John Galliano

I am unsure why my body has decided over the past few weeks that, unless alcohol has been consumed (which, knowing my habits, is slightly more than regular) it is simply not allowed to fall asleep before 4am. Due it be to bad sleeping habits or the banging and shouting in the room above me; it does not prove as a good habit for my early morning lectures.

You'd think that I'd be using this time wisely, judging by the enormity of my portfolio; however, it seems to be the case that having finished reading Last Night at Chateau Marmont and having consumed a whole bag of crisps, I find myself emailing agencies about house viewings, and browsing through clothes I cannot a) afford now or b) ever afford.

Furthermore, I seem to have a particular interest with John Galliano at the moment. When I was with my DVC (Design and Visual Culture) group today, I obliviously mentioned how much I like his work, which seemed to cause much controversy amongst the group, with people commenting on how he had become 'unoriginal' and 'repetitive'.
Despite this, I still find his style and story fascinating, and continue to be attracted to his work.

John Galliano at the 2007 Dior Haute Couture show

Maybe it's my attraction to the 'bold and the bright' the 'creative and the artistic' that leads me to admire his themed catwalk shows, or perhaps it's my stubborn side of wanting to go against popular opinion; either way, I'm sure pictures (with hideous prices) of his beautifully crafted shoes will soon work its way up into my 'most viewed' pages soon.

Aside from such trivialities, there doesnt seem to be an awful lot of an interesting nature featuring in the pages of my life.

I lie.

Friday night me and the 'girls' went to Detonate, which in summary meant drinking too much too fast, having an embarrassing stage of drunken kareoke (and I do not sing!) in the living room, before heading out and talking to strangers in the queue, running through the snow and getting to the front row of Subfocus, ending up dancing on stage with Rusko, before finally ending up in Trent Kebabs, meaning a drunken stumbling into bed with a stomach full of chicken strips, cheesey chips and chilli sauce.

Subfocus (phwor!)

Saturday night involved an even more embarrasing start, with me thinking it was a good idea to finish a whole bottle of Amaretto, sorry, 'Zamaretto', before dancing around a flat I'd never been to and resulting in me falling into the window display and Christmas tree. To follow, we ended up on the door of a club pretending that we were on 'Mandeep's Guestlist', before innocently asking which bouncer was actually called Mandeep. Having assessed the situation inside, and after having the girls have to tuck my top into my shorts for me after toilet-ing, we called it a night; as R&B and chavy locals just really arnt my thing.
Without remembering how I got home, I remember checking my phone before I fell asleep, the time being 1:17am.

Highlight of the whole weekend: getting stopped and almost harassed for a photo with unknown male who thought I was Christina Aguilera. Hi-larious.

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