Just to give you some clue as to the state I'm in, I must tell you that I took a taxi from Heathrow to home. I could not face the Railair bus; I am sorry, I just couldn't. A surfeit of alcohol and not much sleep has left me jittery and unstable. At the airport I ate a sausage roll. That is how bad I am. Non-kosher carbs in full view of the El Al frequent flyer lounge. Desperate.
Since revealing myself to be a member of the real economy, with a real job in which I meet real people and make real decisions, my inbox has been becrammed with demands from dreary women wanting to know the secrets of my success. What shall we wear? What shall we buy? With whom should we be seen? This is the burden of their song. Obviously, I am uniquely placed to answer these pleas, but I do not want to alienate my menfolk, or Kev and Gadj. Therefore, for a limited period only, I intend to split my posts into two distinct halves: one for each gender. I will strive to make it abundantly clear which is which.
Can I say that these unimaginative enquirers are not my regular readers. They do not feature in my comment box, nor are they fans or followers. Many are from the United States and host knitting blogs. Some are Australian. There is a Canadian, a South African, three Kiwis and a farmer's wife from the Falklands. A harridan from the Netherlands wants to know about Coccinelle bucket bags, and two Austrians - twins - ask if I know Vincent Lacrocq. I am even solicited from Sweden! Who would have thought that race would need style counsel? (unbridled mirth here from Mrs Pouncer who believes the Swedes to be out there in the frump-stakes, Abba notwithstanding. And I don't care what anyone says, the blonde one had clinical lordosis which is why she wore johdpurs and zouaves. I am a doctor's daughter. I see these things). A native Emirati issues a poignant plea: I wear a floor-length black niqab every day. How should I accessorize? And a Latvian hussy boasts about her huge rack before asking about Agent Prov's new fishnet knickers. See what I am up against! The job is almost too big, but I am up to the challenge, I know I am. Now, just follow me:
LADIES FIRST
(Everything you read here is true. I don't fuck about with "in my opinion" or "it's a matter of personal choice". You must follow my advice to the very letter. Otherwise, it is all a waste of my precious time).
Q. Which black eyeliner should I buy? I want to look like you.
A. Guerlain's Indian Black Kohl. If you are poor, or live in an area that still supports a Budgen (most of Wiltshire; Telford, etc) Dolce & Gabbana's Stromboli Eye Pencil comes in at £5 cheaper.
Q. I am going to the seaside. Usually, I go to Antibes, but this year I am poor and have to go to Camber Sands. How can I avoid suicide?
A. Silly! An oversize Irwin & Jordan shirt (the androgynous shift is the only thing to wear a la plage this year; do NOT lie down and die in a Matthew Williamson kaftan), a pair of Casadei gold sandals, a huge Epice bag and a bright yellow Agua Bendita. You can then ignore your irredeemably prolly surroundings. Don't forget to sneer. Do not buy a Mivvy from the icecream man. Do not strike up a conversation with a pleb.
Q. Quick, Mrs Pouncer! I stink of drink and Kensitas!
A. Dr Maroon! You are in the wrong section! However, I am nothing if not giving and Marc Jacobs Splash Sorbet in Grapefruit can be used by either gender without their sexuality being called into question. It is also available in Pear & Basil, which you might like to spritz over your oatmeal, hemhem.
Q. Mrs Pouncer, why can't I be you?
A. Good heavens! I would have thought that was obvious. However, never say die. Start with Sisleya Radiance Anti-Ageing Concentrate (£200 House of Fraser, Selfridges, Harrods, Harvey Nicks. Not Boots; not Superdrug) and work down. Agent Prov's new fishnet knickers cannot fail. And hips don't lie, as Shakira reminds us. Get your hair cut by Sam McKnight - say I sent you. Wear Plexiglass jewellery and Nicholas Ghesquiere glasses. Own at least one vintage Halston piece and a silk dress by Missoni. Drink gin. Sleep alone.
Q. What about minge?
A. Ye Gods! How vile! Who are you? No, never mind. Go to St James's Beauty Rooms (Strutton Ground, SW1) where they do the most painfree Brazilians. Between times, Gillette's Venus Embrace is the only thing to use, particularly if you have a shaky hand.
Q. Mrs Pouncer, I have done everything a bad man asked me to. How much should this be worth in pounds sterling, or as some tchotchke or other?
A. You sound like my younger self! The Wages of Sin this season are easily identified: A Mulberry Bayswater clutch, a Mulberry Piccadilly high-heel pump and a night at the Langham (Portland Place; 020 7965 0191) should suffice.
I do hope you have all benefited from this advice. Tomorrow, I will address the men. But now ... I drink!
Don't feel too guilty about the sausage roll. You're feeding your inner scouser.
ReplyDeleteNice to see you're back.
Mrs P, I'll be your first (I don't suppose you've heard that for some time)
ReplyDeleteAs ever, you put a smile on my face
Drink deeply, and return to give us men something to ponder
DT
Whoops, Kevin must have snuck in while I was composing.
ReplyDeleteNever mind, to be your second is equally pleasurable, I'm sure
Of course you are right, Clarissa. Oatmeal it is.
ReplyDeleteYou've never sold out?
ReplyDeleteI have to make do with No.7 eyeliner.
ReplyDeleteBut it's not for my eyes.
Never the eyes!
Welcome home.
Now where's me Minty Thingie?
Q. I am a male housedrudge whose wife buys my clothes for me, most of which she gets from second-hand shops - what can I do to make myself look less like a regular at Abertillery Jobcentre?
ReplyDeleteMrs Pouncer dear, I do so HATE that word 'minge' (it even pains me to write it) when referring to the front bottom: so unladylike. And in respect of the Lady Garden, I myself favour the short back and sides. Sensible pruning will ensure not too much unruliness but sufficient foliage around the door is essential to ensure that drunken fumblings in the dark do not result in the key being placed in the wrong keyhole.
ReplyDeleteNot sure about this Mrs P, but I've heard that Otylia Roberts in George St, W1 is the pace to go for waxings, although I would never use anything other than J Barbour and Son's own brand on my jackets.
ReplyDeleteBugger, I'm reading the ladies section by mistake aren't I?
Madame Pouncer,
ReplyDeleteSince I stopped drinking I am a regular antabuse gruffler which renders me allergic to alcohol in all its many various and nefarious forms - everything that smells nice - tramps, pubs, eau de thingy, deoderant - contains alcohol, what's a recovering shambler to do?
Yours in desperation,
The Cardiff Drunk.
Can some marketing genius really have chosen to brand an eye pencil "Stromboli" - and people buy it? What next? Vesuvius blusher? Etna for those embarrassing pores?
ReplyDeleteBrazilians are fine indeed in their own right, however I am enclined to lean more towards a landing strip with perhaps a finely tapered gable end.
ReplyDeleteI think there was a spelling mistake in the penultimate question.
ReplyDelete[this time without typo] Having been stuck in the unpleasantness that is the airport at Rio de Janeiro, I don't understand this fascination with Brazilian landing strips at all.
ReplyDeleteI always have a Lithuanian
ReplyDeleteA pump? I would give the girl a pair of pumps. But then, I am a gentleman.
ReplyDeletePouncer, you're England's answer to Hunter S Thompson, but with a set of norks.
ReplyDeleteDear All, sorry to be delayed in responding, but my job is very important and demanding at the moment, and I have no time for folderol. I do hope to be able to bring some shimmer to your humdrum lives before too long. Affectionately, Clarissa Pouncer
ReplyDeletePfffftttt.... no mention of TopShop... or Rimmel... OR wellington boots.
ReplyDeleteSx
with the tops rolled down?
ReplyDeleteWhat? Wellies with the tops rolled down? Yep, that could work with black leggings and a denim skirt. V.sophis.
ReplyDeleteSx
Kevin, my inner scouser is constantly being topped up. Actually, the outer one is in the ascendant, too. Caught sight of myself yesterday in a shop window as I was passing; you know how you try and prepare yourself for such a vision? Well, I didn't, and there I was: hair a bit too black and a bit too big, perma-tan, heels too high, stringy ankles, skirt too short, smoking like fuck. Straight out of Skelhorne Street, I tellya.
ReplyDeleteDT Rave! You rascal! You cast aspersions and then run away. I have a new "first" every day. I reinvent myself. I am a true existentialist.
Mahwoon! You seem peevish, liverish, Scottish. I imagine that Saudi oatmeal is powdery, inferior, stuff. Are you losing weight and hope? Can you not negotiate a repat visit just to reacquaint yourself with the great caledonian breakfast - two teas, five fags?
Pat, never. Never, never, never. I have always, always been true to myself. Not always true to others, of course, hemhem, but always true to myself. In my fashion.
Mapstew, for what do you use the eyeliner, then? What on earth are you trying to accentuate? I sincerely hope and pray that you are not in the habit of adorning yourself with comedy moustaches? I have sent a bag of Menta Fredda c/o the Sub Post Office, Drumcondra. You will have to sign for it.
ReplyDeleteGadjo, your personal style just happens to be the dernier cri this season! Abertillery Jobcentre Chic was referenced in the aspirational supplements last Sunday. Andreas Kronthaler accessorizes it with a hangman's mask and his mum's pegbag.
Hello, Camilla, and wilkommen! I cannot be responsible for the vocabulary of my correspondents. Like you, I avoid minge whenever I can, even when it is not expedient to do so. Your personal topiary sounds sensible, but you seem to be liaising with locksmiths, which I would regard as infra dig. Sights higher, should be your motto.
Mr Jekand, I thought I had made myself perfectly clear! These opulent pensees are for women only; your turn will come tomorrow. However, I am grateful for your word-picture, and now have a handle on your personal style ("tribe" as my friend Mrs M Portas would have it). In these recessionary times, I urge you to consider L L Bean as an alternative to B'bour (which should never be worn at Paddington Station btw). However, wax-wear is fearful outmoded and men should take their lead from Leon Talley and wear huge, sweeping capes. You heard it here first.
ReplyDeleteThe Drinker! You are more welcome than you will ever know. Shamblers should never recover; it is part of their charm - look at Maroon and N G Boyo, for example. I fear you have jumped the gun and will have to wait for my style counsel, but I offer you one sliver of enlightenment: stay away from men's ready-to-wear and invest in a statement overcoat. The only shoe to be seen in is the Dirty Buck (a plain brown or beige suede Oxford). The wonderful news is that Topman have the perfect pair for only £50! All men should rush to the local mall and buy them TODAY.
Auty, you are naughty. D & G's Stromboli eyeliner exists, and you may Google it with gay abandon. It is one of their best-sellers, and no-one bats an eyelid at its name, no pun intended.
ReplyDeleteJimmy, I don't know whether to be aroused by your declaration, or alarmed. Or dismayed. I just can't get hold of the correct response for some reason. This is very unlike me. Tell me again.
Daphne, oh probably. I am charmingly lackadaisical at the moment; almost girlish. I don't know why. A Lebanese bond trader fed me glazed chestnuts on Saturday night and I haven't been the same since.
Dear Mr Jekand, I fear you are boastful. However, the Worst Airport In The World is undoubtedly Chicago's O'Hare, where my poor father was detained for hours and frisked in an ungodly fashion. It was a case of mistaken identity. My dear mother, that glamorous old harridan, had to invoke the influence of Cardinal Stritch. That shut them all up.
ReplyDeleteHello Alice, how nice. You always have a Lithuanian what? There is no full stop to proclaim the end of the sentence, and I fear you were called away unexpectedly. I cannot begin to imagine what item, person or procedure could hang from the end of your declaration. Please enlighten us with all available haste. You are most welcome here.
Inky, you are very pernickity. Yes, OK, a pair of shoes. I bet you're the type who talks about a pair of brassieres, too. I mean, really, the whole thing is beyond reason. Do you call scissors "paper shears"? I bet you do. And luncheon. I know we've had a similar, and very cordial, conversation in the past, where we agreed we hated horse-riding, notepaper and umbrellas with tassels on them. I went a bit further and called for overmantles, looking-glasses and lavatories. We are very U, aren't we? Isn't it fun?
. There: is full stop just for you, Mrs Pouncer! I try to write that I never have Brazilian trim - only ever what is called a Lithuanian because is like our countryside. We like good thick forests, but always ensure the roads through are kept clear and driveable.
ReplyDeleteEmerson baybee, I won't deny it - and WHAT norks! I am oft-times likened to Olinka Berova in the opening reel of Lemonade Joe.
ReplyDeleteScarlet and Kev, silly. Very. You will look like two extras from Cold Comfort Farm.
Alice, I commend you for your quick comeback. Always a bonus. However, it is clear that you have never taken the road from Raguva to Lazdijai; hardly clear OR driveable, I'm afraid. The Old Bath Road cannot be beaten, in my view.
Many thanks Mr Pouncer, I've bought an overcoat with "I don't think I'll ever really be able to trust David Cameron" stencilled on it. Bought it from a sallow-skinned skinny calling him-self Richie in the Albany Road Charmers' Market, it was a bargain £3.77. Sadly, £50 is beyond my feet's budget, so I am hewing a pair from the compressed stuff at the bottom of the recycling bag - great things are expected!
ReplyDeleteThanks for your encouragement, Mrs P. - I've just got a new consignment of polyester tank-tops and shirts with racing cars printed on them!
ReplyDeleteGadj, you are making an effort, for which I am thankful. I have passed your contact details to gorgeous Alexandrucornelieu Mihailescu, Bucharest's top male lingerie model. He will advise on pouting, posing and how to wear a tank-top slashed to the navel, or beyond. Do please listen to him if you can. He has a high-pitched nasal whine, and a nervous giggle, but what that boy doesn't know about metrosexual behaviour in the fleshpots simply isn't worth knowing.
ReplyDeleteMr Drinker, disappointing. Very. I suggest you husband your resources and hie thee to a theatrical costumier or, even better, a hirer of Welsh national dress. By St Dwynwen's Day I would like to see you in Harry Secombe chic. For Eisteddfodau, I suggest a bardic revival. You can extemporise the gown using an old Bri-Nylon nightie of your nan's, and the crown can be confected from several wire coathangers, decorated here and there with Quality Street wrappers.
Taken on board Mrs P, consider me suitably sartorially chastised. I shall attempt to inhabit the costume, and, indeed the character of a Rebecca rioter before the weekend is out - this, I hope, will serve to kill both your chic-as-can-be birds with one 19th Century workman's stone.
ReplyDeleteAh yes, dear Mihailescu, or "Bobo" as we know him. He's actually here right now, measuring me up for a fun fur.
ReplyDeleteI have been shamelessly squandering my time in front of a screen this summer and opting for carnal activities oot & aboot in the real world.
ReplyDeleteI shall return when when the nice weather dissolves but I wanted you to know how I dearly love your turn of phrase...
and your postings put me at ease because I know for certain that the invading Insect Overlords will want to interogate you, quite thoroughly I imagine, long before they will ever get around to the likes of moi.
I believe that it was Madamme Boone, the reknown American teenage gospel minstress, who once said,
"You give me hope,
to carry on."
Nostalgia, Mrs Pouncer. The only thing to look forward to is the past. I bet you recognise that song lyric,
ReplyDelete