. And, I might add, Valium is only Class C, anyway, duhhhh, and I’m sure we’d all agree it makes this Valium-of-the-Dollster a MUCH NICER DOLL TO BE AROUND THAT EARLY IN THE BEFORE-NOON-O’CLOCK. Other than that, much of the rest of life was spent in a delectable haze of truffles and Champagne. (Literally, I think I only consumed chocolate and champagne – with the exception of some Goat’s Cheese and a whole lot of vodka – for 48 hours straight. = The answer to “How Do You Always Look So Fresh-Faced!?”)
Oh, and this happened:
Twix wearing birthday candles following a Birthday Valium Nap, which if it isn’t already “a thing”, needs to be “a thing”. I’m going to incorporate it into my daily routine.
Remember a couple of days ago I committed to letting the internet judge me with its’ harsh critical bitchface on new tracks? This is one of those times where I’m like “hm, I dunno if they’re gonna like this one”. Don’t worry if it’s not your cup of tea, I’ve got approximately 6,987 poppy little numbers tarting up this minute for your amusement. Think of this one as that scene in Forrest Gump when Forrest goes to see Jenny “perform her music” as Bobbie Dylan and she’s naked with a guitar and everyone’s like “c’mon toots, get a harmonica!” and she’s all “Ahm singin’ a sowng!” In that case, I’m sorry I’ve spoiled your Black Panther party. Let’s move on.
Sometimes I feel like I might have turned into Nikki “Peter Gabriel Bitter-Articulate” Awesome, but hey, at least the bitch can do “diverse”. Yesterday I posted hiphop-gone-country so SUCK MY FAME bitches.
It’s funny how no matter what you write, there’s someone popping up to take ownership of the incident that supposedly inspired you in anyol’ particular moment… Shit, kids, sometimes a song is just a song, sometimes it begs analysis but it doesn’t wanna stick around in the waiting room. Love your commentary, but sometimes it’s a bit rich (ahem) to presume things are utterly devoted to them, like some kind of shrine to unrequited love or record contracts. Case in point: “ALL THE LITTLE THINGS” was not written about ANYBODY – we literally thought “Ooh let’s be Stanislavsky-style actors and think about something that might sound creepy-sexy, like a female stalker.” I wasn’t actually waiting outside of someone’s HOUSE. It’s called artistic license, look into it sometime.
Oh Adele, I know how you feel (just minus the loads of money/grammys)
Lyrics HERE, feel free to apply that shit both liberally and sarcastically. Oh wait, you all thought it would be like this, right?
A little nostalgic over the past few days for long non-solo grinds with my boys S. Breeze and Plus Mo. Our trio trekked across Canada and the U.S. with Flo Rida, you will recall (or simply hit the archives), hitting up public appearances, radio and TV spots, killing stages et cetera, so I chucked together some footage to get all misty over. #StillLoyal baby, #ThatsWhatsUp.
The below videos are basically what being in The Royal Society was about. Go blow a balloon and brush your damn teef, essentially, and pop that Cristal after a case of RedBull, it’s better that way. Oh, life. Also there is a sick impromptu version of COUNTRY STYLE in the below video. And lots of balloons.
I should explain about the wandering around aimlessly for those of you who’ve never done/seen a soundcheck – the wireless mic’s bounced off each other/slash would totally and completely die on occasion, so most soundchecks we’d bounce off the walls on 1,500 RedBulls (in the hospitality rider, natch!) trying to make them die… so that when the sound guys were checking it they’d get EVERY SINGLE POSSIBLE PROBLEM to deal with before the show. And #thatishowitsdonekids.
I have also added the NOUVEAU RICHE EP along with some other BONUS TRACKS, a photo gallery of precious moments and to the ABOUT THE ROYAL SOCIETY section – hit up the drop down menu up at at the top – c’mon, this isn’t your first visit to the internet.
1. WordPress.com has notified that this is some kind of milestone 150th post, so I feel like I ought to have some kind of special magical cupcake party. When I was 2, my mum made me these clown cupcakes that in retrospect were mildly terrifying, but there is a fantastic picture of me having a total bitchfest because I wanted ALL of the clown cupcakes for ME. I’m pretty sure I spent the rest of the party knocking them out of other people’s hands. Why? Because I CAN. The picture is currently in a photo album at my parent’s house but I will totally ensure they scan-and-send IMMEDIATELY because it’s fucking brilliant. So yeah. 150 posts. It doesn’t really seem megacredible except for the fact that they kinda mostly have been long rants of self-indulgent CRAY CRAY, so let the bitching continue. Wheeeeeeeee, all the way home. Can we discuss this creepy picture, for one second? What’s with all the terrified clowns and the one creepy smiling one? It’s like he’s all “oh wait, didn’t you know? I spiked that shit with PCP motherfuckers!”
2. I posted another new demo up on DOLLS’ Soundcloud Account, and thank you for listening and commenting etc. So, it seems like the demos are not (just yet) being shredded – but I understand, I need a wider audience to fucking hate me before I regain my former status of being shit talked on the internet (as opposed to just in real life which ANYONE can do). Of course I’m posting it here, too, and on the fanpages, twitter, multiple personality facebook accounts and et cetera. Pretty please, if you like it, share it. People keep asking me if it’s really embarrassing that they’re fanning out on my shit. Answer = Uh, NO, I don’t make tracks, videos, keep you all updated on all the minutia of my life so that you can keep that shit in a shoebox for your creepy private sessions solo listening parties, so if you like it, get me a £Grillion deal already.
3. Went to The Valmont Club last night to see Richie Rich’s collection for fashion week – only, funny, he didn’t show up. After experiencing James St James for an evening a few years back I kind of anticipated this might or might not happen, but who knows what kind of fuckery happened to destroy that dream. Not that I’m making any kind of James St James call on Richie (I don’t think he’s he “Pardon me, do you have any ketamine” type) because that man is mothafuckin’ CRAY CRAY 2 the Pepsi MAX, kids. This one time we threw this party that I can’t even remember whyfor, it was something to do with WORD ON THE STREET/Writing Outside The Margins, a queer literary fest that I’m not sure is not still going. Anyway, it was called SAVE THE ROBOTS and James was in top form and super adorably sweet except when all of a sudden he was firmly gripping my hand and whispering “I.Can’t.Do.This.” very secretly, to your gossip girl right here, (XOXO) at which point he asked me and another friend to take over DJ/hosting duties which resulted in a lot of this. I don’t know why, but this also happened when Jeffree Star came to Toronto PRIDE, threw a beer bottle at a woman’s head and headed off to DJ. Who gets a call at that point but Miss “Last Minute Headliner” Awesome, who had, I believe, eaten a lot of things that day that were not of terrestrial origin, and proceeded to stumble out of a pile of champagne and other delicacies to pop on the headphones for Mr Starr, who then spilled beer (PS BEER!?) all over my fucking music. What a bitch! I had been wearing a leather vest and was dressed as a baby leatherdaddy specifically to steal his show, and the combination of 40 million degree weather and beer-covered leather made that outfit disappear and I happened to have all-access to a FANTASTIC Bovine Sex Club t-shit that was pulled out of the basement under a pile of used needles and rock-dust. Bitch knew what he was up to. Anythefuckhow, I was massively disappointed not to see Richie Rich last night and instead there was some weird frockery happening all over the place. There were one or two standout pieces from some designer I don’t recall the name of, and then there was a whole lot of ‘mother-of-the-bride-gone-awry’ mixed in with ‘floor-length-crimson-poly-cotton’ (like HOW IS THAT EVEN A THING?) which made my head have to etch-a-sketch itself with nearby champagne flutes, at which point leaving was no longer an option but a necessity for continuing to forget. Trotted back down the Fulham Road as style and grace personified, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, stumble.
1. New Layout on the site. I realized I hadn’t changed it EVER since the first of EVER. So I hope you’re feeling fun and fancy free with the new format.
2. I have updated the PHOTOS section for all of your gawking/voyeuristic needs.
3. I have been looking at the 300+ songs sitting on my iTunes and y’all have been demanding new(ish) tracks from me. I have this “i’m not a producer, though” anxiety where I get all Woody Allen about it and I’m like “Wait, that’s not a song. Are you kidding? WHAT MAN WOULD WANT YOU!?” And then five seconds later I’m like “Holy shit you’re a fucking GENIUS”. It’s a very bipolar kind of self-love/hate thing, so let’s let the internet decide, right? Because I just LOVE criticism.
4. I am also updating all the lyrics section which, if you like semi-frequently intelligent women you might want to fall in love about. They’re pretty fucking aiight, if I do say so myself. Now let’s get some production value on this bitch.
That’s about all for the last/next five minutes, looking forward to all of your comments.
Oh and PS – look at the picture above, playing TACO’s cover of Puttin’ On The Ritz, except change “Puttin’ On” to “Fuckin’ Up”. As one does.
It’s official. I can start saying “You Love Me” more than “Happy Valentines Day, NO ONE”.
Period Drama, the short film I co-wrote and act in, has now gotten over 400,000 views on YouTube.
Period Drama submits to the mercy of some film festival (don’t ask me, that’s JDRW5‘s job to keep track of things) tomorrow, so make the sign of the cross your fingers that it does well and you can be all OMG I can’t even B-Leev U haven’t been following NikkiAwesome until just NOW that she has won fifty Oscars. How utterly shame-making for your frenemies. They’ll be simply crimson!
Of course, everything I touch turns to awesome or bursts into flame, so clearly we’re not surprised. However, I am a little disappointed that the second part of the Period Drama trilogy, Emergency Procedures, did not wind up being the big winner. It features Yours Truly vomiting blood backwards in a sequined bridal gown in minus 40⋅C while being bound and gagged in gauze by transvestite Hitler Youth. Seriously, you try to be shocking and what happens? “Oh. We expected that kind of thing from you.”
The trilogy is being cut into one short film, but you can see Episode 2: Emergency Procedures here:
I can’t even begin to tell you how ridiculous/utterly disappointing my experience with Aspinal of London has been. Like seriously. I find it really hilarious when a “luuuuuuxurrrry company” who claim to care “oh so very much about cuuuuussssssstomer service” act like you should be satisfied with being treated like shit while paying extortionate prices for things, and then be grateful about it.
