The false pocket infuriation

This weekend I went to Cambridgeshire to see one of my girls for her birthday. She was having a bit of a ‘gathering’ on the Saturday night with a bunch of her friends. I still feel uncomfortable about calling a group of people coming together of an evening and partaking in a few beverages, a ‘party’. There is something about the word ‘party’ which just makes the whole thing a little too serious and pressured. Like, if only 3 people turn up to your gathering, it doesn’t matter. There’s no judgement, it’s not a big deal – it doesn’t matter, because it’s just a gathering. But a party? A PARTY needs people. There is a requirement for attendance, so you don’t look like a complete looser. If only 3 people turn up to a party, your life is as good as over, is it not? Can you imagine? A party and only 3 people turn up. The ground would have to swallow me up there and then. It could not be lived down.

Anyway, I went there early so we could spend some QT and I’d help her set it all up on the Saturday. We went out for some drinks at the local Spoons on the Friday night. We thought it would be appropriate to share a bottle of prosecco, seeing as it was her birthday – and any excuse for prosecco right?

I’d decided that space buns were going to be a thing that day (mainly due to it being 32 degrees and me really not enjoying my hair being stuck to the back of my neck with sweat). I teamed those little bobbles of gloriousness with my new mustard yellow crop top with the pom-pom fringe, some big gold hoops and the dark blue maxi skirt everyone seems to love.

Everyone asks me where this is from, and I always tell them it is from River Island (which is not a lie), but I also have to explain to them that I bought this when I was an actual child of 15 and I’ve had it ever since (it’s been through various stages of tightness during that period). Because so many people have said they like it, I don’t want anyone to go mooching about the shops trying to locate this skirt that was in Spring/Summer Season 2009. As funny as that would be, I just can’t do that to my fellow ladies. I also just kind of don’t want them to wear the same clothes as me, because if they did – I would have to burn the skirt, which I don’t want to do, because as everyone says, it’s a nice skirt.

Where was I???? Oh prosecco! Well, it turns out I was very much wrong about the pro being a good idea. This prosecco was THE WORST prosecco I have ever consumed in my life. I can’t even explain what it tasted like; all I can say was it was legitimately one of the worst alcoholic beverages I have ever had the misfortune to consume. It almost tasted mouldy.

Oh, and to top the night off… You know how I said about wanting to burn my clothes if I ever saw anyone wearing the same thing? Well, I certainly wish I hadn’t said that out loud, because the universe clearly decided to punish me for it, by burning a huge great hole in my skirt when someone dropped their cigarette ash on me. URGH!!! Is this genuinely a punishment for being a bit of a brat about the clothes thing? Because it really does feel like it and I can now only assume that they whole world is entirely against me.

Whatever. Back to the gathering… I was finding it hard to decide what to wear for this, obvs there is no need to be super smart, but I wanted to look decent as well as minimise the sweat level as much as possible. Do you know what this calls for? This calls for the new wide leg, high waisted light blue trousers. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

They tie up at the waist and nip you in just nicely and skim over everything else. I teamed them with a white tee with a blue and a red stripe on it, flatform sandals, chunky gold hoops and some tortoiseshell mirror sunglasses. I loved myself so much in this outfit, ngl. I felt fash AF.

The whole gathering thing started off a bit slowly, because no one really knew each other. But a bottle of vodka later and I was still sitting outside at ridiculous o’clock – putting the world to rights with my new mate Tim. We were discussing (in an alcohol fuelled state) the fact that we both felt as if we should achieve more and make a bigger difference with our brains, but were so far achieving precisely nothing of note, as a result of extensive procrastination and a generally lack of belief in oneself – and the classic ‘it’s easier to just not try’ thing, which so many of us suffer at the hand of. In addition, we discussed how incredibly unfair it is that women’s trousers never have sufficient pockets, and that the false pocket is possibly the most infuriating invention in the entire world, and he is certainly not wrong.

Bonnie

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DIY: ripped jeans

I wanted some ripped jeans, but A) I can never seem to find any I like, B) if I manage to find some I like, they never fit, and C) I feel like paying for jeans with holes in, is a rip off (literally). The other day I bought some new black jeans as my other ones were a bit on the faded side, so I decided I would make my old black jeans into ripped jeans. If you want to learn how to make your own ripped jeans, then I will warn you – this is no comprehensive guide. In fact, this probably more of a description of how not to do it.

But, I was pretty sure this was a good idea, because it’s thrifty, I could have them exactly how I wanted them and they would be one of a kind, and I really like wearing and having things that no one else has. Making my own ripped jeans – what could go wrong?

I had no idea how to go about this, so instead of looking it up or watching a helpful Youtube video on the matter, I decided to go straight in with it and “use the force”. I thought about using scissors to do it, but I decided a Stanley knife would probably be easier and work better. My thinking on this was that I would end up with strange angled, and very straight slices on my jeans, and I wanted more of a “rough” look.

Original jeans

I got up a photo of some ripped jeans I liked the look of and used that as a reference, and I just started attacking my legs with a Stanley knife (clearly safety was not a concern for me). I started off with the rip on my right knee. I pinched the fabric so I didn’t slice my kneecap off, and punctured the fabric with the Stanley knife. I widened the rip so it was nearly reaching the seams, but not quite. I wanted the hole to be quite big and to have a fair bit of knee on show (oioi), so I made another puncture a couple of cm down and extended that until it met up with the sides of the previous rip. I kept doing this until the hole was big enough and basically my entire right knee was out.

Next, I did the rip on my left thigh; making sure it was in the right place, I pinched the fabric and made the incision. At this point, I got a little bit more nervous about actually hacking into my flesh and puncturing a vital blood vessel, but that still didn’t stop me. I informed a few mates that I was doing risky things with knives (just in case the worst case to the worst, they would at least know what happened and would be able to tell my parents it wasn’t intentional) and I felt a bit better. I kept widening the rip until I had achieved the desired size, and I moved on to the next rip.

The next one was the top of my right thigh, and I repeated the process. I then decided I wanted to be pure gansta and make a rip where the front pocket on my left thigh was, so I could be super cool and have the pocket lining poking out the hole. This needed a much bigger hole than I had ever thought (turns out there is quite a lot of pocket). I took it a little bit too far, and now I need to be a bit careful about which pants I wear – because if I wear my Bridget Jones knickers you will be able to see them through the pocket hole… But no matter, I shall wear uncomfortable pants, because I am told fashion hurts. And I am a fashionista to the core (I’m not).

I decided I needed a bit of hole action in the shin area, because it was all looking a bit smart below the knee, so I poked some holes (very haphazardly) in the shin area. I had to take off my jeans to do this, because there was no way I could poke holes with a knife without poking holes in myself. I expanded the holes a bit and made sure they looked nice and rough. Perfect!

I made some more small holes on the back of my right calf, because I always think ripped jeans look insane when they are perfectly preserved at the back. It looks like whatever caused the rips at the front just didn’t bother to scuff up the back. Like, you got mauled by a bear and at no point did it come into contact with the back of your jeans? I think not. Anyway, I did another rip on the back of my right leg in the thigh area, about half way between my knee and my butt.

I thought I would go all out and make these super saucy jeans (no ketchup, just sauce), and make a rip pretty close to my right butt crease. It’s not high enough up so you can actually see right butt crease, but it’s closer than not close at all.

I’m not going to lie, I am pretty damn pleased with how these turned out. I had visions of accidentally ripping too much, and ending up with a strange pair of shorts. Or one normal leg and one really short leg. Yeah, I probably should have done a bit of research before I started, but I was confident in just going for it. This was probably down to these jeans being super old, and the fact that they would have ended up in the bin anyway, so if it went horribly wrong, it didn’t really matter. I almost think that if I had thought about it too much, it probably would have been a whole lot worse, and I took it slowly, so it was fine.

My top tips for making your own ripped jeans:

  • Have a photo you can copy
  • Make small rips at first – you can always make them bigger but you can’t make them smaller
  • Add some rips to the back so they look a bit more original

I am looking forward to wearing these – I think I am going to team them with my new burgundy fishnet tights. So, I will probably look like a very festive prostitute (ho ho ho), but equally I don’t care, because I have my very own ripped jeans, and you do not. Please, refer to me as the new Alexander Mcqueen from now on, as I am pure fashion and sooooooo extra (not).

Alex