Lauren Bravo

It's My Food, I'll Instagram It If I Want To

2013-01-26T13:00:32-05:00

According to The New York Times this week, the trend for amateur food photography has reached unacceptable levels, leading some of the city's top restaurants to ban it altogether.

NY hotspots Momofuku Ko and Chef's Table at Brooklyn Fare have been some of the first to implement a ban, arguing that over-zealous camerawork is distracting for the chefs and other diners, with happy snappers using flash, standing on chairs and even bringing tripods to dinner, all in an attempt to capture the ultimate gastro-boast.

While some might applaud a backlash against our Instagramming impulses, I've added to my ever-increasing list of Things Restaurants Need to Get the Hell Over (alongside no-bookings policies and 'foam'). In our shaky economic climate, shouldn't restaurants be glad of a little free publicity - even if it's via someone's Pinterest page rather than a critic's column?

Besides, manners work both ways. While watching the person next to your laboriously photograph every course might be irritating, I'd say shaming any customer who reaches for their camera phone is far more damaging to the ambiance. Just like those stories of the Queen drinking finger bowls to avoid embarrassing her dinner guests, I've always thought that the mark of a truly classy restaurant is staff who make you feel at ease, whatever the total bill.

Last year at both haute cuisine Roganic and the notoriously booked-up Dabbous, waiters were perfectly happy for me to snap my food and preserve the memories. Likewise at Heston Blumenthal's Dinner at the Mandarin Oriental, where staff also looked on smiling as we all rotated plates every third bite to make sure we'd tasted the whole menu.

Of course, I'm arguing for discreet iPhone snapping, not a half-hour session with a lighting director. Truly antisocial behaviour deserves a ticking off; if you're going fully Blow Up over a plate of pulled pork then it's fair for staff to have a quiet word, just as it would be for any other activity than genuinely disturbs other diners (here I'd like to nominate tableside frottage, and that drunk guy who once threw up next to me in Pizza Express).

But banning photos altogether smacks of self-importance, of a sort that usually has me running for the nearest burger van. How about just, y'know, trusting your paying customers to conduct themselves properly?

Besides, our slavish Instagram devotion won't last forever. Sooner or later amateur food photography will lose its novelty and we'll move onto something else, like virtual pottery or a microblogging site that features only facial expressions.

The self-important restaurants had just better hope we get bored of food photography before we get bored of them.

Chivalry Is Dead! Good Manners Shouldn't Be Gender-Specific

2013-01-16T19:00:00-05:00

A survey by Socked.co.uk announced this week that traditional chivalry is dead, as the majority of women frown on traditional acts of male kindness as "suspicious." Fair enough, I say.

The findings, which included 82% of women claiming they prefer to pay for their own dinner on a first date, and 78% saying they wouldn't accept the offer of a coat from a man on a cold day, are bound to be met with outcry in some quarters.

In a world where old-fashioned manners appear to be increasingly forgotten, it's understandable that the 'things ain't what they used to be' brigade are nostalgic for the days when a Cary Grant type would give up his seat for you on the bus, because you happen to be lacking a Y chromosome.

But these were also the days where women were treated as second class citizens, confined to the kitchen and beneath the glass ceiling. Chivalrous acts of kindness maybe have felt nice, but they were also our consolation prize for inequality. And with women across the world still fighting daily against sexual harassment, objectification and oppression, is it any wonder we assume that a man offering us his coat might have another agenda? It's sad, of course. But then sexism IS sad, and our safety a little more important than offending a well-meaning bloke.

The problem lies partly with the word. 'Chivalry' naturally conjures up images of Arthurian affection, of gallant knights laying their cloaks down in puddles so that fair maidens needn't get their ankles wet. And nice though it may be to think every gent on Oxford Street would be as concerned about your suede wedges as you are, to me the attitude still smacks of outdated ideals. However much you dress it up in ideas of gentility and kindness (and a wimple), at the core of the concept is still the idea that women are weaker, and that we need men to lend us that helping hand.

But of course, I'm not advocating rudeness. No, rather than the outdated notion of chivalry, I'd champion the emphasis on good manners for all. Not because you're a man and I'm a woman, but because we're all people and it is nice to be nice. I reckon most men who think themselves chivalrous have got the right intentions, but perhaps the wrong targets - don't stop doing it, just question your motives and spread the goodwill a little further than the nearest skirt. Were general, across the board kindness more common in public then perhaps over time, our suspicion might fade.

Try this as a general rule of thumb: ask yourself, would I be doing this if she were a man? Or a 60-year-old woman? Or a woman I found unattractive? If the answer to all is 'yes', then congratulations! You're an excellent human being. By all means carry on.

Why Christmas 'Tis Not the Season to Be Sexy

2012-11-28T19:00:00-05:00

Ahhh, party season! What do you mean, you hadn't noticed? Sure, it may be dressed up cunningly as flu season, skint season and 'vowing never to use Amazon then guiltily remembering you've still got 12 Christmas present boxsets to buy' season, but it's really party season. PARTY. Are you partying as we speak? Is there tinsel in your hair and a mini crispy duck burger pavlova parfait canapé in your hand? Good.

I know it's party season because every year, at around this time, I buy a thoroughly ill-judged dress. I buy ill-judged garments all year round (lace-trimmed cycling shorts, anyone?) but this mistake I re-make annually, without fail. "You need a Christmas party frock!" shout the magazines. "I need a Christmas party frock!" I shout to myself, and dash to Oxford Street to dive headfirst into a pile of sequins.

Then, after an afternoon winching my flesh into various forms against its own will and gravity, I come home with something that looks like Liberace's less tasteful sister. It will have glitter bits, sheer bits, static-prone fabric and be completely impossible to wear a bra in. Swishing round my bedroom, I'll imagine myself walking into imaginary cocktail parties, turning heads, dancing seductively and eating mince pies without getting crumbs down my cleavage. Bing Crosby will be singing in a corner. It will be lovely.

But it won't actually happen, and here's why - the Christmas party frock is a lie. You don't need one. You didn't need the seven already festering in your wardrobe, like the ghosts of Christmases past.

I'm keen to know: who actually goes to Christmas parties, really? Apart from one work do, which, let's face it, is more likely to be a karaoke sesh with Carol from accounts than the Ambassador's reception, I can't think of a single social function I attend at Christmas where it wouldn't be appropriate to wear a jumper and a bobble hat. The pub, the ice rink, the pub again, a carol concert, my Granny's house. When are all the parties we're meant to be wearing these frocks to? Are you having them all without me?

Maybe there's a handful of people (probably the Made in Chelsea cast and Tamara Ecclestone) who skew the graph by spending their yuletide quaffing champagne in ballrooms wearing slinky designer things. Thanks, Those People, for making the rest of us feel like our nice festive trip to the garden centre just isn't good enough.

Let it be noted now, I don't object to the spangly frocks themselves. The spangly frocks, I love. If it was socially acceptable for me to take the bins out in a spangly frock, I'd be tempted. But who decided looking foxy was the chief aim of Advent?

As with so many myths of modern femininity, we can blame that unholy trinity of magazines, TV and advertisers for fooling us into thinking we've got to be sexy at Christmas - when all we really need to do is find a good pair of thermal socks and a generous waistband.

They're also busy peddling the notion that Christmas is yet another time of year when we need to be skinny (as far as I can discern there are only two occasions left that we're not required to get thin for - Remembrance Sunday and Pancake Day) with pre-Christmas diets as ubiquitous as the spangly frocks themselves. "Slim down for Christmas!" they shriek from the shelves. "Put down that marzipan, you've got a backless LBD to get into!"

The overriding trouble is that the magazines in question seem never to have experienced Christmas as we know it. You know, Christmas. The one where we wear three jumpers because the boiler's on the blip, and watch Home Alone under a slanket with one hand resting in a tin of Quality Street. The one where the most people gaze at you all season is when it's your turn in charades (I still maintain my knicker-themed take on Brief Encounter is inspired).

The one where we're actively invited to eat ourselves into a brandy-laced coma. That Christmas. Lovely, comfy Christmas. In fact if there's one time of year where you decidedly do not need to be skinny, Christmas is probably it. Think of the bonus insulation for draughty December nights; the extra padding for going arse-over-tit on icy pavements ("I'm FINE thanks, just having a little sit on the ground. Nothing to see here. Keep on walking."). The magical, warm feeling in your heart when a small child points at you in Debenhams and asks "Mummy, is that Santa's wife?".

Yes guys, I've checked, and it turns out neither baby Jesus, Rudolph nor Noddy Holder care if you can zip yourself into a metallic size 8 cocktail dress. Have a turkey sandwich and chill - at least until January, when we can talk about how you don't really need a Davina McCall workout DVD either.

Also on HuffPost:

Why Christmas 'Tis Not the Season to Be Sexy

2012-11-28T19:00:00-05:00

Do They Know it's a Christmas Advert?

2012-11-14T15:51:39-05:00

We open on a single snowflake, drifting gently through a night sky to land on the upturned nose of a child, wearing a bobble hat. Holding a puppy. The music tinkles in: a baby-voiced woman whispers a melancholy cover of Wombling Merry Christmas, at a third of the speed of the original. There are some pan pipes in the background, and the whistling of a winter breeze through some pine branches on a distant hilltop.

Cut to a bevvy of slow-motion women in sequinned cocktail dresses, laughing into each other's hair as they put on lipstick for the office party and open secret Santa presents, all of which turn out to be a loofah set. They are very happy with the loofah sets, and laugh into each other's hair some more. Outside the window, a train travels past. The snow is now thick as a duvet, and yet it is not delayed. It is not First Great Western or First Capital Connect, but a special variety of First Festive Express with nostalgic slam doors and velvet curtains and a toilet that smells of cinnamon whirls.

Cut to the North Pole, where Mrs Claus has been working very, very hard to make Christmas magical for her apparently incapacitated husband and family. Santa and the elves smile vacantly from the sofa while she whirls around in a tinsel haze, prepping sprouts and making nativity costumes and buying the right girdle for Granny and icing the cake and finding the spare batteries and de-icing the car and giving Dasher his antler medication and wrestling a polar bear for the last orange-centered Christmas pudding at the Lapland Superstore, because as we all know, only Mums can do these things without risking serious physical harm. Good old Mums!

Shortly afterwards Mrs Claus will neck a bottle of cooking sherry and slump in a miserable heap under the weight of society's sexist expectation - but it's ok because the advert will be over by then and she can cheer herself up with a nice bit of sale shopping.

Cut to a black forest gateau the size of a paddling pool, over which Olly Murs and someone from TOWIE hold hands and sway, as a Nolan sister plays piano, sitting in the centre of an enormous king prawn ring. Underneath the buffet table, a Furby and a Bratz doll have fallen in love.

The child from earlier arrives at the party, creating a sense of narrative cohesion. The snowflake has melted, but we know it is the same child because the puppy is now wearing the bobble hat. One of the sparkling, laughing ladies puts down their loofah set and scoops the child up in her arms, so that it can place the star on top of the Christmas tree. The Festive Express races past the window, this time drawn incongruously by reindeer. One of the reindeer winks at the puppy. The words [insert heartwarming message] appear on screen, then some small print explaining all items are non-returnable and may cause choking.

Fade out.

Weep.

Are you weeping yet? Good.

Why I'm Secretly Sad to Be Missing the Jubilee

2012-06-01T19:00:00-04:00

When we booked this holiday months ago, it seemed like a really great idea to go over the Jubilee weekend. Bank holiday jackpot! We'll save loads of annual leave! We'll breezily board a plane and jet off just as the rest of the capital gets engulfed in a steaming tourist soup of trampled Union Jack tat and overpriced cupcakes! We WIN at holidays.

Now, though, as yet another email headed "Really Great-Sounding Thing Happening Over the Jubilee Weekend" rolls into my inbox, I'm starting to worry that we lose at holidays. Why am I going abroad when my homeland is suddenly putting on such a show? It's like turning your back and missing your dog perform the whole Single Ladies routine on its hind legs.

I'm not a royalist, honest (as goes the standard disclaimer uttered by every secret flag-waver), but other than willing the violent destruction of every Keep Calm and Carry On spin-off in Christendom, my feelings towards the Jubi-hoohah remain unfailingly cheery. It ought to be turning my stomach by now, but it isn't - possibly because I keep picturing the day like a triumphant parade scene from a film, with confetti and people hugging in the street and Ferris Bueller, singing on a car.

Even the BBC is making me feel guilty about missing out. I worry that when my future kids ask me what I did for the Diamond Jubilee, and I have to tell them mummy was in a bar in Bulgaria playing poker for pork scratchings, they might fail a school project or something. (Come to think of it, it's a particular skill of mine to miss historic moments - I accidentally spent the '99 solar eclipse in a Dutch shopping centre - but not all historic moments offer the same excuse for Kettle Chip consumption).

Mainly I'm feeling sad because against all the odds (susceptibility to sun stroke; wacky hat-intolerance), I love big public occasions. Even crap ones, like power cuts. Love them. Last year, after weeks of grumbling, I got up at 5am, packed a massive picnic and went to watch the Royal Wedding in Hyde Park. It turned out to be, and I am honestly not exaggerating here, one of the Top Five Best Days of My Life.

Before you choke on your republican granola, I should say that this was due in part to plenty of non-royal factors: our elaborate cheeseboard; eating the elaborate cheeseboard at 7.30am; the excitement of being so close to the Westminster action; a surprise cameo from Vanessa Feltz; the chance to bellow my way through Jerusalem in public without anyone smothering me with a pillow; the surprise cleanliness of the portaloos; it all added up.

But I also loved the overwhelming feeling of communal celebration. I loved talking to strangers without there having to be a broken-down train involved. I loved the romance, goshdarnit. I'm not ashamed.

And now, it's possible the Jubilee might be even better. Because it's easier to get all "bah, taxpayers' money" over a giant, fancy wedding than it is over a knees-up for a woman who has tirelessly dedicated herself to public service and handbag co-ordination for 60 years. Whether you think her job should exist or not, it's hard to deny she's done it devotedly. Besides, she's going to be on a ruddy boat! With Stevie Wonder in her garden! As someone who's remarkably restrained most of the time about being Head of State and all (let's not forget the breakfast tupperware), for one day I'd like to see her enjoy being, well, a massive Queen.

Whether I'll be able to sneak some bunting into my suitcase and find a Bulgarian telly to watch it on remains to be seen - so you must all promise to eat extra party rings on my behalf, okay? And dress a gerbil in a Union Jack onesie, or something.

Why PE for Girls is an Issue Worth Sweating Over

2012-05-03T09:02:17-04:00

On Wednesday, The Huffington Post reported a study by the Women's Sport and Fitness Foundation (WSFF), which had found that 51% of UK girls are put off physical activity by their experiences of school sport and PE lessons. Some 45% think sport is too competitive, while over a third say their PE teacher only pays attention to pupils who are good at sport.

Reading the story was like looking in a mirror - albeit one slightly clouded over with my own reluctant teenage perspiration. I loathed PE. I was one of those girls that the WSFF are worried about, and have subsequently become one of those women. Even now, in my twenties, exercise = blarrgh.

I went to a single sex high school, where sporty girls were the popular girls and if you were terrible, it was far cooler not to try at all. Add to this our teachers' sadistic disregard for weather conditions, termly foot inspections (yes) and the ritual humiliation of the summer's uniform knicker shorts - which were never anything other than giant, saggy navy undies, no matter how hard we tried to rock the hot-pants vibe - and you can see why my 'period pains' get-out excuse surfaced more often than is biologically possible.

To give them their due, the school did try to offer some variety. There was trampolining (bouncing is fun, bouncing as a 14-year-old without an adequate sports bra, less so), nice summery sports like rounders, and even an ill-fated term of trips to a golf course to try and jump-start our athletic aspirations. But nothing stuck. With every soggy hockey match, enthusiasm slumped further, until by year 11 even putting the kit on at all was more effort than most of us were prepared to give.

It was partly about ability, of course. In the same way some kids dread being asked to read aloud in class, us unsporty types felt exposed and judged, both in body and in skill. "At least we have our dignity" we'd sniff, as we bowed gracefully out of each bleep test for a session of learned conversation and spot-squeezing. Although during rare proactive moods we made the best of it by inventing our own sports such as 'sitty-downy badminton', which was like badminton but - well, you probably don't need me to explain.

I'm not suggesting we offer girls different PE. I don't believe our feeble muscles and cosmetic commitments require daintier pursuits, like needlepoint or medium-impact gossiping. No. We should offer ALL kids different PE, if they want it. True, us gals have the meaty side project of body confidence to contend with (and won't it be nice when that old chestnut's finally roasted?), but labelling the issue as a girl's problem isn't helpful. Besides, for all the girls who would rather accidentally call the teacher 'Mum' every single day for a year than do one cross-country run in the drizzle, there must be plenty of boys who feel much the same. Surely?

Trouble is, school experiences of exercise are such a bad advert for getting active later on. There are no chai lattes and meditative cool-downs after PE. Playing a basketball match, getting changed in three minutes flat and pegging it to the other side of the building to sit, gently stewing, in a geography classroom for two hours isn't the serene, endorphin-jazzed experience that grown up exercise usually promises.

While the mimsy, "getting sweaty is not feminine" reasoning given by 45% of the surveyed girls can be swiftly filed under 'Bah, Patriarchy', there's plenty of sympathy to be found there too. Who DOES like getting sweaty, really? You wouldn't nip off to play a game of netball in your lunch hour without the promise of a shower and tidy-up afterwards, would you? And you are a supremely confident adult, without the body odour issues of the average adolescent.

(Before you say it - my school had showers, and in my entire high school career I never witnessed a single person use them. Showering involves nakedness, and contrary to anything Skins may have taught you, the average teenage girl would rather do anything than cavort around publicly in the nuddy.)

Yes, it's vain. But yes, teenagers ARE vain. They're hormonal fondue pots of bubbling personal image angst. And if they learn to equate "doing sport" with "feeling publicly scrutinised, and a bit gross for the rest of the day" then it's hardly a surprise when TVs and X-Boxes win out in the end.

Team sports have their place, but to my mind there needs to be more independent activity and less of the "nice one doofus, you just cost us that goal" to convince kids that exercise is worth doing for their own benefit. They need activities that translate more smoothly into the kind of workouts they might do as an adult. GCSE Zumba, anyone?

It's crucial to get kids exercising as early as possible - but it's equally important that they learn to enjoy it. Because eight years later, I'm still trying.

Dear Urban Outfitters: Am I Really an Extra Large Person?

2011-12-20T19:00:00-05:00

Dear Urban Outfitters,

We've got a problem, you and I.

You might not be aware of it, distracted as you are by the armies of spendy hipsters that march through your doors each week, but our relationship has been deteriorating for years. If indeed, it was ever truly a relationship to begin with - I've hankered after your nostalgic blouses, your vampy skirts and your little strappy dresses for yonks now, while you remain coolly oblivious.

Not to toot my own trumpet, but I'd like to think that on paper, I'm the kind of customer you'd like. I'm 23, I live in London, I work in the media. I throw more of my income than is sensible at the high street, and I'm a sucker for a whimsical trend. If you wanted, you could probably have quite a lot of my money. You'd like that, wouldn't you?

So what's standing between you, me and this beautiful cash-splashing coupledom, then? Well, a zip. Or a few zips. The zips on your clothes that I can't do up, despite wriggling, wrenching, partially dislocating joints and inhaling till I turn puce.

You see, while most high street stores stick to the conventional 8, 10, 12 sizing, up to 16 and beyond, you prefer to keep things rustic with XS, S, M and L. Which might be fine, if my 12-14 figure could fit into the 'M' that I'd expect it to. But it doesn't. Often it doesn't fit an L. Now, I made my peace with not being Alexa Chung many years ago, but I'm still moderately confident that if you saw me walking down the street you wouldn't immediately think, 'Hark! There thunders an EXTRA-LARGE woman.'

Have you ever heard of breasts, Urban Outfitters? Of course you have, I'm sorry for being patronising. But did you know that we can't conveniently detach them, or reposition them under our armpits, each time we'd like to wear a garment that isn't made of stretch jersey? It's just that, sometimes, when I'm trying on your clothes, it seems like you're not very familiar with the concept.

Then there are hips. These are like breasts, but lower down, on the sides, and not as squishy. It would be nice if we could contain these in our clothes too, as an alternative to, y'know, carrying them in our handbags or wearing them as a decorative headpiece. A little arse-accommodation would be good as well, though I realise that might be stretching it (boom boom).

You're not the only ones, of course. I've rarely exited a Zara changing room without tears in my eyes and bruises on my ribs, or had an encounter with American Apparel that didn't leave me reaching for the gin bottle. Up and down the high street, stores are playing fast and loose with sizes and our gymnastic capabilities. I've been stuck in more impossibly-designed garments than you've had hot dinners.

But before you dismiss this as yet another chubby girl rant, let me assure you that it isn't. It's a piece of sage business advice. You're making money, I'm sure, given that you sell ironic pendants for the price of a weekly travelcard, but you could be making more. Oh, you could be making SO much more - if you weren't alienating a massive portion of your potential customer base.

And yes, I'm wishing I hadn't just used the words 'massive portion'. It was between them and 'huge chunk'. Pass me a biscuit.

We're all here, you see, Urban Outfitters. Look, over here! The ladies with the swinging handbags and great hair. We're not that scary. In fact we're a lot like your other customers, just slightly better insulated against the cold. Our demands are simple - we want clothes that do up properly, don't brand us gargantuan humans when we're patently not, and look foxy.

Are you ready for this jelly, Urban Outfitters? Are you?

Love,

Lauren (or 'XL' to you)

Slutty Halloween: Why Can't Women Just Wear Normal Fancy Dress?

2011-10-31T06:09:04-04:00

I found something disturbing in The 99p Store last week. It isn't a radical statement, being a place that you can buy industrial-sized jars of pickled eggs for pocket change, but this was on a new level of consumer bafflement. It was a pair of tights, in the kids' Halloween section, with "bitch" emblazoned down the leg. Bitch. The KIDS section.

But while demonising our infants is a new worry to add to the Halloween list (we've been sending them out to beg sweets from strangers for ages, after all), it foreshadows the phenomenon adult humans face every year. I like to call it Slutty Halloween.

I think we were all vaguely aware of it gathering speed over the last decade, but it wasn't until 2004's Mean Girls put it into words that Slutty Halloween truly became a 'thing'.
"In Girl World," explained Cady, "Halloween is the one day a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything else about it."

In other words, somewhere between the Thriller video and Kitty Brucknell humping that dartboard on X Factor at the weekend, Halloween became the get-out-of-slutty-free card - a chance for nice, normal girls with a tasteful line in Uniqlo cardigans to crank their assets up to their chin and embrace their slaggy alter egos for a night.

And what's wrong with that, really? Fancy dress has always been a chance for escapism - be it as a teary five-year-old inkeeper, or a hobbit in live action roleplay in a wood somewhere in Norfolk. If your heart's desire is to spend the night as a lascivious incarnation of Little Bo Peep, then by all means go for it. But watch where you put that crook, you'll have someone's eye out.

The problem, you see, isn't so much that Halloween offers the chance to dress slutty, but that recently it seems to have become the only option. It started small enough, with sexy she-devils, minxy vampires and the 'underwear with arbitrary animal ears' get-up so well illustrated in Mean Girls. But then (probably as all the fancy dress shops started selling out of red PVC), it spread. And lo, we were forced to sluttify every costume we could, just to keep up. Nuns, literary characters, historical figures - all now have to come with a side of knee-socks and pouting.

Dressing as the Honey Monster? Ah, but how can you make it SEXY Honey Monster? Add a pair of hotpants to your furry mask, there's a good girl. That's it, get your sugar puffs out...etc.

These days it's a brave move to pick a frumpy costume. For let's remember, after the office party and New Year's Eve, Halloween is one of the key pulling occasions of the year. And who's more likely to get some - the gung-ho lass in the historically-accurate Joan of Arc outfit, or the one dressed as a wayward Minnie Mouse?

Having sported my fair share of 'generic busty wench' outfits myself, I can sympathise with that. I can. But while we're sticking sequins onto our nethers with eyelash glue, are the men backcombing their chest hair and winching themselves into 'Sexy Jeremy Paxman' outfits? No. They're wearing a giant sleepysuit and looking darned comfy with it.

It's a part of the much wider question, continually plaguing us womenfolk - why can't we just wear normal clothes? Proper, functioning clothes, that cover us adequately and don't garrotte us in intimate areas. For the modern woman, day-to-day life can sometimes feel like a feeble battle against the landslide of booty-bearing, quasi-stripper expectations gradually falling in on our heads. Halloween is the epicentre of this. In Railway Children terms, it's when we'd be ripping up our red flannel petticoats and waving them frantically in front of the train. The Ladyflesh Express. Final destination: Nakedsville.

Also, Slutty Halloween encourages laziness. A basque and a bowtie do not a costume maketh. Buying a pre-prepared 'raunchy traffic warden' outfit off the internet is a cop out. I like to see a fancy dress that blood, sweat and a few dedicated charity shop dashes have gone into, ta. If you've not cut up a bedsheet and permanently stained a few towels, you've frankly not tried hard enough.

And aside from all its implications of feminist doom, there's a very practical reason for forgoing Slutty Halloween: it's cold.

Halloween, we must remember, is at the end of October. And all the body glitter in the world isn't going to keep the chill out when you're at Old Street bus stop at 3am in your scanties, now, is it ladies?