It's the Review of The Year! The year that was Shit! Two thousand and two, that big saggy arse-flap of a year, a grandad peestained pantsfly of a palindromic heap of doggie doo… It's gone!

And to celebrate we are pulling our new fluffy moonboots up our legs and reviewing the things that licked the clit /sucked the arse of the Us in Two Oh Oh Two. Come play!


1) Relationship Break-ups

Sticking with the same person makes people smug. They begin to feel invincible. They write books about how to keep fucking the same person for a bazillion years, and how it is still as skill and as awesome as the very first time, like Kim Catrall aka Sam from Sex and the City did.

And they say things to each other like, gosh, people break up too fast these days. People don't understand that they have to work at stuff. We always talk our problems through. For as long as it takes. We will stay up all night. We will talk for three days. And then they break up anyway. Life is very long.


2) Fischerspooner

All you smug indie tards are sitting back right now, aren't you, folding your arms in your Christmas jumpers. Your mouths are doing the smug smile. Your lips are thinner than the meanest little line. We. Told. You. So. You are saying.

Well and yah booh sucks I'm doing cartwheels in a cheerleader skirt. Ministry took all the money away, you are saying. The concerts weren't bigger than Star Wars, hardehar, you are saying. People threw sandwiches. Casey was flabby. Emerge didn't make the charts. No one bought The 15th. I don't care. I'm doing backflips.

3) Body Rockers

It starts off with a long queue, and people smoking cigarettes and leaning against the wall. Under their feet are green and blue lights set into the pavements.

When you get in Sophie says to you that you're in Pret-A-Manger, only it's a nightclub, and you laugh. Everyone is very luxuriously dressed, and you want to stare.

Some people don't like this dressed-upness, and shake in the corners, and hide on the black vinyl seats, trying to slip their undressed-up bodies into the fold between the cushions. But what they don't get is this.

These things have been built up like sandcastles - these elaborate hair rolls, these skirts with a thousand red net petticoats held up with satin rosebuds, the CoSdress - in order to get the shit knocked out of them.

Bouf, goes the tide, and the electro stilettos come off, and the eyeliner slides down across the nose, and the rolled hair uncoils and presses heavy against the neck, and everyone gets trashed and gorgeous, bathed in hot, shiny sweat.



4) H&M

How long can they keep it up. It's been years. Hennes is on some kind of Tantric Sting equivalent of being a good shop. Admittedly it had a wobble at the beginning of oh two - you'd go in and see rails of yucky tangerine blouses and beige ruffly 'peasant' shit and you'd want to spit - but by June it was once again standing firm and proud, all punched leather wristbands at 2.99 and mad wide leather belts at 12.99 - belts that made your phat ass and funky hips look ultra bodacious; wristbands that Wonder Woman woulda coveted if she'd been spared the Seventies.

And showing its New Year's Resolution to the world at the beginning of Oh Three we have a suede skirt with this asymmetric hem and punched out holes and it is divine beyond description (not to mention being the Most Expensive Skirt I've Ever Owned, having been seduced into dissolute conspicuous consumption by some label whore younger boy, but that won't happen again) and this adorable little brown A-line dress that showcases the return to the kind of exquisite cut and fit that makes cheap-ass Hennes the Don of them all, and…

... you know why fashion magazines and fashion people and newspapers are heralding Top Shop as the cheap trash empire of loveliness du jour? Because fashion people magazines newspapers don't know shit.


5) Astrology


Heat magazine stars. We pinned up their day by day guide, where it's like 'more fizzle than sizzle' / 'bring your thermal undies' / 'scorchio!' etc, forecasting what day you're gonna receive the hot meat injection and what day you're gonna be left alone with mister finger, onto the kitchen cork board.

We wrote in little pens if it was right or not. It was never wrong, except when it was. It predicted scorchio for the day when the hot but temperamental boy I was trying to get with stomped off into the August King's Cross night. Freezio for the night that was absolutely the bestest ever.

So instead, Jonathan Cainer's stars.metawire.com became my daily shrine. If he told me I was gonna get 'material assistance on an urgent project', like, say, not getting the phone cut off, buying some food, or soap, I would believe him, and sit back, and wait for the flakes of cash to float down from the sky.

I had no idea what was going on in the rest of my life, and nobody else did, and it seemed like Jonathan Cainer was the only one who could talk of my future with any kind of benevolence or assurance, so I listened to him, several times a day. Clicking just after midnight, to get an ultra-early sneak preview of the preview of the future.

6) Black "Business Suit"
I know a boy who thinks ties are a sign of slavery, and another who says that wearing a jacket for a second turns you into a 'drone'. But where I come from it's red or cream Converse are the sign of slavery, and bow-fronted / ruffle-fronted tops the corporate daywear, and everybody's legs are shackled by sprayed-on denim. Slip on a black 'business suit', all fluid tailoring and chic bits, with piped edges round the lapels and flared arm cuffs with four buttons and legs that dance around your ankles and and and and high heels and your hair in plaits - and you're freed into this land of normality. You're an undercover spy; a plainclothes police; the worm in the rose; the twist in the knife. Nobody from Financial Services looking at you funny, no eyes catching on your odd-shaped tea-dress or moppy ringlets or crooked smile or pink over-knee socks or whatever; just you, at work, building moneystacks, getting on with your shit.

7) Ketamine
Nono, fuck rebranding crack, this is the little bugger that needs a better public image. Don't you see? It's nice. It's so nice. It makes the pretty girlies giggle.

8) Not Shoreditch

Dalston!

9) Mother Bar

It's like that thing Jarvis said about having a kebab when you're drunk, and how that's like a one-night stand. Like, I'm already down there, in the kerb, now how do I take myself lower? I'd like to lick that gutter, look, there's a condom down there, covered in Lancome Cherry Flambee lipgloss, or is it Melon Juicy Tubes, yes the latter, well, I'd like to suck that condom, I'd like to pierce my tongue on that syringe. That's going to Mother. Mother is a bar in Shoreditch above a club called the 333. I don't want to assume you know because that would be wank. Shoreditch is a place in London where idiots live. When I first broke up from the love of my life, a girl took me there and said, here. Stand by the bar. Men will buy you drinks. I didn't believe it was true because who would buy *motions down at self* this a drink? But it was true, to my eternal shame. Men in low-down jeans with heavy silver belts and caps from automobile shops in the deep South (of Kent). Boys in pea coats that study architecture and can't kiss for shit.

10) Big Brother Eye Candy
Fuck me, they put someone with taste on the Big Brother selection panel! A gay, I'd say. A darling gay with glasses, with binoculars, with a pocket full of calipers. There was Alex (quite clearly one of the Asexuals. Have you met any of this breed? They are at first sight wished heterosexual by the ladies, because their looks are so charming. Alex had smooth brown hair and that look of one whose lips are half-a-size too large for their mouths, and so slip around all over the place, like a slim girl in her boyfriend's jeans. Then when there is no activity with the ladies, you assume Asexual is into the boys, so you wait for that. And then, nothing. Not boys, not girls. Not a flicker of interest. It's not even as though their beauty has pickled them in apsic. There is nothing to pickle. It's all aspic, shimmering in the light.) ANYWAY. There was Alex. And though he had no ass, and a whiny voice, at times his face was just so pleasing, like his face was making your eyes have a massage, or get into the bath, or being gone down on. And then also, Spencer. With a round Caravaggio sulky boy face. In widescreen. Every evening in a long hot June. That's what television is all about, on long hot evenings in June, when you have broken up with your boy, and cry without realising, and sip lemonade on balconies in a cotton dress. Thank you, darling gay selection guy. The cheque is in the post.


That was the year that was. There's more, but, whatevah - see ya, year. Please don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. Because I'm too busy smacking your ass, year, and putting pins in it, and covering it in candle wax, and hitting the pins and the wax with a broken off floorboard, and standing on the pins and the floorboard and the wax and your ass, so, I wouldn't like the door to get in my way or anything. Bye bye year! Bye bye!

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