I was so sad to hear about Ingrid Pitt passing away the other day (do go and read about her fascinating life story). I know for most people she was mainly a Hammer Horror legend, but she was also in a couple of Doctor Who stories and I had heard so many brilliantly bonkers things about her over the years that it seems odd she should have died like any normal human being. Surely she should have been taken away in a swirl of smoke and chiffon?
Also, normally I would seek to avoid the topic of someone’s breasts, particularly if they’ve become notorious for them, but she seems to have revelled in their magnificence so it would be a shame not to… I know that when I die, I should like everyone to talk excessively about my ‘incredible arse’, regardless of anything else I might achieve 😉
A few weeks back I discovered the soundtrack album to The Stud in a charity shop in Hove. At a mere £1, and featuring my beloved Sweet and Roxy Music, I couldn’t resist.
I was also entertained to discover an advert on the inner gatefold for ‘Monsieur Le Stud’, a range of aftershaves etc with a brilliant description of what the pong must have been like….
Legendary are the powers attributed to musk and ginseng from which the fragrances of life and love have been extracted. Now in union, carefully balanced and blended with essences from exotic flowers, mosses and herbs to create a pleasing distinctive masculine fragrance.
We warn you that wearing ‘Monsieur Le Stud’ can be very demanding.
Some things never change, do they? Wanky perfume descriptions and novelty perfumes least of all. Saying that, I am now somewhat desperate to find a bottle to give to M. So if anyone comes across it, and can bear to part with it, please do let me know!
Now I don’t like to cast aspersions upon Monsieur Le Stud but I suspect that it might be a little overpowering, so you might need to open a window. Which brings me to Sweet’s ‘Love is like Oxygen’, as featured on the soundtrack. I need no excuse to post Sweet videos, really, but I thought I would make the effort…
Not only did Mary Quant invent the mini*, the duvet cover*, tights*, make-up*, the bread bin*, hotpants* and pvc clothing*, but I can now exclusively reveal that she also invented…
…the vitamin pill!
From October 1968
*All nonsense in my opinion, but I have only “made up” one of them. I’ll leave you to decide which one…
I’m often yapping on about the genius of James Wedge’s photography, but I have been meaning to share this very rare, very precious part of fashion history and of my personal collection for a while now. Wedge is one of those rare Renaissance-man types; successful in every new skill to which he turned his hand. He successfully ran his own boutiques (Countdown and Top Gear), forged a career in photography with no experience or working knowledge (trial and error often creates some of the best works of art) and, initially, he trained and worked as a milliner.
James Wedge hats in Vogue
His hats were regularly featured in Vogue in the early to mid Sixties, often teamed with outfits by his friends Marion Foale and Sally Tuffin, and are some of the most perfect examples of mod ‘op-art’ ever created. But they weren’t being produced for long, or in any great quantity, so they are now incredibly rare.
This hat splits me in half. I cannot wear fur. I just can’t. Not particularly morally, I eat meat and wear leather quite happily, but the feel on my skin is like nails down a blackboard. Consequently, a hat made from rabbit fur is a thing of beauty aesthetically but I wouldn’t wear it even if I could squish it over my big head. However, I can’t quite bring myself to sell it just yet. I mean… it’s James Wedge?!
In my previous post, I mentioned lounging around in a blue panne velvet Janice Wainwright for Simon Massey dress. Well, I didn’t mention that I have a photo of the aforementioned dress in Vanity Fair magazine (above). I might have to scan in the entire issue, partly because it’s falling apart and partly because it’s one of my favourite issues of anything, ever.
Well, I am returned from my holiday. Refreshed but cold, naturally. There was no amazing mystery about where I went, I just try not to get too excited about things before they happen. Otherwise I worry they won’t happen at all!
In particular, I was slightly panicking about it not happening at all due to flooding. The special place was The Abbey Hotel down in Penzance, which is owned (and was formerly run) by iconic former model Jean Shrimpton. She has since passed the management to her son Thaddeus, but the antique-filled Georgian building definitely has the unpretentious, warm atmosphere of the distinctly unpretentious and quirky Ms. Shrimpton throughout.
This was a holiday based around not very much at all, and I certainly enjoyed some serious mooching, lazy mornings (I’m not a big fan of the full English so I’ve long since given up trying to please b&b owners by still having it anyway…) and reading/talking by the crackling open fire in the lounge. Which, amazingly, was always empty. Those sturdy, fleece-wearing ‘other guests’ must have been out and about trying to get lots of things done. The fools! (And thank goodness for that…)
No fleece for me, you’ll be pleased to know. Plenty of velvet (a Janice Wainwright for Simon Massey blue panne velvet maxi, in distinctly medieval style, was perfect loungewear), chenille and assorted other goodies I was too damn [unashamedly] lazy to photograph. Ha!
The room was beautiful and entertaining in equal parts. They have, ingeniously, made it ensuite by installing a bathroom in a cupboard, and a sink/mirror in another cupboard. I suppose if you were high-maintenance it might not be to your taste, and I suspect it’s unique within the hotel, but it was highly amusing and became quite normal quite quickly….
Some brisk beach-walking in St Ives. Peter Lanyon at the Tate. Mouthwatering duck at The Bakehouse on Chapel Street. Window shopping at Kitt’s Corner vintage shop and a truly eclectic antique shop further up which is only open Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The Christmas Dalek!
Saucy records picked up en route back. 
Palm-printed tumblers.
Groovy printed storage jars in the weirdest small-town charity shop I’ve ever been in (think, League of Gentlemen).
I wish I was still there, but there are beautiful clothes to be photographed and a ballet to work on. I don’t get much holiday time over Christmas, so I’m very lucky to have been able to have such a wonderful holiday beforehand. Thank you to Cornwall, The Abbey Hotel (all of the staff were charming, helpful and relaxed) and my gorgeous companion. Even the slightly scary snowfall on the way back was beautifully atmospheric and exciting.
Back to normal service tomorrow!
Sadly, I do not have initialled luggage (wouldn’t E E look rather splendid on the side of some white vinyl cases?….*hint hint*….ahem) and I certainly wouldn’t be wearing a real fur coat and bonnet, but I intend to make like Emma and Steed this week on a stylish little jaunt. It’s going to be in a rather special location, but I won’t tell you where until I return. But I will tell you. Promise!
Anyway, I’m going to try to avoid emails and internet as much as possible so I will pick up any orders when I return. See you on the other side and stay warm, dear readers! It’s grotty out there…
…mainly because I don’t find it very hilarious. But the craptastic nylon bowlcut wigs, which Honey magazine seem to have just loved using endlessly in 1970-71, get me everytime.
Then they go and do a unisex craptastic wig advert and I’m just speechless….
This beautiful shoot from Honey magazine, November 1970, is so perfect for my mood right now. I love the colours, the silhouettes, the hats, the tights, the shoes….it’s just edible.
Liz Eggleston 