I’ve not published an essay for a while – mainly because I haven’t written one for a while. I got my marks back this week for last semester. I did alright, but not as well as I’d hoped. I can try to justify it with excuses such as “well, it isn’t easy starting a business, holding down a 9-5 and studying for an MA”, but I know that I’m fooling myself. I got sloppy and decided to write about stuff that I found fun as opposed to stuff that had any real academic merit. Note to self: blog = self-indulgent stuff, MA = controlled, considered and well researched stuff that isn’t quite as much fun. Anyway, this essay was a blast to write and I hope you enjoy reading it. It isn’t big, it isn’t that clever (I’ve got the “C ” to prove it) but it is mildly diverting and kind of amusing. BBxx Jack Wills the “heritage” brand: refashioning the past? Heritage brands are those that attempt to make the consumer “feel as passionate about the heritage as about the future” (Tungate, 2004, p157). In fashion, “heritage” has typically been the preserve of “traditional English companies”, including “Burberry, Mulberry, DAKS, Aquascutum, Austin Reed, and Jaeger.” (McDermott, 2002, p85). These are brands that were once synonymous with a certain middle-English stuffiness, they reinvented themselves with a “combination of heritage and hipness…intended to appeal to a more youthful market” (ibid). These brands often have 100 year plus histories, many starting from humble beginnings. Heritage is powerful, it is the “single characteristic and attribute of a brand that provides sustainable competitive advantage” (Benson, 2007). It establishes trust – encouraging a customer to feel as if they are buying a quality product. Yet it goes deeper, customers are buying little piece of[.....]

There is nothing Bookish Brunette enjoys more than laughing at posh people in unfortunate hats/fascinators. So imagine my joy upon discovering a low profile and little known event taking place this Friday! It is an event sure to provide many opportunities for laughing at posh people in hats/fascinators. You probably haven’t heard about this little thing called the “Royal Wedding”. Let me explain: a dull bloke called William (who used to be almost handsome but is now far too toothy and balding to be considered any better than “alright I s’pose”) is marrying a dull woman called Catherine. This means that we get the day off work, and you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Or, in this case you shouldn’t look a pair of overprivileged sloaney ponies in the mouth – it is terribly uncouth. As my wedding gift to the couple, I’ve decided to live blog proceedings. It was that or handmade antimacassars. Yes, on Friday morning from 8am, I shall be watching events unfold so that you don’t have to. I will also be drinking Bucks Fizz (wedding innit) which guarantees that my writing will be 56% funnier/wittier/bitchier than usual. I’ll be commenting on the outfits and moaning about Fearne Cotton. Why wouldn’t you want to read that? Of course, there will be the dress. Hopefully worn by Prince Harry (thank you, try the veal). My prediction is that it could be by any number of vaunted British designers but will ultimately look like it comes from Monsoon. Prove me wrong Kate, please prove me wrong. In all seriousness, I hope she’s picked McQueen. Deep down though, I can’t see it happening. The label rose to fame with a collection called “Highland Rape” (kind of icky). Let’s just say Kate is far more “Highland country[.....]

Jealousy and envy are things that we all like to consider as beneath us. We are all so sure of ourselves and the choices that we make that we are not remotely bothered by the successes and achievements of others. We are all such big and generous people that we can look at a premiership footballer, with his huge house and fleet of flash cars and think “good on him”. Schadenfreude is an emotion that we cannot comprehend – the failures of others make us feel sad. Their pain is our pain. That is how enlightened we all are. HA! Yeah right. Chances are, that when faced with the successful footballer we think along the lines of “but is he really happy?” or “what a ridiculous world we live in, where he earns a squillion pounds for kicking a ball around, whilst I, with my PhD in Zoology and tireless recycling efforts, earn less than £25k p.a”. When Mr Footballer’s life goes tits up, his beautiful wife leaves him and he descends into a life of alcohol abuse and cheap hookers, we gleefully gaze at the tabloid headlines and think “Serves him right. That’s what you get for being so bloody successful.” This may sound like Charlie Brooker levels of nihilism (not a common feature here at Bookish Brunette), but human beings are ultimately insecure. We judges ourselves against others. Some do it more than others and some, who like to consider themselves fiercely individualistic, do it less. Either way, the urge is always there. Let’s not get into who or what is to blame for this. It could be the media, it could be capitalism, it could be “Sex and the City 2”, it could be David Cameron. Who knows? We are all desperate for a measuring stick, something[.....]

This is an article I wrote a while back to apply for a job as a columnist. I didn’t get the job and I always feel a bit bummed out when I’ve worked hard on something that has, ultimately, lead to nothing. But such is the life of a wannabe writer. Sigh. Time to pick myself up, dust myself down and keep on at it. At least you guys now get to read it. Enjoy! If I was a sheep mommy or daddy, I’d be locking up my daughters about now. It’s tupping time  - the season for some serious sheep lovin’. As we are eagerly opening the first doors on our advent calendars, sheep are out having a total boink fest. Rams are off smearing their raddle on the fleece of many a ewe. And that is not a ewe-phemism. Good for them. You may be wondering how I have such knowledge of sheep mating rituals. Maybe I’m a thwarted sheep farmer or maybe I have some weird fetish. The latter is the closest description, though fear not, I do not get aroused by the sight of ovine carnal activity. The site of Matt Baker paddling a kayak along the Thames is an all together different matter. Yes, I have a problem. I am a Countryphile. Sunday night TV has always been my dirty little secret. I’m going to whisper this because all my liberal hipster buddies might overhear and I’ll lose my hard-earned cool points (quelle beast): I really love Antiques Roadshow, Last of the Summer Wine and even *gulp* Songs of Praise. Most of all I love Country File. These are TV programmes that I don’t really understand, they offer nothing I can possibly relate to. The most valuable thing I own is a copy of the[.....]

Mop of wild yet subtly groomed hair? Check. Statement coat with vintage references? Check. Incongruous choice of footwear? Check. A penchant for natty neck wear? Check. Well done, Sir! You can now go and star in your own action packed BBC comedy drama. Dr Who, Sherlock and now Dirk Gently: the quirkly dressed male protagonist with ‘unconventional’ methods is taking over our screens. But why are producers so keen to draw a link between a brilliant mind and a bold wardrobe? My general rule is that anybody with wacky and outlandish dress sense tends to be a bit of a dick (Gaga included. Oooh! Controversial!). That’s not to pass any judgement on their crime solving abilities or skills at the control panel of a time machine. They always strike me as so eager to ‘express their otherness’ through superficial signifiers that they forget about the important stuff, such as original thought and personality. Granted; the same rules don’t apply in telly land. It relies on caricatures. An unconventional wardrobe is a handy visual shorthand for an unconventional mind. Yet whilst for wackily dressed women this normally means unbearable and unhinged ditziness, for men it equals brilliance. This is a relatively recent phenomenon. Any aficionado of mid to late nineties American teen movies will recall that the guy who turned up to prom wearing trainers with his tux was normally a complete ass-hat. Ducky in ‘Pretty in Pink’ is another fine case in point. But I digress. I blame David Tennent and Jarvis Cocker. Or at least the person who decided to dress David Tennent like Jarvis Cocker in Doctor Who. Cocker is a well dressed chap and Tennent is a total hotty. Thus, Tennent in the wardrobe of Cocker equals amplified hotness. The glasses! The dowdy geography teacher striped suits![.....]

    It is worrying how my state of mind is so tightly bound to the state of my knicker drawer. The relationship can be summarised thus: if the drawer is chaotic and messy then the odds are that my mind is in a similar state. If the drawer is tidy and well-ordered then all is well in the world of Bookish Brunette. I am not going to suggest for a second that an untidy underwear drawer is what causes people to descend into madness. But please, stay with me whilst I try to explain. My relationship with mess is complex. I don’t like it but I won’t have a meltdown over a pile of dirty dishes. I can tolerate clutter (to a point) providing I can see it. What really bugs me is when people try to hide mess – they ram it under beds, stuff it into cupboards, close a door and hope that no one sneaks in. This is all forming a neat metaphor for something I believe in, even though it sometimes gets me into trouble. Here comes the deep and meaningful bombshell bit… …feelings can be messy. I prefer it when they are messy and out there instead of locked away in our minds. Just like the dirty laundry will always burst out of the door, emotions stashed away will always spill out even when you don’t want them to. The cliché for this is ‘wearing your heart on your sleeve’. (This cliché always makes me think of some yacky brooch pinned onto a school shirt, an image that displeases me. Not my favourite.) My knicker drawer falls into disarray when I’m busy, stressed or not at home enough. If the drawer is in a state, I will end up looking a state. Rummaging through[.....]

I have already decided what my ‘potty old lady thing’ will be – hoarding magazines. It is that or gin. I don’t want to hoard stuff like ‘People’s Friend’ or ‘Woman’s Weekly’. They would just remind me of being a potty old woman. No, I’m going to be the neighbourhood’s only 80-year-old with a subscription to ‘Pop’. My Grandchildren will be able to visit and build dens out of back issues of ‘Lula‘ and ‘The Gentlewoman’. I may even decorate the downstairs loo with pages torn out of ‘Amelia’s Magazine’. These are magazines that perform the trickiest of feats: you fall in love with them. They mess with the concept of ‘magazine’ by ceasing to be throw away items that cause merely passing pleasure and become something that you treasure and stow away safely. Magazines have always entranced me, be it my pre-tween piles of ‘Horse and Pony’ or the short fling that I enjoyed with ‘Nova’ when it relaunched (briefly) in 2000 (they are still stashed away in my parent’s attic). My back issues of ‘Vogue’ are currently arranged in date order on our bookshelves. I geek out over them. ‘Vogue’ is my constant, the magazine that I will never give up. I accept its flaws – it is elitist, fickle and, in the main, totally detached from reality. But I don’t care. Whilst Elle tries to trendy itself up with edgy page layouts and brooding cover shots, ‘Vogue’ refuses to be anything other than chic. After Vogue, there are the weird and wonderful high-end niche fashion and lifestyle magazines. By ‘high-end’ I mean that they tend to cost well over a fiver; sometimes because they are so ridiculously extravagant, sometimes because readership is so small that high prices are the only way to make them a viable enterprise[.....]