I’m about to smother myself in syrup

Please read and share this, give the gift of my newsletter this Christmas

Tis the season of gift guides, but I am sipmly too contrary to join in. I guess you can buy any of the stuff below, apart fom the stuff not for sale, and the stuff I completely invented in my head. Happy shopping x

Animal print, especially leopard, is overdone in fashion. I love Mel B but I have my limits. Ever consider the mackerel print? A mackerel tie might read a bit Tommy Cooper, but matched with a corresponding mackerel shirt it’s a flex and a half. Iridescent mackerel-scaled slacks would bang at any party, and could double as cammo for mermaid poaching. It’s strikingly odd to me that Dries has never done a mackerel trench. Imagine colleting the dole in an ankle-length Dries mackerel trench, imagine buying your pathetic little girl dinner in M&S in one. Men called Malvolio wear mackerel, men who can detect traces of delphinium in your perfume from last night, men who don’t care that Meta is harvesting their personal data as I type. Mackerel is just chic, isn’t it?

My mate saw a post I did about some art in my house and literally begged me to feature a woman somewhere on my gay-af walls. I came across this not-for-sale Cindy Sherman and though I can’t buy it, I’m about to smother myself in syrup to achieve the look.

This lowball Larry offered me £100 for the £1500-retail desk I’m trying to sell. I ignored his offer, but have fallen for his Amazon-cheap Klein blue foil hat. I can tell he’s fun in the office but not distracting fun in the office, he’s I can take five to watch a fail compilation video with you, but we’re here to do a job, guys in the office. As the wrapping on Quality Street loses all aesthetic appeal (I know it sounds downright GB News to want the 80s back), it’s right to foil your noggin in Coconut Éclair in protest. I now envision a whole line of Quallies hats. The green triangle is an obvious design lift, akin to the above. The Purple One is Napoleon style, and hello to the Caramel Swirl fez. You can just mash a Strawberry Delight straight into your hair because they are fucking rank.

What I mean when I say three wise men. They were a crack team against the future and I’m still gutted they smelted Arnie at the end. I think about Sarah Connor most days. No actress has ever transformed herself so brilliantly for a part, that weak-ass waitress with the Thundercats hair gym-bro-ed into the lithe brutality of the mother of the resistance against the machines. Her sinewy arms when she’s trying to inject her doctor’s neck with bleach are their own Ozempic advertisement. Nicole’s nose in The Hours seems almost lacklustre in comparison.

Christmas is a creamy, noggy time, of just-set custard and gloopily coated tongues. December socialising is our collective consolation prize after a year of chin-upping and stiff-upper-lipping as the world burns. I don’t see why it can’t also taste totally tropical.