Kylie Minogue, urban fox hunting and RIP The Awl: Things of the Week
If this week was an emoji...
...it would be a formerly smiley face, now weather-beaten into chapped, puckered submission.
January, man. This morning alone I’ve gone through half a Burt’s Bees peppermint balm stick just to keep my upper lip from fully retracting into my gums. You can track my every movement thanks to the thick, greasy layer of ‘intensive, restorative’ hand cream on keyboards, doorhandles and Break Glass in Case of Emergency wall mounts. I’ve got the rouged cheeks of a 19th century French escort, the broken veins of her elderly drunken patrons, and –
I’ll tell you where it’s going, balm stick. My upended wheelie bin. Along with you, my one remaining heat-tech glove, and the entire junk season known as POST-CHRISTMAS WINTER.
Pop formula of the week
Gags might have hung up her Hillary Lindsey cowrites quicker than you can say LUCRATIVE VEGAS CONTRACT, but Joanne’s legacy lives on. Kylie’s cowboy-booted it to Nashville, picked up a diamond-studded guitar, and finally seen fit to record a lead single that pays generous homage to neither I Believe in You nor Goldfrapp.
Although I think I might like the artwork (considered, colourful, BOOTS) over the song (polite, guitar, lack of Sasse-bashing), a Kylie comeback in any form will always be greeted with open arms chez RW.
Even Kiss Me Once. Well, that was more a one-armed hug sort of affair. One arm and one extended index finger, proffered to gently but firmly delete ‘Sexerize’, forever. But you get my point.
Policy u-turn of the week
Decades of fox-appreciation, rooted somewhere between The Animals of Farthing Wood and a crush on Disney’s Robin Hood, have been brought to an abrupt end thanks to the antics of our bushy-tailed and vocally challenged SE11 neighbours.
Take heed, inner city vulpines: you’ve had your fun. I’m now devoting MINUTES a day to lobby for legalised urban fox hunting. At anyone who will listen. This may or may not include elected representatives. BE AFRAID.
How to implement such hunts without also inadvertently worsening London’s concurrent knife and gang crises I’m not yet sure (crossbows...?), but my current level of sleep deprivation cannot be allowed to continue. Answers on a sawed-off fox appendage please.
RIP of the week
A sad goodbye to The Awl, the site I spent at least 50% of the last decade browsing aimlessly while simultaneously wishing I’d both bought a Peggy sofa and had the good sense to write amusingly about it.
After hitting refresh on this page a few dozen times to help ease my current state of deep and existential crisis (“THE AWL IS DEAD WHAT IS THE POINT OF ANYTHING DOES ANYONE EVEN READ ON THE INTERNET ANYMORE DID I DRAW THAT FOX TAIL FOR NOTHING”), I would thoroughly recommend checking out the following:
Silver lining of the week
At least I can scrub Aziz Ansari’s Master of None off my Netflix to watch list.
This week I was mostly having...
...Lime and sodas
1 x commencement of dry January
12 x unused Christmas limes
1 x gaping chasm where my Friday nights used to be
If you down 3 espressos, squint, and deaden your tongue with ice cubes, it’s almost like drinking a G&T!