Dedicated scenester and comeback aspirant Lily Allen sent a powerful visual message yesterday while attending the BAFTAs. The message confirmed long-held rumours in the celebusphere. It’s time, her outfit screamed, to take back our power, to flaunt our true nature, to throw off the disguises that have, for so long, allowed us to pass as other than what we truly are.
We are Reptiles. And we are proud.
Addicts of Mugwump fluid are known as Reptiles. A number of these flow over chairs with their flexible bones and black-pink flesh. A fan of cartilage covered with hollow, erectile hairs through which the Reptiles absorb the fluid sprouts from behind each ear. The fans, which move from time to time touched by invisible currents, serve also some form of communication known only to Reptiles.
In those days of grey terror the Reptiles dart about faster and faster, scream past each other at supersonic speed, their flexible skulls flapping in black winds of insect agony. The Dream Police disintegrate in globs of rotten ectoplasm swepty away by an old junky, goughing nad spitting in the sick morning. The Mugwump Man comes with alabaster jars of fluid and the Reptiles get smoothed out.
The air is once again still and clear as glycerine.
And that, dear readers, is probably the most accurate description of a night and next morning at Lily Allen’s house the world has ever seen. It’s hard out here for a Reptile.
To read more about Lily’s heretofor secret life, pick up this handy guide.
Poor countrypop caterwauler Miley Cyrus seemed to be in a bad way at the opening of her Bangerz tour in Vancouver. Not only did budget cuts force her to make her entrance riding an Aldi hot dog instead of the scheduled white stallion, but it later became clear, from her uncomfortable fidgeting atop this and various other props, that the poor girl was suffering a brutal infection, and needed to see a doctor urgently. No wonder she opened the tour in Canuckistan, home of socialized Kwellada.
That looks painful. For once, I feel bad for the guys in gynecology row. Look at that guy on the left. He hates himself so much right now.
Once you’re cured, dear, please take note: THIS is how you writhe to a country song.
Oh, Johnny, it’s too bad we never hung out when you were in Vangroover, because we would have had a fabulous time! I can’t resist a passive-aggressive activist (just ask Julian Assange) and it doesn’t get better than Johnny “No, I Won’t Say A Word About Gay Rights at Sochi” Weir. Some men know how to send a message without making any noise at all.
So far the world’s brassiest figure skater has treated us to a solid week of accelerating levels of superfabulousness, culminating in a sequined ensemble which practically bitchslaps the director and demands a Bob Fosse solo. Poor Tara Lipinsky; she is very much the dowdy, butt-bowed bridesmaid at this party, despite that stunning braid.
Johnny is, of course, married to a Russian, and is known formally as John Garvin Weir-Voronov. He and his husband Victor have been married since 2011.
Mistress Tongue and the Acoustic Mayhem made their appearance on MTV Unplugged, and sadly the same word applied to our ears. Fortunately we found the remote after a mere 90 seconds of this caterwauling travesty and didn’t have to endure the torture any longer.
Now, I may be old and crochety, but it seems to me that if you’re going to go back to the 90’s for inspiration like Unplugged, there are better ways to combine top contemporary performers with vintage cool.
This, for instance.
Starring my old friend Mike from Vancouver. And also:
Did I watch the Golden Globes? Are you kidding, that’s what recappers are for! But I did do a roundup of the best Golden Globes themed GIFs (hard G, y’all) and pick out the biggest loser, fashion-wise, so you’re welcome.
If, like me, you missed the whole thing, watch this video that recaps it in ninety seconds flat. Like me.
Let’s start with respected theatre and motion picture actress Emma Thompson seen here demonstrating her classical RADA training in how to make an unforgettable entrance.
Also making a memorable entrance was Elisabeth Moss on the ManiCam (the ManiCam is a thing? Jesus, take the wheel).
The evening’s theme was “Negging,” flawlessly demonstrated here by my boy Bono.
Everybody’s least favorite heiress (after Paris Hilton) jumped on the negging trend; it will no doubt form the centerpiece of an episode of Girls in the near future.
Other celebs to leap aboard the negging juggernaut included:
Tommy Lee Jones
and the normally-sunny Julia Louis Dreyfuss
as well as Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, the hosts.
Satisfying. In fact, negging on Taylor was a sub-plot all night. That spirit is embodied here in Everyone’s New Favorite Spunky Blonde, Jennifer Lawrence.
Negging on JLaw’s couture Dior dress was a Thing as well, although it was not a GIF. Still, amusing and accurate.
The World’s Most Perfect Person negged her own shoes, and they were Louboutins, and went on to neg the entire process of awards-presentation, but of course she did it flawlessly!
And it all ended happily ever after.
Unless your name is Ali Hewson, of course.
I’m of two minds about this coat, for obvious reasons. And it does seem skimpy, and what is the point of skimpy outerwear? In this case, it’s to flash your skimpy skirt and your ample legs en route to doing a guest spot on Letterman, but in the Real World, a winter coat that flaps wide open with every step is of limited utility.
The shoes, on the other hand, I love unconditionally.