RUSSIAN FEMME FATALES

Russian ladies...a peculiar breed...each and every one of them got serious swag and rocking their own particular sartorial vibe. We were astounded by the preponderance of young ones who truly were blessed with supermodel genetics and the older ones that were styling it up on a babushka/gypsy/Rocky Horror Transylvanian tip. Young or old...they all very clearly knew their way around the local cosmetics counter, hairdresser, beauty parlour and discount clothing emporium. Hooray for Capitalism!

LANVIN POUR H&M

Today sees the onslaught of another insane frenzy of consumerist credit card abuse with hoards of feverish ladies descending on H&M stores to purchase pieces from Lanvin's new diffusion range.

The Swedish fashion retailer has become renowned for collaborations with both high-end designers and celebrities, starting with Chanel's funny little designer dandy Karl Lagerfeld in 2004. Partnerships with labels such as Viktor & Rolf and Stella McCartney as well as celebrands like Madonna and Kylie Minogue followed, affording the aspirational high street girl access to the illusion of an unattainable designer lifestyle marketed towards her ad nauseum. Feeling insecure yet girls?

The collection incorporates some trademark Lanvin staple looks such as the flirty, frilled dresses in bold block colours (above) displaying a nostalgic nod to the 80s, while not straying too far from the traditional high-end Lanvin brand image (above top). Some menswear pieces are included in the range as well, but like...who cares? 

Another way for mere mortals to live the Lanvin dream is via this sumptuous coffee table hard-back extravagaza (below). The book details the history of Jeanne Lanvin's brand from its 1909 couture beginnings through the development of the Lanvin design house encompassing home decor, menswear, lingerie, furs and even its own dye factory. The imagery is lavish and vintage, the text covering the full Lanvin history right up until the current reign under Morroccan-born artistic director Alber Elbaz. 

Lanvin are perhaps best known however, for their 1927 signature scent Arpege (below). This beautiful fragrance - still available today - was allegedly created by Jeanne Lanvin for her daughter's 13th birthday (how chic), the name referencing the term 'arpeggio' and inspired by her love of music. The classic noir bottle features a modernist design, symbolic of a mother and daughter's preparation before a grand ball. If Austerity Britain means you can't stretch to a piece of H&M's Lanvin range, the least you can do is shoplift, I mean, go crazy with the Arpege tester next time you're in Boots. You're worth it (especially if L'Oreal tell you so).

All images courtesy of Google

A PRETTY GREEN LIAM GALLAGHER

It seems Carnaby Street is the place middle-aged rock'n'roll stars go to reinvent themselves, specifically Liam Gallagher in the form of post-Oasis men's clothing venture 'Pretty Green'. The Old Burnage Bully is tastefully spreadeagled over his new shop window, manfully draped in a vintage union flag that puts Morrissey's notorious 1992 Finsbury Park performance to shame (below). That trademark intimidating scowl burns holes into the skulls of innocent Japanese tourists, Gallagher's pretty vacant looks and celebrity bankability making a potent combination. Kerching!

Apparently 'founded and designed' by Gallagher himself, (difficult to imagine the moody so-and-so fingering fabric swatches and frantically sketching all night on a massive, Lagerfeld-style creative bender), the store capitalises on both Oasis' characteristically British brand of football casual/mod fusion style and the rich cultural, music and fashion legacy of London's famous Carnaby Street. With a logo ripped straight off the Beatles' distinctive 1965 Rubber Soul album cover, its interesting to ponder if the store's name is a sly nod not only to Weller but also towards all those pretty green dollar bills hes going to rake in with this new incarnation...

Pretty Green's wares incorporate swinging '60s and mod-influenced 'Black Label' tailored designs, including a range of parkas priced from £420 to £555. The more casual 'Green Label' diffusion line features less expensive pieces in rich burgundy, blue, purple and green hues. The reasonably priced desert boot at £95 in distinctive champagne and green is pretty cool, along with the brilliant black suede Lennon hat artfully modelled by the man himself. La Gallagher's regular pounding of Hamsptead Heath's paths (keeping an eagle eye out for Georgie Michael!) in early morning mists have paid off, his youthfully buff form showcased in all its frowny glory on the store's website.

Brother Paul Gallagher, Ocean Colour Scene's Steve Craddock and ex Ride shoegazer/Oasis band mate Andy Bell have all made in-store DJ appearances (presumably Noel's invite got lost in the post). The shop also functions as a venue showcasing exclusive new material and events for Liam's post-Oasis musical outfit Beady Eye. Could it be Liam's been reading the Katie Price guide to branding and business diversification? Definitely maybe.

PART 2 OF A RIDICULOUSLY LONG POST ABOUT THE ISLE OF WIGHT...WEST COAST

The Isle of Wight's beautiful west coast has the natural benefit of slow, dreamy sunsets descending gradually across the horizon and a more gentile, sophisticated appearance than some of the chavvier eastside towns (not mentioning any names, Sandown). The island's westerly tip features a dramatic coastal walk from the village of Freshwater ascending a gentle green hill, alongside stunning alabaster-white cliffs. A healthy batch of Super Furry Animals populated the hillside, delightfully placid toward the constant stream of huffing n puffing ramblers and fatwacs* invading their peaceful home (below).   

Upon the crest of the hill stood an imposing Celtic cross - an 1897 monument to Poet Laureate Lord Alfred Tennyson who made the island his home in 1853, until his death in 1892. This beautiful cross (below) dominates the landscape, an ominous talisman warding off the evil lurking within the foreboding, smoke-coloured skies above. Eventually the heavens opened, the mini tempest rolling over the westerly Freshwater Bay as rapidly as it had arrived.

The pretty coastal walk continued along an increasingly narrow peninsula towards the stunning outcrop of rock formations known as The Needles (below). This beautiful vista appeared island-wide on heavy rotation  across all postcard shops and deservedly so. The view was truly divine, its pure white cliffs and aquamarine water seeming somehow more Aegean Sea than Rule Britannia... 



My jaunt around the Isle of Wight's westerly nether regions concluded with a browse around the petit bougeois harbour town of Yarmouth, the island's alternative ferry port to the fatherland. The seafront housed a rickety wooden pier, atmospheric under the dwindling pink dusk light and decorated with retro life-raft donuts (good enuff to eat! - below) and a handsome, post-ironic mod couple cuddling up against the breeze, showing off their minimalist, hipster, 21st century styling. Sartorialist...eat your heart out...(below bottom).

Like any pretty English village worth its salt, Yarmouth's sleepy main drag was populated with historic buildings and picturesque architecture. Cosy cottages bursting with colourful foliage, enormous barns converted into living quarters of extended bourgeois families and normal two up-two downs surrounded by fields drenched in afternoon sun (below) all contributed to the town's pleasant atmosphere. An Englishman's home is his castle, its just a shame he probably can't afford one here. Rah rah rah! We're going to smash the oiks!

A slow-burning sunset fading low over clattering yacht masts set the scene for my last glimpse of the charming Isle of Wight (bottom). The weather was great, the people welcoming and the beaches sandy...if you close your eyes you would almost believe you were not even standing on Old Albion's fine shores. Then you hear the familiar drone of a Vespa engine...and get the hell out of Sir Weller's way! Now...thats entertainment.  

* fatwac - Fat American Tourist With A Camera (c) The Artist Formerly Known As Jaybs 2007

PART 1 OF A RIDICULOUSLY LONG POST ABOUT THE ISLE OF WIGHT...EAST COAST

Bonjour ma cheries, I'm back in da hood after my final summer sojourn, just in time to catch the start of a long, dark descent into the winter of our discontent on This Fair Isle. And so...onto the atmospheric Isle of Wight. T'was August bank holiday, arriving off the ferry from Portsmouth into the town of Ryde and I was enchanted to discover the local train was actually a retired vintage tube that shuffled out a couple of hundred metres over the rickety Victorian pier to meet the ferry (below). 

I stayed in the lovely Shanklin Old Village on the island's east coast, where the streets are awash with beautiful thatched cottages from days of yore lit up with pretty fairy lights (below top). It was here I first noticed that the thinking gentleman's favoured sartorial choice seemed to be either Fred Perry, Fred Perry or Fred Perry. I'd never seen so many middle aged beerguts straining against too-tight casual apparel. Even the charity shops featured cut price jobbies in their fabulous window displays (below bottom). When I heard the joyous din of the pissy little Lambretta motor for the millionth time, the penny finally dropped that I had landed smack bang in the midst of the 2010 Isle of Wight scooter rally. Jeeesusssss....three days of this I grumbled as I jauntily threw myself into the hedgerows under cover of darkness for the fourth time to get out of the way of Scunthorpe Scooter Club's finest.

   

I was impressed of course, to see this quintessentially British scooter culture very much alive and kicking against the pricks (whoever they are these days. Tescos probably). Predictably enough, The Modfather Weller was in residence doing a show at Carisbrooke Castle and most of the faithful were around the same vintage with a few young, new-school hipsters thrown in for good measure.  

Shanklin's beach was a pretty, vast expanse of calm water, full of families having crazy summer fun in the sunny weather. After hiring my deckchair and busting out the knotted handkerchief on my head, I exposed my deathly pallor to the full vitamin D experience and kicked back with a serving of Irvine Welsh. I soon realised however, the best fun to be had on the beach is still being buried up to your neck in sand while your sister fucks off into the water threatening never to return (below bottom). Good times.  

By accident I happened upon the Shanklin Chine (below), a beautiful gorge leading from the lower edges of the village out to the seafront via a tiny enchanted forest. Visitors can amble through this oasis of spectacular, fertile wilderness - featuring an imposing waterfall and more than 150 varieties of wild plants, as well as the infamous red squirrel...now all but extinct on mainland Britain. After an extremely pleasant stroll through the chine, I paused to examine the squawking avery of exotic birds before downing a divine cream tea - scones and cakes all homemade by the lovely chief cook and bottlewashing lady on the premises.  

There is much picturesque walking and bike riding to be done on the Isle of Wight, and the Shanklin to Ventnor section of the 67 mile coastal path almost got the better of me. After the local Tourist Information Centre battleaxe's confident advice that 'its only an hour!' I set off on my jaunt, humming a gay tune, not realising the crazy dame meant an hour uphill, carving through overgrown foliage like some wizzed-up 'Nam vet, negotiating prehistoric fallen tree trunks, slithering between rock crevices and falling on my arse through endless puddles of mud. It all became worthwhile after I stumbled upon this brilliant local enterprise (below) selling homemade wares from the Luccombe Jam Man. A table full of jam, an honesty box, a handwritten sign...job done. Won't get that down the Crapham High Street. 

Finally surfacing back into civilisation...I felt the call of a restorative snifter and came upon this curious establishment (below) in Ventnor. Not afraid to fly the the old union flag with gay abandon, this pub positively revelled in Great Britain's halcyon days, displaying paraphernalia from those long-forgotten times when the men were real men and the women were glad about it. The locals gathered round, banging on about local issues the way local people do (...are YOU local?)...and a merry atmosphere pervaded the place on this beautiful sunny August bank holiday.