Fashion and Lifestyles Column by Carman Dewberry 01/11/08
In this age of electronic instant access, it seems unlikely that one can go on a date (with Jimmy Choos glued in place, and Chanel stinging your nostril hairs) without knowing every ounce of information about your beefcake in waiting. Everything today is digital, so just as you’ve snapped open your blackberry to map out the perfect route to the newest guacamole bar (cocktails include avocado volcano- yum!), you can also explore the mind map of your intended prey. Google is the obvious place to begin, but school records are also an easy email away: “Dear Bumington Academy, I am writing a biography of [insert hunk o'chunk's name here] and would be grateful for any records, theatrical videos or art projects you may have, blah blah blah”. If these yield no info-confi (confidential information), then further digging can be done with the help of your Government. Befriend a civil servant- this will only cost a couple of avocado volcanoes and a quick feel of your touch screen- and suddenly you have access to tax records, mortgage payments, marriage certificates (eek! If any!), children or criminal records (same thing if you ask me, both have life sentences!) bank accounts, dental records and HIV test results. With all this info you will be able to compile a thorough profile of Mr Mysterious and bind it into a black, worn leather binder (like the ones from Harvey Nicks, a scream at only £49.99) and keep it safe on your teak stained, walnut cabinet shelf with marble engravings, (Vogue, winter sale £1559).
But with all this data, ladies, I’m sad to say there’s one thing virtual reality can’t vet: his sense of humour. As my loyal readers will be aware, my rollercoaster, passionate relationship with Mr K (which in case you’ve been hiding under a rock, looks like an amalgamation of all three Mr Darcys; Colin Firth, Matthew Macfadyen and Lawrence Olivier) is a turbulent affair. If you remember in earlier issues, 787, 788, 789, 791-801 inclusive, I wittily described my man the humorist, and his remarks which have sailed dangerously and breathlessly close to the wind of ordinary people’s boundaries. Nobody was out of the firing range when Mr K was around, deftly swinging his sardonic sword and spearing everyone from the “jib jibs,” “apple stinkers,” “belly swelters,” and “sugar tits”. I’ve always taken this with a pinch of Marks n Sparks sea salt as nobody was ever harmed by the name calling, especially not those deaf jib jibs. Yet things changed last night when Mr K escorted me to the Ub Lub Club. As we were about to take advantage of a couple of famous Rub-a-dub Ub Lub Club cocktails (deliciously drizzled in soap and cherries) a couple of Flim Flabs walked in. Now, to be clear, dear readers, I have no issue with Flim Flabs, in a perfect world they should be allowed to flim and flab as much as their flabber’s heart flims. Mr K, however, was off his bean bag in a flash and before I knew it had grabbed the Flim Flab and was giving him a jolly good flimming. For a moment I couldn’t think of the correct etiquette. What was one to do? And then I remembered the cover of this month’s Fash-Slags magazine which announced the ‘in thing’ this season: ‘irony’.
Having seen an episode or two of a Ricky Gervais show, I knew all about ‘irony’. ‘Irony’ is when you can say or do anything you like, as long as you don’t mean it. The space between the intention and the action is where you will discover the secret, silent joke. As Mr K slammed the Flim Flab’s head into a pint glass and shouted “eat it! Eat it, you bloody flim flab!” I reflected on the nuances of this astonishing comedy performance, and couldn’t help let out a little laugh. He was being so de rigeur! By the time a crowd had gathered around, in horrified silence, I was laughing hysterically. The hip slips of the Ub Lub fashonistas totally didn’t get it! It was only when I cried out “he’s being ironic!” did Mr K’s amazing repartee even raise a smile. Sure enough, after the joke was explained, the Ubbies wasted no time in splitting their sides. The laughter was so loud it almost drowned out the fading Flim Flab’s gargled screams! And that, dear reader, is how I found out through real, non electronic experience, that I was dating the hottest comedian in town!
