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.
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.
Hopes are fading fast of not finding me in my nineties wearing a top hat, worshipping a spoon and living buried amongst the sort of junk I’ve started picking up and furnishing my home with. I’ll be found, stiff with rigor mortis beneath a pile of cutesy Wedgewood plates I picked up for thirty pence and an assortment of rustic pottery bobbins which are so crudely hewn and mis-shapen they appear to have been created by wolves. Near sighted, dumb wolves.
Don’t believe me? More fool you then as I show you these pictures taken from my Nü Haüs.
Lookie-wookie-do at this tea tin (25pencicles) and this awesome stovetop espresso machine which I found in a warehouse sale and is the rich, hunky genuinely Italian uncle to my nice but dim Ikea one. It cost a mere poundlington.
See! Here! At this bunting I fucking well made. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LIVE ALONE. YOU MAKE BUNTING.
Also you plant flowers in ditzy vintage tea-cups like feminism never happened and you never do unlady-ish things like fart, burp or smell.
I lived by the sea for a bit and I found some shells and some stones what had holes in then I did a thing with them on a string with them then I hung it on my shed door where it looks nice can I have a cup of tea now nurse?
(note the Dali-esque upside down lock.)
My mantelpiece is fucking brilliant.
Both these white bad-asses came from a junk box outside a charity shop for twenty five pence each. Are you sure you stretch to that? I asked myself sarcastically when I bought them. Shut-up brain, I replied to myself and then I hurt my own feelings 😦
Bowls. The sum total of these three bowls is under a pound and I keep things in them. THEY ARE HANDY, ALRIGHT? BOWLS.
Ah Jesus, this plate. I love this plate like I love my own daughter. More, possibly. It was thirty pence and is worth about thirty pounds. I love cracked glaze, I love the trim, the birds, the mandela in the centre. Stop looking at it, you’ve looked enough. Avert your eyes, heathen.
I made these cushions from some old tablecloth fabric which cost me £2.50. In doing so I have created two cushions which are guaranteed to never, ever blend into any room as long as rooms exist, even if that room is in YOUR MIND.
This chamber pot is the shizzlington isn’t it? Two pounds, which I haggled down from three. I haggled it like a boss.
My wood burner. Birches be hatin’ on me. Don’t be like that, oak-ay? I’ve been pine-ing for one for ages. I’m sorry.
My awesome bookcase. Look at that big ol’ hunk of wood at the bottom. Found it on a beach. And yes, that is a framed photo of MYSELF in the top right corner.
“Things of great beauty are most becoming when none too dear nor too dear.”
I made this quote up myself due to the sheer effort involved in looking for something similar on Google. Please don’t misunderstand that – I really am too lazy to Google something.
So now you’re thinking ‘SHUT IT OSCAR WILDE AND SHOW ME THE CHARITY SHOP GOODS’ aren’t you? Course you are you aggressive little tyke. Any more of that attitude through and I’ll have to have a word, yeah? Can’t believe you’ve kicked off already and we’re barely past the first paragraph.
First up and “HOLY COW THERE’S SOMETHING CRAWLING UP YOUR JACKET!! There!! Right by your neck, it’s – oh. It’s just a gold brooch of a leopard mid-prowl channeling early eighties Jackie Collins and made of 100% pure AWESOME. £2. Oxfam.
These shoes were free. Tra-la-la these shoes were free. So good I photoed them twice, they have some cracks on the soles which mean I may never get to wear them as much as I’d like and also means the lady in the PDSA gave them to me for FREEPENCE. I put some money in their box though.
This Bag. Oh, This Bag. Brightening my grubby old year by appearing like a tiny mirage in the Mare and Foal Charity Shop it is big, real leather and it hurts me physically to be parted from it. I’m thinking surgical attachment, I’m thinking taxidermy. Lovely lovely lovely big ol’ roomy ol’ bag.
CHARITY COPS. This is my new idea for a light entertainment show. It’s Bargain Hunt meets the Bill. It’s a Westcountry Lethal Weapon. It’s me ‘raiding’ charity shops in uniform, all day, all the time, for your viewing pleasure.
Charity Cops. Tagline – ‘You Cleared It Out, Now She Takes It Back’
Seriously Channel Five, this offer won’t be around forever. Already Sky are sniffing round my back door, and you’ll have to finish that joke off for yourself, I don’t have the time.
I’m showing you collars, I’m showing you shoulder pads, I’m giving you LOUD PATTERNS – I’m showing you a fresh Joan Collins look which says ‘I don’t have time for this shit, I got the pool boy to fuck.’
Except it only cost £1.50.
Saddle up pardners and witness the fake furmageddon. Cost me a ten piece, fits like a glove. If any protesters try to throw paint at it I will simply show them the inner label which reads 100%Acrylic, 100%Flammable and laugh in their FACES.
Green as an rolling Irish field, soft as the downy hair of a newborn, tighter than these clichés it’s a top for £2 and it’s bloody lovely it is.
We Are Robots. We Cost A Pound. A Pound? For A Kraftwerk T-Shirt Made From 100% Awesome? Yes, A Pound. That Does Not Compute. THAT DOES NOT COMPUTE.