I don’t know about you but I find her writing hilarious. Primarily because it is typical nasty brit humour, and I do so love a bitch who dares to write contrary to mainstream acceptance. Though Bryanboy seems to be think she’s a real hater.

What do you think?

Put simply, I hate fashion. I scowl at Harper’s. I snarl at W. I spit at Vogue. Sometimes, I tear them up, these glossy pages full of anorexic children – part human, part makeup, part computer program – just because I’m worth it. Then I put a colander on my head.

You may say that I am bitter. How is my sex life, you ask? Do men flee my fashion-free person? What is my weight? What has happened to make me reject the things we women are supposed to hug – wedges, fringes, shifts, tassels, linings, bows? And don’t forget shoes! Surely I love shoes, the icons that Carrie Bradshaw worshipped instead of a god? No? I must be ill. Weep for me in my giant knickers. I am outcast.

I only disagree that being fat excludes one from having fun with fashion. I can vouch for the opposite personally.

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