As bags, accessories and etiquette go, I don’t have a lot. I don’t lose my sh*t when I see 107 designer bags while power walking down Oxford Street (probably on my way to pick up some more of those fetching Primark pants of mine or one of Pret’s doughy af cookies).
I don’t dream of owning a collection so big that I have to mount a Beauty and the Beast-esque ladder to reach it – you know the one they keep in the library? I’ve never really been interested in the designer hype. I mean, if I put £200 away for five months and avoided Zara, I probably could go and make it rain in Selfridges, but at this stage in my life, I would much rather spend that money on a city break or a lavish Henry VIII style banquet where we could invite all our friends over and only eat with our hands. And we would feed each other guineafowl. I would rather spend that money on a new lens or a waffle duvet cover from M&S.
Oh my f*cking god, I love M&S so much. My ideal date would be to go to marks and sparks (are you even a fan unless you call it that?) at circa 7pm on a Saturday night and go round stroking and sniffing all the bed linen, cushions and room sprays. Yep, you see the thing about me guys is this: I’m not just poor and basic, I am lame with it too. Three for the price of one. I never thought I’d be mentally prepared to shop at M&S, but I was wrong. Also, their peonies are the t*ts and they last forever. So yeah M&S, you my girl.
So I have yet to buy something designer (unless my f*cking excessive train ticket counts, no?), but that doesn’t stop me bumbling around like a fool, dribbling over a designer dupe – that’s basic b*tch code for a darn good copy. You know, something that looks a little bit sassy and luxury but costs me approximately £15 less than I pay to have my pubic fluff ripped out of its not-so-soft-and-waffly bed. Oh I’ve got such an elegant way with words haven’t I?
Enter this Chloe Nile doppelgänger. Shout out to Hannah Crosskey for sharing this little pocket rocket on her Instagram (oh god, it’s happening, the Love Island lexicon is taking over my soul). Don’t you love girls like that? The ones that look sh*t hot and tell you where they got everything from. The ones that don’t tell you where their outfits from are the worst, like what do you mean you don’t know? Check the label hun.
No actually, girls that pose half naked with their dogs on the gram are the worst. They make me feel like an uncomfortable dad who’s just bumped into his daughter’s friend in Morrisons buying tampons. What do I do with my face? Where should I direct my eyes please? Shall I hide behind my All Bran and wait to come out?
This half moon bag is all elegant and compact and for those reasons, we’re not really all that compatible, on paper. Well, this is turning out to be Chris and Olivia all over again.
It’s a lavvvly addition to my three-piece handbag collection anyhow. Ok, it could be four but either way, it’s not enough to warrant a ladder, not just yet anyway so hold your horses Belle. I’ve been wearing it at the weekends with a maxi dress and heeled sandals and it just helps me feel that little bit more put together.
Strange huh, how can a bag that looks a little bit like a semi-hard cheese do that?! I can just hear myself now:
Them: ‘Are you a madam or a mademoiselle’
Me: ‘Neither I am Edam to my friends.’
I’m borderline obsessed with any bags that have some kind of ring handle but never mind, there’s worse things I could be obsessed with – like pulling the hair out of the plug hole and eating it. Remember that TV show? There was also a woman on there who never cut her toenails and she went round calling them her babies. Yeah, so as obsessions go I think I’m still doing ok.
I know what you’re thinking btw, it’s cheap, the quality must be shite. But actually, it’s sturdy af. So sturdy in fact, that I had to show the security guard at Wembley Arena how to open the thing and OF COURSE, there were a couple of tampons rolling around in there for the occasion – being a woman is always a pleasure.
I’m trying my best to keep it clean, but I know it will be knee deep in spag bol in about 72 hours because let’s face it, this is me and white doesn’t stay white for long when you’re Bruce Bogtrotter. You want garlic bread with that hun?
Laters, I’m off to comb flying ants out my hair. Love you bye.
Flowers: Gunns Florist