Festival No.6: a review

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Every single person I know who had been to Festival No.6 had unwavering opinions of it being an incredible weekend. Based in the Italian-style tourist village of Portmeirion on the north Wales coast,  organisers promised it to be the best festival location on earth. I’d somehow neglected to visit in my 24 years of being living fairly locally I was very, very excited.

Anyway, back to the beginning. The shuttle service from Bangor was £10 EACH WAY. Y’what mate? We split a taxi with several other savvy party people, which at £70 still worked out cheaper, and the driver happily stopped off at Maccies. Belter.

On arrival at Portmeirion I was blown away. These photos really don’t do the view justice:

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‘I am not a number’ – Portmeirion served as the location of 1960s TV show The Prisoner.

It was all a bit downhill from there, really.

The rain!

By Welsh standards, the rain wasn’t that bad. “Adverse”, No.6 later called it. Usually I’m pretty well prepared for festivals. I had glitter, wings and fairy lights (why aren’t Pimp My Tent competitions a thing?) but I’d forgotten wellies and waterproofs. Big, BIG mistake.

There’s a general consensus among bloggers that you should only say nice things, because who will risk inviting you to review events or beauty products for free otherwise?! But basically I’m not kiss arse, so there.

Festival organisers treated this wet thing falling from the sky as if they had never encountered it before. Every single festival I have ever been to have laid down hay, gravel, bark chippings or steel sheets to ease walking, but inexplicably, they failed to do this.

The campsite in particular became a swamp, as did the main arena. I fell down several times, and as har har lol as it was the first and fifth time, wading through mud that deep is exhausting and also dangerous.

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How it was supposed to look.

Word came that the park & ride had flooded, leaving cars submerged. Local farmers – apparently not “employed” as No.6 claimed, but voluntarily – used their tractors to drag cars out, many of which were later written off.

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Did I mention that organisers inexplicably chose a flood plain as the location of the park & ride? In a statement, they claimed that ‘although showers were forecast, there were no advance or flood warnings…’  Did you not just use your noggins?

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Unhappy campers even created a Facebook page to air their grievances.

By Saturday, I was cold, wet and on the verge of abandoning ship and swimming home. To make matters worse, Lucy made me watch the Kaiser Chiefs.

But then a guardian angel in the form of a family friend showed up with fancy woolly socks, wellies, AND waterproofs for me. But oh no, she did one better. She drove us to her mother’s house, where we showered and dried our clothes and I wore Nain’s dressing gown. I felt like a new woman!

Back at the festival I remembered that the world record for cracker-eating is two in one minute, and because we just happened to have access to crackers we attempted this record, and failed. Unfortunately there are no photos for your viewing pleasure, but here’s me blowing up Lucy’s mattress instead.

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Wandering between the late-night tents alone, I met who I came to think of as my “festival boyfriend” during a Craig Charles Funk & Soul set. I asked whether he fancied a snog, and the rest is history.

Unfortunately, another criticism is that there were too many damn people, with an additional 5000 tickets reportedly sold. We became lodged at a key entry point between the main arena and Portmeirion village for 20 minutes. How much would a metal barrier to separate those going in and out have cost?! Meanwhile, the village itself was so rammed, we didn’t actually go inside any of the venues because it was such a faff.

The best area of the festival for me was the woods, with its various folk and dance oriented stages such as Audio Farm and Gottwood. Popular with the younger crowd, it was unfortunately closed at 8pm each night supposedly to stop people drowning in the lake and whatnot.

The woods are the best part of festivals – there’s nothing better than sitting under a tree with your new mate and sharing a bottle of straight vodka to minimise the need for toilet breaks – and I reckon closing before dark is a right mistake. If organisers invested in staff to keep everybody safe and lights to make the place snazzy, it’d be spectacular.

Wander through the woods long enough and you’ll  access the cliffs. I’ve always thought Porthmadog was a bit of a dump but we spent a long time just taking in the views. In the forest we bumped into one of the London poshos from the taxi, high as a kite, who told the festival boyfriend that I was a wonderful woman who he should treasure forever.

The highlight of my weekend was watching Noel Gallagher with the boy, singing our hearts out to Half the World Away in the pouring rain. I’ve always been team Blur, but it was honestly a magical experience destined for the memory bank. Oh, and he was joined by Paul Weller.

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As a boutique festival, I had expected portaloos to be of a decent standard. They were pink, to be fair, but the decent standards stopped there. These were amongst the worst toilets I’ve ever experienced. Cleaners weren’t hired, as is custom at many festivals. Or maybe they were, but it was only the glamper wankers privileged to hand sanitizer?

I actually ended up missing a lot of the acts I’d planned to see – Blossoms, Bastille, Dr. John Cooper Clarke and so on – because there didn’t appear to be any programs on sale. Download the app, everybody told me. But my phone is the kind that lasts 20 years with the enviable features of a flashlight and Snake.

As a result everybody needed their smartphones recharged after two hours, and No.6 had conveniently supplied an extortionately priced phone charging stall. Sly.

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La Compagnie des Quidams and their herd of creepy luminous horses at the Central Piazza on Sunday eve.

In their greed, over-selling and corner cutting, No.6 have lost credibility with many fans. Instead of spending all that money on a legion of shiny No.6-emblazoned 4x4s, organisers should maybe invest in a bale of hay and other luxuries for 2017.

They seem so concerned with reaching their ideal demographic through the “glamping” bollocks, they’ve forgotten that the majority of people who go to festivals are young, skint and just want a boogie. We don’t care about the Michelin-starred 7-course Dinner At Clough’s, or the fact that our tent comes with a doormat/sauna/personal stylist and has only ironically been named the Titanic.

It’s unfortunate that the weather put such a damper on the weekend, but I still had an amazing time. The festival boyfriend is now my real-life boyfriend!

Because of the location, and the hope that organisers have well and truly learned their lesson, I would definitely recommend Festival Number 6. Let’s just hope that next year it falls on that one day a year when summer occurs in Wales, eh?

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Green Man festival: a review

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Last weekend me and my pal Jonny went to Green Man festival in the Brecon Beacons, the ticket for which I’d bought purely to see Warpaint (again).

We didn’t leave Liverpool until around 8pm on Thursday, when I was already drunk as a skunk. I puked twice on the way down and it tasted exactly like the BBQ Pringles I’d just eaten. And we almost killed fox.

Anyway.

Despite kipping in the car and pitching on the Friday morning, we still ended up 20 seconds from the festival site. We were woken from our power naps by the unfortunately named Deep Throat Choir.

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Mountain Stage

The first thing we noticed was the kids. Kids, everywhere. Oh God, we thought. The clientele appeared to be made up of old hippies, young hippies, and hippies with kids.

A medium sized festival, it is known for being one of the cleanest and most peaceful in the UK. The festival places a large emphasis on recycling, so every attendee paid £1 for a plastic cup with their first drink purchase and carried it around for the weekend.

Wandering about the grounds, I found the Fairylove stall I’ve raved about in a previous post. By day two I’d caved and bought this amazing rainbow bra. You’ll never wear it again, you say? Already have around Liverpool🙂

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Because they cost £30 – £5 less than I’d originally thought – I figured I could afford to finish the look off with some £60 wings. Here’s Jonny modelling them, along with his new wizard hat and pants which I glimpsed a silhouette of his bollocks through:

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There were lots of lamas. I’m not sure why.

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The festival grounds provided plenty of nooks and crannies to get up to no good, and we found this LED cube whilst exploring.

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Toilets are always a festival talking point, but these were the best I’ve ever experienced. Not sure if that’s down to cleaners or half the festival being made up of mums. We salute you!

It also rained a lot, but what would a Welsh festival be without rain? Pointless, that’s what.

The biggest crowd of the weekend seemed to be for Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros. I wasn’t familiar with them, apart from that song off the advert, but I had so much fun. Such a great live band!

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Charlotte Church’s Late Night Pop Dungeon were on in the Walled Garden, comprising of unusual covers and mash ups. Charlotte Church! Sequins!! Operatic Happy Together!!! So much fun and not even in an ironic way.

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The act I was most looking for was Meilyr Jones, member of Welsh band Race Horses (formerly Radio Luxembourg).

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My Maths teacher gave our whole class Radio Lux singles when I was 13 because his son was a member, and it’s still under my bed many years later. I caught both of Meilyr’s sets, one of which was the worst kept secret and Green Man and went on until 3am.

Not only is Meilyr a pleasure to listen to, he’s a wonderful entertainer. He’s bashful and smiley and makes polo necks work. He first addresses the audience in Welsh instead of pandering the the non-19%. Here’s a clip of him on the Mountain Stage. Wela’i chi yn Lerpwl mis Hydref!

Considering I literally came to Green Man to see Warpaint, I was disappointed. Although they were phenomenal live, as always, their performances are wearing thin. If I just wanted phenomenal music I would listen to it on Spotify. But the point of live music, for me, is the performance. I never thought I was bothered about audience interaction, but Warpaint bummed me out to the point that I became quite bored. Not one smile, too much pouting. Bah!

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Green Man hosts the Chai Wallahs, the largest independent music venue touring the UK festival circuit. Giving insight into the UK’s alternative and underground music scene, we spent a good deal of time here. It’s a place you can dance like a lunatic or perch on the floor and rest your muddy feet.

On the last night we observed a group of teens, all of whom looked no older than 16 but more likely 14. One girl had scribbled ‘look into my eyes’ on her t-shirt, cutting out eye holes where  to expose boobage. We were disturbed.

Anyway. Highlights included Will Varley, who had a lot to say for himself. My favourite lyric was ‘If you know where you are when you wake up, something’s wrong,’

Rews, meanwhile, were are an alternative all-girl rock band from Dublin. Great to see girls rocking at AND smiling!

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The last act of the weekend were Belle & Sebastian. I was reluctant to watch because they’ve never done it for me, but Jonny was adamant that they’re an amazing live band. And what a show it was. Great visuals, great performers, great stage presence. I didn’t stop dancing.

Fans were invited onstage, to the point a stage manager appeared and scolded the band. Cue mutters of “Hillsborough” from the audience.

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The end of the night was marked by the ritual burning of the Green Man, which everybody had tagged with wishes during weekend (Jonny wished it could be Christmas every day. I wished for ‘peace, love and lemons,’ obv). I was bursting with a wee and nobody joined us for the national anthem – mainly because we only knew the first couple of lines – but it was a magical moment. Top fireworks, too.

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How a Flirty Photoshoot Improved my Confidence

A couple of years ago, never would I have considered getting my kit off onstage or in front of a camera. I would literally rather make love to a cactus.

I’ve become somewhat desensitised to topless women over the past couple of years thanks to having them shoved in my face whether I like it or not.

I felt pretty having had my hair and makeup done professionally – that was, until my friend Rachael emerged after her makeover looking a right bird.

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As an actress, Rachael knows how to rock the camera. I wasn’t nervous about getting my kit off, but I was bricking it about the actual posing. I HATE photos. I don’t do seductive or sensual, it’s either smiling or no photo. I was literally shaking with nerves despite the glass of fizz and the photographer had to help me fasten my suspender belt.

The shoot was less terrifying than I’d expected. The photographer told me exactly where to place each limb, so I slowly relaxed.

Going back to view the 40 or so photos a week later was nerve racking. What if I was the exception to the rule and they really couldn’t make me look attractive/thinner/etc etc?

Some were terrible. Of the 11 I chose, I still wasn’t keen on them all. But I blown away by these two in particular:

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A few others were nice too, although they have a vague brothel vibe.

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I was so, so excited to get home and post the photos onto Facebook. I never thought I could look so nice.

For the most part, comments were positive. It was a huge confidence boost hearing how lovely I looked.

But by the next morning, I was contemplating taking them all down because of messages like ‘I just wanna take those god damn tassels off your nipples and lick them crazy!!’

Maybe I was asking for it by posting them. Becoming interested in burlesque has made me very liberal towards bare skin, but despite that I’m actually a right prude and too polite to tell anyone they’ve offended me in case I hurt their feelings.

People can appreciate my photos, but that doesn’t mean they’re entitled to me.

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People also commented that they were unprofessional and I would never be able to write for children’s television. My answer to that is: right now, I do not write for children’s television. Maybe I’ll get there someday, but I’m not going to avoid doing things I want to do now on the off-chance I’ll do something else great in the future.

An old (male) friend unintentionally upset me by asking what I got out of posting the photos online. Wouldn’t keeping them for myself have “fulfilled” my hobby?

I am personally not that interested in seeing them, therefore I’m not that arsed. You’re free to do as you please with your own Facebook. I appreciate that it’s part of what make you a more “free” spirit than most women… you seem to give the impression that you want other people to validate what you do, and am curious as to why.

Wasn’t it enough for me to know in my heart of hearts that I looked good? He was like a dog with a bone and I felt terrible about myself. Was everybody secretly calling me a slut? Or snickering about the airbrushing and how disappointing I looked in person?

After a pep talk from a friend, I decided: screw them. They weren’t there to see the 30 photos where I looked like a beached whale and wanted to die of shame.

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I am proud of my photos. I did something that scared me and felt empowered. I am 24 years old and probably not going to look this good again, so why should I hide my body? Why are women – who make up 50% of the global population – made to feel like their bodies are something to be ashamed of?

Showing off my figure doesn’t mean that I’m promiscuous and welcome creepy comments. It means that I can celebrate myself despite my flaws, and the only thing I would go back and change is to put a smile on my face – because regardless of spots, stretchmarks or cellulite – everybody is beautiful with a smile.

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Cirque: a review

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Where: Queens Rd, Manchester M9 5FF

Opening hours: Saturday 8pm – late

Myself and a friend made a weekend of visiting Manchester recently, stopping off in the Alternative & Burlesque Fair at the 02 Ritz before getting dolled up in preparation for Cirque. I had been dying to visit a cabaret event in another city for ages.

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Cirque is an independent champagne house based in a gorgeous listed building boasting original Victorian features and vintage furnishings. Promising to incorporate a whole host of unique entertainment by the venue’s in-house dance troupe, we were excited to see the weekly show Cirque la Vie.

We had pre booked in order to receive £5 entry and a free shot, quoting Manchester Bar Offer. On arrival, nobody had noted our names. They let us in for £5 anyway, though I suspect this was because the place was empty. We did not receive a shot. 

With just us and the staff, it was downright awkward. We wasted time taking selfies against the unusual interiors and were assured by the compère that she would be performing in here at 10pm.

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10pm came and went. Eventually the place filled, though every single person headed to the VIP lounge on the top floor.

Confused and wondering if we’d misheard the compère, we figured that the entertainment must take place on the top floor. We went in – the room was packed with a great atmosphere – but were swiftly given our marching orders.

We waited downstairs at the empty bar, feeling silly. A member of staff told us that the singing take place upstairs after all, presumably because there were literally only two of us on the poor people floor.

We went up, feeling quite humiliated. By this time we already wanted to leave but it seemed a shame, having looked forward for so long.

The compère/singer was an excellent performer and I enjoyed her set very much.

The rest of the entertainment, unfortunately, fell short. I have watched a lot of burlesque, as well as performing it onstage. But this was so disappointing. Costumes looked more hen party than professional. The soundtrack was something you’d find in any mainstream club on a Saturday night. There was no humour of creativity, no slow and sensual movement.  No flirtation. Intricately choreographed but lacking passion.

Although they were undoubtedly good dancers who would would surely impress those who had never witnessed burlesque, I felt that the vibe was more stripper than burlesque.

The fire performer were decent, but the highlight of the night was a flapper girl duet.

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We had expected performances to be staggered with breaks to socialise and buy drinks, but they came in quick succession so that the entertainment was over well before 11pm, meaning we had no reason to stay. We discussed the event with various people outside, who also expressed disappointment.

I so wanted to love this event, but we were in bed by 12:15. Although I wouldn’t visit again, people who aren’t familiar with this type of entertainment shouldn’t write it off. As a hen party or girl’s night out, I’m sure it would be brilliant. The space itself is fantastic if you’re looking to hire for a special event.

It’s just a shame that somewhere selling high end drinks fell short on the entertainment which attracts customers in the first place.

Have you visited Cirque? What’s the best cabaret club you’ve been to? Let me know in the comments!

Another Wednesday, another explore

Plan A was a convent in Lancashire, which had been knocked down by the time we got there and replaced with fancy houses that stood empty because nobody could afford them.

Plan B was St Joseph’s seminary down the road. Opened in 1883, its grounds boast a large greenhouse, cemetery and gorgeous lake.

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The building itself is riddled with cameras and alarms, and we staked it out for a long time.

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Can you spot the guard?

There appeared to only be one security guard…

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We crept up on him. Notice how he’s no longer in his chair. He’d somehow managed to creep up on us – literally about 25 ft away – without even spotting us. Amazing.

Eventually we just risked it and walking right past the cameras. Still nothing. All previous entries had been boarded up. It’s such a stunning building and we were desperate to get inside, but my climbing skills weren’t up to scratch. Here’s a report from someone who did make it in.

From then on, we were on the lookout for some TOADS (Temporary, Obsolete, Abandoned and Derelict Spaces).

We found an abandoned cottage near the car and went to investigate. The view was phenomenal and I got the obligatory corn field shot.

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I even saw my first swede field! A swede, growing out of the ground! Day = made.

We scrambled across the overgrown garden to have a gander through the windows. What we saw was mostly furnished, which is my favourite kind of discovery. At first we wondered whether it was actually abandoned. Maybe someone just really hated gardening? No photos exist of the back garden, but the brambles were taller than us.

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An adorable old lady came to greet us, excited at the porspect of someone finally moving in. She explained how many people had stopped to ask about the cottage over the years, which had once been owned by an old man with a “strange son” who died approximately 20 years ago.

Onwards!

On our way to an abandoned garden centre or Camelot we passed an abandoned mansion. Searching for a parking place, we were distracted by a high-walled bridge, and on peeking over the edge on our tippy-toas because we’re both short stuff, spotted an abandoned mill.

Upon further inspection it appeared impossible to reach, so we embarked on a mission to find an alternative route.

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After half an hour’s clambering through plants taller than us and plenty of brambles (just for a change), as well as completing other obstacles, we were there. The mill looked beautiful alongside the river.

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Although the door was wide open, our guards were up in case we encountered squatters. A poster suggested the place had been out of action for around a decade.

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There was roll upon roll of herbal supplement stickers unravelling all over the floor, leading us to gather that the place had most recently been used as a factory.

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We’re pretty sure we were the first people to rediscover this place. Although some buildings had suffered the general deterioration that occurs with lack of central heating and whatnot, there was no vandalism or graffiti and even the copper pipes remained intact. Exploring always gives me the heebie jeebies, so it was easier to relax knowing there was no security or anyone else here.

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We found a pair of overalls and a cute woolly jumper on our travels…

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We sat up here, listening to the river and watching the rain for a long time.

Then we found a dead pigeon.

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We figured that this path was to keep visitors out of harm’s way.

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This was labelled the printing room and had yet more stickers.

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*Someone* couldn’t resist giving the fire extinguishers a go.

Although it was a brilliant find, despite the brambles, trying to find a way in is often the best part. Not so much out though. What I learned: it’s really scary climbing over a spiky fence that is alarmingly close to your vagina.

Back at the car it was getting dark, but we decided to quickly check out the abandoned mansion which we’d all but forgotten about. Unfortunately the phone had died we didn’t get photos.

On a huge plot of land, there was a winding driveway with an overgrown garden which was probably gorgeous way back when. The home’s architecture gave the place an Addams Family vibe.

Inside was  little disappointing, having suffered extensive fire damage and vandalism. Most of the floors had collapsed.

However, some period features remained including arched windows, stone pillars and a carved staircase. What made the visit worthwhile, though, was a huge antique fireplace adorned with a carving depicting a ship at sea. Such a tragedy that only a cartoon enjoying a biffter was there to appreciate it full time.

Images by Phill Gaffney.

Fairylove

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If there’s one thing I love (except lemons and glitter, of course) it’s fairies. I’ve loved fairies for as long as I remember. I remember taking a sample of my new fairy wallpaper to show my year one class. My favourite childhood film was Fairy Tale. Until she died, my grandma bought me fairy ornaments which I’ll someday display in my own home. For my high school animal themed night out, I was a butterfly which is basically a fairy in disguise (my wings were so wide I had to walk through doors sideways).

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At Glastonbury festival I discovered Fairylove, who have been spreading the love and magic since 1992 as makers of bespoke wings and accessories.

Their “fairy army”  typically wear wings, nipple pasties and glitter, which I’m convinced is the best. look. ever.

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Wings and not wearing clothes, my other favourite things! What could better represent festival freedom?

We’re midway through summer season and I still can’t decide what to order in preparation for events like Festival N0.6. I’ve definitely got my eye on these high waisted hot pants though, which are made of ‘sequins, beads and love’:

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Certain products are at the pricier end of the scale, ranging from £12.50 to £120. I’m torn between pastel options and these, which are £65:

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And the fantasy wear doesn’t stop at fairies. How cool are these mythical ram horns?

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And how cute are these bumper stickers?

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Here’s a roundup of my favourite fairy looks. Don’t forget to tell me about your unusual costume ideas for festival season in the comments!

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To create your own magic visit Fairylove’s Etsy page, or find inspiration on Facebook.  PS, Fairylove: can I be part of the love army 2017, pretty please with glitter on top?

 

 

 

How I lost a stone!

Yay, it’s happened! After approximately 8 weeks of dedication, I have lost a stone. Before you reassure me I looked fine before, here’s me (far left) looking my worst at the Secret Circus on Valentine’s week:

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I know I’ve previously said we’re like apples and oranges and you can’t compare us, but see what I had to stand next to?

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For context, here’s me at 18. I stayed a similar size until I was 21+, but the medication I took made me put on weight so I kept eating to console myself:

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I wish I could say those photos shocked me into changing my ways, but I consoled myself even more with more food.

After 12 days on a psychiatric unit in March, I finally decided to take control. I needed to stop relying on other people to make me feel good about myself.

This TED talk by Jamie Oliver had a powerful impact on the way I viewed processed junk, whilst That Sugar Film opened my eyes to the “healthy” foods which are still full of sugar.

A myth exists from high school that I attempted cheese on toast in the toaster (I didn’t). So at 24, I taught myself to cook. I bought The Body Bible by Clean Eating Alice, which is full of extremely simple but delicious recipes.

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My chef pal came over and taught me to make soup. I discovered spices and cupboard staples like canned tomatoes and beans. I learned to boil an egg, and made sure I always had a stash in the fridge for when I was ravenous and at risk of falling off the wagon.

I became dedicated to clean eating, which means being mindful of the food’s pathway between its origin and your plate. For example: instead of buying hummus, I made it myself by blending chickpeas, garlic and lemon juice, so I would know exactly what was in my food.

I was never big on fruit, but I forced myself to eat several portions a day. I didn’t like it at first, but I told myself to suck it up, buttercup.

The movie Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead had a huge impact on me. I bought a juicer from £18 on eBay and experimented with drinks primarily made of veggies for an extra hit of vitamins.

I ate my first avocado. I ate my first banana, and a second, and a third, until I learned to like them.

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For those who claim that eating well is more expensive: you’re wrong. I paid 8p for a banana yesterday; a chocolate bar would have cost 60+ pence. Amazing!

I alternated my laptop wallpaper weekly between images of women I admired – not just celebrities but people I’ve encountered who are beautiful inside and out, like former burlesque dancer Mimi Amore.

I stuck motivational quotes on my wardrobe and made weight loss and recipe boards on Pinterest.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing. I watched so many diet and nutrition documentaries my head spun and I was afraid to eat anything.

I’ve written about bulimia before, and I’ll admit that I slipped up once or twice because I felt guilty about what I ate. But for the most part, I haven’t needed to do that because I feel good about what I’m eating.

I’ve also had a couple of hissy fits because loved ones have wanted to eat lunch at places like Almost Famous. Although I have a willpower of steel, being in a situation where there’s no healthy option makes me anxious.

You don’t realise how bad you felt before until you feel amazing. Before, I was constantly hungry despite constantly eating. By reprogramming my body to stop craving processed junk, it’s receiving all the nutrients it needs and I’m being rewarded through weight loss. The effect on my mental health has also been dramatic.

Now, I will happily snack on slices of cucumber and barely even notice the cookies and crisps in Tesco because the fresh produce aisle is so fun!

This is a change of life, not a diet. I’m not brutal with myself: if I really want pizza, I’ll make my own with wholegrain pitta bread, tomato purée and mozzarella.

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I still drink alcohol, but I avoid fizzy pop and stick to spirits. If I’m hungry after a night out, I’ll make a chickpea and hummus wrap.

Before, if I fell off the wagon I would think everything was ruined and keep eating to punish myself for my weakness. But now I just forgive myself and pick up where I left off. At my parents’ house last week I didn’t eat so well – I had apple pie for dessert, and then Millionaire’s shortcake for breakfast! – but I ate fruit whenever I could the rest of the day.

I also keep a food diary, which is my single most important tool. Over the years I’ve found that if I forget to fill it, I fall off the wagon. Seeing exactly what I’ve put in my body holds me accountable.

The best advice I can give is to stop making excuses. If you’re going to give up and eat takeaway when you’re drunk, you’ll end up in the same position time and time again.

I’m mindful of what I put in my body and have accepted there is no quick fix. It may have taken a while, but the weight has gradually dropped off whilst my confidence has soared. I still need some hand-holding, but I’m confident I will continue to succeed.

Good luck!