The year is 2 0 1 4 and instead of being pleasured by Erotic Robots (Roboerotics?) and carried around in a sedan chair made of bullet proof tinsel I am sitting on my tired arse typing this with my old fashioned meat n’ bone digits.
What a let down you are, The Future, you vast unknowable nothing.
Because I am a dunce whose accumulated knowledge could be printed on the side of a lolly stick with room for a punchline, I just typed ‘What is the future’ into Google and it just showed me a picture of Dappy and his hashtag tattoo over and over. Here it is, in case you missed it.
The reason he had a HASHTAG TATTOOED onto his FACE was so that his fizzog is ‘always trending’. Fucking actual hell. Do you hear that sound? It is the past, sobbing. Didn’t I teach you anything, it asks, even though it is an abstract and without form. Didn’t I teach you anything? And the answer is, yes. Yes you did. You taught me that clothes from the past are cheap, and look rad.
Case in point. Here is Dorothy Perkins dress circa 1981, with me in it. Hummingbird print + Shoulder pads = The Lost Tribes of AWESOME (£3ish pounds)
This tie is from C&A and features the sort of garish nightmare you can expect after a day spent on the waltzers and snakebite and black. C&A? Cool & Ace, more like. (A poundle)
These shoes are from the local car boot which pitches up every Sunday in a wintery car park where the assembled Gollums and lycanthropes finger through boxes of mass produced china chanting ‘How much, how much’ over and over and it is BRILLIANT. (Two poundickingtons)
This bag was also from the car boot sale and is where I keep my aura when not in use. (A five wad)
This Swatch watch is real nice and all but I forgot that I don’t wear watches because the incessant ticking reminds me of imminent death and the Countdown clock, of which I have a phobia. Mortality reminder, £4.
These boating shoes! I asked the man selling them HOW MUCH and he said a pound a shoe and then had to prise the two pounds from my grip as I struggled to work out how much I owed him. Boating Shoes. (PRICE UNKNOWN)
I have bought too many shoes for fucks sake.
This shirt is my nervous breakdown shirt. You can tell when I’m feeling mentally fragile because I slip into this noisy little number. So eighties that it’s a trigger warning for the film Dream a Little Dream with Coreys Feldman and Haim. (HOT SHIT, THREE POONDS)
This vase, and all these vases. I was told that having a house full of vases was good for your love life but here I am, still waiting for the Dickocalypse.
This bag, containing a small wooden village. Aside from being amazing enough to want to roast and eat, it also makes my cat look like Godzilla when he walks through it. CRUSH! (Fifty pentangles)
Years ago, when coins were square and our ancestors were eating moths alcoholic drinks had their names on them in cutie pie ceramic badges because, old things. Anyway. I will make this into a necklace in my twilight years and just point at it whenever anybody asks me anything, ever. (One ponce)
Hello, these cups. Hand painted Swedish sixties era teacups so heart breakingly fragile it’s like crushing a bird between your thumb and forefinger. (Two poinds for real cash)
I like collective nouns. Who doesn’t, right? A flamboyance of flamingoes. A charm of goldfinches. A murder of crows. A wank of actors.
It occured to me that come my seventies I am going to be one of those women who have to be lifted by crane via the roof of my house because it is so full of junk and trinkets. Small children will come and point and laugh at me as I am hoisted into the air, still trying to grab hold of my wedgewood teapot shaped like a fucking pig or something. Teens will take pictures on their phones which – it being the future and all – will be instruments the size of a pinhead and capable of nuclear deployment. Some reporter will take a sleazy ‘upskirt’ shot as I dangle over his head, and the headline in the Sunday Sport the next day will be ‘LOOK AT THIS MINGE’.
I’ll have filled my utility room with stuffed animals and bad taxidermy and the firemen trying to get through it will have to use axes to break down the doors.
In short, MY LIFE WILL BE AWESOMER.
As such, the collective noun for charity shop items bought and stored is a HYPERBOLE OF JUNK. Here is some more. Look at it. Look at it. LOOK.
Who’s this sinister motherfucker? Those brown eyes say ‘puppy’, the face says ‘I will eat your soul while you sleep’.
Tactile, sexy Mug = 50penctons
Original erogenous Flask = £1.0000000
Oil Painting Erection = £2pounds
It’s a candle featuring the original and still the best Mary I can think of. (Sorry all other Marys. Maybe you’re doing something wrong? Have you considered immaculate conception and the bearing of the Son of God? Thought not. That’s why you’re not the greatest Mary. You need to up your Mary game don’t you? Lazy, aren’t you? LAZY)
Mexican candle for Drink and Drug Addiction (says so on back) £1!
Vintage fabric which I have made into a curtain in my kitchen to cover the hole beneath the worktop as it invokes lustful thoughts in the hearts and minds of decent men and also because I stuck my washing machine in there. £1ne poind.
Future me will be cryogenically frozen for the sole purpose of coming back in a thousand years when all travel has been reduced to sending a hologram of yourself on holiday and I will dig out this old suitcase and point to the label on it thus and bore on and on and on about how times have changed like a withered old windbag while my great, great, great grandchildren make wanker signs behind my back and ask people why I smell.
I read a list of ‘Thirty Things to Do Before You’re Thirty’ the other day and was disappointed to find that I had only ‘done’ two of them and one of them was turning thirty. Still, the day I take advice about what I should be doing from a magazine is the day I descend into a violent rage so, you know, autonomy.
I can reduce the list of things I am currently doing to a list of three key points:
(1) Buying stuff for cheapsies from charity shops.
(2) Staring out of the window
(3) Wearing socks.
Not even sure that number (3) counts as a thing. Still, here’s some stuff. Keep up, we’ve got a lot to cover. I’ve been lazy for a month or two.
This frame cost thrupence or at least it would have done if thrupence was Victorian talk for three pounds and not a weird word meaning either ‘three pence’ or a coy word for a lady’s sex parts.
L@@K @ this pretty vintage dress I got for a fiver. You can’t really tell from this picture which I have instragrammed the heck out of in order to hide the creases and bloating in my face but it’s lovely. You can probably see my nipples if you look at this picture hard enough. Stop zooming in you disgusting pervert. Let’s move on.
This table isn’t doing itself any favours by being so tricky to photograph. Fucking thing. This is the top of it which as you can see, presuming you have functioning ears and a brain, is painted with birds. It is rad. You’ll just have to take my word for it although seeing as you’re talking to a girl who once sold out her friends for ten B&H you’ll realise how little weight my word carries. Where was I? Table, six quid for cash.
Embroided linen from a charity shop in Devon. You can’t see from this but it was left unfinished by whomever was working on it. It made me sad to think that an old lady may have died before she had the chance to finish it, so I fully intended to finish it for her. Never did. Sorry, ghostly old lady who I have invented.
Curtains, curtains. Lovely big fat beautiful sixties curtains. The sort of thing your nan would have had if she had been a bit of a goer in the sixties, like mine.
Picture frame, three poundlies. This is above my bed because I like to be reminded of dead Mexican feminist artists whenever I am in bed doing bedly things like sleeping, dreaming and being super-sexy like ALL THE TIME.
This old postcard was twenty five pees and was addressed to someone called Ada. ‘Mother is well’ it begins which could be a code or something for a drugs deal or nineteen fifties street talk. We’ll never know (we know)
I like the sound of cowbells and many is the morning I get up, plait my hair and walk around the house dinging this dong and insisting everyone calls me Heidi. I’m still single, if anyone is interested.
I’m done here. Let’s do this again soon.
You know what I love? Hip Hop. For every misogynistic, homophobic, teeth-grindingly unimaginative asshat of an MC (Chris Brown) there is a perpetually inventive, beat driven shamelessly ego pumped styler out there ready to take the Mic (Kool Keith).
I can’t rap. I think we’d both be a little more comfortable if I get that out there now. For all my homegirl ghetto credentials (I literally failed my Maths GCSE like, twice) I’m no better at lyrical alchemy than I am say, unicycling or cooking pancakes. In fact I’m so bad that my long awaited rap odyssey (‘Urban Street Tough’) failed within the first five minutes with these lines;
“If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t a crime,
You want me to do time?
Shutup! You’re lyrics aren’t any better than mine.”
Then I beatboxed a solo for twenty minutes while a girls crotch gyrated inches from my face and hair.
So I’d pretty much given up on hip hop until I read this tweet yesterday from Original Gangster, Homie, Bodycount Banger and star of the HBO drama Law and Order, Ice T:
People are always shocked when they find out I don’t drink, smoke weed or get high….. I always felt it COMPROMISED my hustle.
This is so mindbendingly brilliant I keep getting drawn back to it like a Goth to eyeliner.
IT COMPROMISED HIS HUSTLE. I think we can all learn a lesson there and that lesson is don’t do anything which compromises your HUSTLE. From anal sex to making jam, from Downton Abbey to Compton, from double denim to strikes on Syria, here is the world’s most brilliant excuse for anything at any time in any place ever in the world, like ever.
With that in mind I’m sharing with you some trinkets I recently picked up for very little cashmoney, yo.
So fresh it’s mountain fed and purer than triple distilled Vodka this real silver necklace consists of three dinky little charms – a heart, a cross and an anchor. So Love, Faith and Sailors. Whatever. This cost me a BITCHIN’ TWENTY FIVE PENCE-INGTONS.
A tin a tin, good for keeping things in. I’ve put the tiny still beating hearts of mice and hamsters in there in their barely congealed juices but you could use it for earrings or biscuits too! Tin (Of Small Rodent Death) Fifty Pences
“A Knife, A Fork, A Bottle and A Cork, that’s the way we spell New York.” Dillinger was of course wrong here, but what isn’t wrong is this art deco Disney New York City badge which is less a fashion accessory and more a MASSIVE hint to the cosmos that I’d like to go there one day and bask in it’s unparallelled weirdness.
I’m out homies. Peace.
Dude the eighties called. They’ve taken out a restraining order against that rad suede and leather butter soft batwing cropped jacket with the shoulder pads you bought for £8 today in Help the Aged. That shit’s so fresh think you’re going to need a lawyer.
Here is a montage of this jacket, eighties style. <‘Turn It On’ by Kim Wilde plays>
I love this enamel teapot. It’s happy. It’s got a Tetris design going on, although I saw the face of Hitler in a scone earlier so I’m not the best judge of patterns and shit to be fair.
Happy pot, 99p. Oxfam.
“Nee-naw Nee-naw we’re the style police, and we’re arresting you on suspicion to WOW.”
You know what? I like this dress. It’s dinky and sweet and look-at-me-I’m-a-kinky-librarian but also the material is that heavy duty sixties stuff which feels like canvas or a brillo pad. Also the dress weighs forty pounds so I get tired in it just getting up the stairs. I’ve been sat here in it for nineteen hours. Send help, I can’t lift my arms. Still, £6.99, also Oxfam.
Sorry! What? Sorry! You what? This could go all on night. If you remember this version of the game ‘Sorry’ chances are you also remember rationing, Chuck Berry and homosexuality being a crime punishable by prison in the UK. The thing I love about this game is the unapologetic bluntness of the marketing. ‘Play It And Be Glad’ it demands.
Read the Important Notice from the Instructions. If you’re playing it for more than twenty five minutes YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG YOU CLUELESS PROLE! Don’t expect to enjoy the first four games very much, just get them over with. After that you will achieve near orgasmic levels of JOY and ENTHUSIASM. Read EVERYTHING SLOWLY and carefully in as many different TYPESETTINGS AS we CAN muster. Sorry! the game, just twenty pentagles.
I was taken to court the other day. I rode in on a motorbike and the judge said “Miss Pearce, may I remind you that you are here for crimes against MEDIOCRITY. How do you plead?”
So I rode my bike in a ten minute Wall of Death around the courtroom wearing a stars and stripes bikini and on my last lap I flipped the Judge the Bird and said;
Then my hella handsome lawyer came over and put on a pair of Ray Bans.
“Girl,” he said, “Is your name Mount Etna? Because you are smokin’!”
This bag. This bag. This bag in a photo of a bag. Vintage 80s patchwork leather in which I can fit a toddler and two Uzi nine millimeters. It’s massive, is what I’m trying to say. And never been used. Ten golden pounds.
This tiny religious picture which is so glitzy and camp even Liberace is saying “Dude. That’s way over the top.” ONE POUND AT A SCHOOL FETE. #thuglife
This skirt. Looking at the pattern of the fabric makes me feel vaguely high. Still, under a fiver, vintage St Michael in a teeny tiny size which I can just about squeeze into but can’t make any sudden moves in, or dance, or walk. Or breathe.
This Sparkle & Fade sweatshirt which looks like a bedspread I had as a teen. A POUNDY WOUNDY WOO.
Handmade child’s dress. Fabric straight outta Sesame Street. Matching bag for my three year old’s lipstick and painkillers and shit. Twenty Five Ruddy Pence.
Sorry about the rubbishness of this post. I have a headache which feels as though someone is carving their way into my skull with a spoon. Like a tiny cerebral Shawshank Redemption. Get out of my head Tim Robbins. And take Morgan Bloody Freeman with you.
However. You see this ? (Holds up fingers an inch apart) This is how close I came to achieving near perfect levels of charity shop awesome yesterday (Now you’re nodding and thinking “Yeah, that’s a really small gap, well done Daisy Pearce.”)
First of all, these. Real leather Italian riding boots for under a fiver. I nearly had a shoegasm right there in the shop. Yeah, that’s right. A SHOEGASM.
I’ve recently found a place which sells junk like this for donations only – you just stick what you can afford into the pot. Before I was working I lent so heavily on this place that now the whole building tilts at a forty five degree angle. Still, I banged this rad borderline creepy children’s book;
This pair of cool plates;
And this extraordinarily dull book with the most brilliant cover I have seen in a while.
All for under two pounds.
More shoes. Black Converse for a fiver. I laughed IN THE FACE of the elderly woman in the charity shop in which I bought these and then licked her hand as she passed them to me in a bag. She had the last laugh though because her boyfriend is a twenty one year old sex machine with a solid gold cock and I live alone in a house with no sofa.
Still, shoes right?
Beans for free means Beans for me! (Advertising agencies, I’ve totally copyrighted that.) Someone was giving away a bag of bean seeds which had a little smiley face drawn on it in marker pen. At least I think they were beans. And I think they were giving them away. This is what we’re growing anyway. I’ll let you know what bizarre, cursed fruit it bears.
Ho boy. Lastly these badass Santa Cruz (remember them, kids?) ONE POUND bright yellow shades which make me look like I’m channeling Timmy Mallet but also make me look hot as which is confusing for most right thinking people because the conflict is terrifying.