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Phillip.

Phillip, I said, taking his clammy pale paw into my own, the pressure of affection marking his dimpled, fatty knuckles white. Phillip it's over, I've been two timing you with a nineteen year old. Sour smelling tears swelled from the corners of his tiny wise eyes. Droplets hung in dollops from his transparent, piggy eyelashes as he unhooked a pair of seventies, gold rimmed aviator spectacles from his sheeny, sweaty face. His curved belly heaved and whimpered as he wept. I stared at him there, with the sun shining fuzzily through the golden, downy hairs of his shoulders and the blotted freckles that covered his exposed forearms, feeling more disgusted than ever. I felt that though necessary, an attempt at further consolation could make me vomit. His lips and nose were pink from slobbering woefully, and the noises coming from that weak willed throat jarred within him as they came out as overgrown baby gasps and phlegm riddled sobs. I'm going now. I'm going to take a shower. Looking at him pitifully, I realised that there was a sort of stomach turning pulchritude to making grown men cry. I turned the lock on the bathroom door and my heart pulsed nervously, as though he were a dangerous curiosity being secured into a cage in a premeditated attempt to contain him. A big, bald, polar bear in a wife beater vest, yellowing in patches underneath his armpits. I heard Phillip Seymour Hoffman's singular, long vowelled yowl. He started beating on the door once I'd undressed and put on the water. Holding myself, the vulnerability of my frame allowed his cry to pass through my bones and sit in the bottom of my stomach, echoing there unpleasantly.

Cotton candy

The tacky seaside connotations of my favourite London fashion week shows struck a resonant chord with me, being bred from the tacky seaside and overwhelmed with preteen nostalgia. Christopher Kane and Meadham Kirchoff's spring summer collections all had the syrupy, sickly sweet qualities of wearing your polyester Sunday best on a rainy day at the beach. Memories of eating candyfloss and it sticking uncomfortably to your face in the drizzle were summoned, along with my favourite Dreamlander, the beautiful Mary Vivian Pearce. With her candyfloss bleached hair and fake eyelashes she bears all the adornments of traditional girlishness in her roles as Cotton, Princess Coo Coo or Donna Dasher, but manages to become the antithesis of the fifties femininity she outwardly portrays in her sick and sullen characters. Though Kirchoff's models were wearing Courtney Love's wigs, it was Cotton in Pink Flamingos I could imagine flouncing down the catwalk. Christopher Kane's reference to "council estate" chic brought Pulp's Common People to mind, but it was Meadham Kirchoff's message that stuck with me most. Conveyed through frills and fluff and sickly pastels, the squeamish joy and pressure from imposed girly values and conforming to prettiness appealed to my sentiments exactly. Although these accents hark back to the stifling Marie Antionette feminine ideal, you can still be a strong woman whilst indulging in pink frilly socks.

Christoper Kane spring/summer 2012

Meadham Kirchoff

via Saga Sig

Mary Vivian Pearce

Over the moors.

We trawled the streets with the Friday night feeling of trying not to be losers, on one of those evening when the entire city seems to be having more fun than our own sad pavement party. After two hours of indecisive circling we walked awkwardly, in single file, through a pile of pizza boxes and the doorway of our chosen temple of student squander. We did the necessary routine of spending half an hour in the kitchen pretending to look comfortable and interacting with just one another before we decided to try out the living room. The word 'Ket' was written in duct tape to the wall, and a purple UV light dangling half-taped onto the other. You could see rows of smiling teeth and eyeballs, little baggies being dipped into, and dandruff from their itchy scalps flaking off onto hunched shoulders. An incredibly drunk being stumbled over to me, taking my hand into his with a look of sincerity in his drooping, dilated eyes. Through a layer of Geordie unintelligible even to my own native ears he told me that he had "something to express me to me that he couldn't do with words". He then fell backwards into a corner where he remained unconscious for the next hour or so, until a strong woman put him over her shoulder and carried him outside. I wonder what he meant to say to this very day, yet like all the best mysteries of the world, I guess I'll never know.

Buffy Makeover

Before our Makeover

With lack of anything better to do, I got together two of my best friends on a quest for cheap beauty fulfillment. We ventured into the previously uncharted territory of 'Sally Nails', a paradise of plastic talons, tacky hair accessories and carcinogenic chemicals. Once we'd all chipped in for a load of bleach and some Barry M nail polishes we went to mine to ruin our folicles and watch Buffy episodes. My Buffy obssession has reached unhealthy heights lately as I have no other form of entertainment whilst in Whitley, but it did give me the shining inspiration for our gothtastic makeovers. I was always ashamed of being massively into the Buffster and her scooby gang as a tween. I always wanted a Buffy backpack but giving in to any memorabilia would have been a bullies dream, now my love for my sci-fi sista is back and it's loud and proud.

 

Part 3: KIEV & CHERNOBYL

Clambering into the back of a mini-van with dated upholstery and rosary beads dangling from the dashboard, we were given our insurance passes for visiting the exclusion zone. We leafed through them excitedly, not feeling like it was real, as if these were fakes or tickets for Space Mountain or some other would be Disney attraction. The driver swerved through traffic, chatting on his phone and leaning backwards to fast forward the incredibly depressing Chernobyl documentary that was playing for us behind him. The documentary was cut short at a less than satisfying ending, declaring that the concrete structure built to contain the radiation could potentially wear through any day. We had arrived.  

 

  Our friendly soldier guide took us to a meeting room that looked perfectly preserved since 1986. He gave us a minimal safety talk on not touching anything whatsoever, breathing in the radioactive dust that would line everything, or taking any souvenirs for our own. Pointing out the exclusion zone with a big wooden stick and a wall map, with his full camouflage outfit and the flash of multiple tourists SLRs I felt like I was at a Jurassic Park press conference. Driving into  the deserted ghost town of Pripyat, our soldier told us to stay close together as there many wild boars and wolves lurking around the buildings, carrying radioactive essence on their fur. Alex laughed nervously. The soldier turned around and stared him in the eye for an uncomfortable amount of time before adding, “I’m not joking.” Ironically, the exclusion zone is now so lush and filled with surviving wildlife that the surrounding areas have been turned into a reserve. Though a quick google search can reveal the six legged specimen we encountered in the Chernobyl museum, a taxidermy canine victim of radioactive mutation.

 Littered with rubble and debris, we climbed the skeleton of a staircase and stared into empty, cavernous lift shafts and rotting floorboards of a huge, derelict hotel lobby.  Once at the top of the balcony, I could see lush green vegetation covering the miles of abandoned buildings, all battered concrete with hollow spaces where windows had been knocked out as to prevent the build up of pressure in radioactive gas. In the old school rooms remnants of the Soviet era remained littered throughout the dust. Hundreds of tiny gas masks like the faces of hybrid squid-children covered the floor. All was grey, and peeling, and dust filled, apart from the brightly coloured illustrations of fairytale books, looking up hopefully from the floor. We went to the nursery, an immaculate horror-film-set of rusted, metal cribs and broken baby dolls.  We then went on the Reactor site itself, my anxiety levels rising with every sinister click of the Geiger counter. I stared at the sarcophagus from fifty metres away, thinking about all the cold connotations of that word.

 Although the town of 35,000 Chernobyl plant workers and their families was evacuated, it took the authorities 36 hours to alert locals of any accident. Though this was not the site of immediate mass death, thousands who’d played on the long deserted ferris wheel, swam in the spooky, echoing swimming baths and sat at dusty wooden desks would have been affected, slowly, by radiation and resulting sicknesses. I ate my lunch in the Chernobyl canteen in introverted silence, toying with creamed potatoes and gherkins on the plate and sipping on grape juice that smelt like gel pens, thinking about the metallic taste that radiation poisoned victims were said to have had on their tongues.  

Part 2: KIEV: LAND OF KEVIN KEEGANS

Whilst most teenage girls have their first lone holiday adventures in the sunny climes of Zante or Magaluf, my excursions this year seem to have taken on the characteristics of a Magical Misery Tour.  Rather than ingesting sickly cocktails and eying up shaven headed youths on crowded beaches and nauseating clubs, I have ventured to Eastern Europe, edifying myself at the sights of Chernobyl and Auschwitz to better understand the circumstances in which these hideous nuclear disasters and man-made evils occurred.

I met Alex at Luton, immediately feeling his warm Geordie beams radiating outwards towards me like a heat-seeking missile for Tyneside love. My head felt soupy from the overnight journey riding the Blue Snake; the not-so psychedelic Megabus for you who've ever tripped on this bizarre and often unpleasant come-down of national transport. In the queue for security we nervously laughed at how bat-shit insane we were for going to Chernobyl, mutually sharing that he'd also been close to a nervous breakdown when confronted with the true reality of our minimal travel insurance given our excursion to the site of the worst nuclear explosion in history.

The explosion, which affected over 500,000 Ukrainians who were sent into direct contact with the radiation when helping to cover the blast, has increased cancer rates and mutations over most of Europe since the graphite rods caused a spark in Reactor Four and resultant explosion of radioactive matter more than four times that of an atomic bomb on the 26^th April 1986. Twenty five years on, some estimates from Russian publications have reached 1000,000 in excess cancer deaths alone. The USSR only attributed thirty one deaths to the explosion; all the reactor engineers, and firemen who were sent in without radiation suits to put out the lethal flames, armed with standard equipment and water. Although it may have confronted European authorities to question their dependence on nuclear power, until pressure from the UN in 2001, other units on the site of the Chernobyl power plant were still actively used for generating nuclear energy.

With tired, stinging eyes we looked out onto the beautiful fields of Ukraine for our arrival. There were miles of plush green forests, which filtered out to sparse green fields, big concrete looking blocks dotted along grey motorways and more yellowing grass. On landing, a fully camouflaged and fur collared soldier ushered us into a small tent where other big booted army officials chucked suitcases down from the plane onto the tent floor. This was the baggage reclaim and arrivals area. As we stepped into passport control the flimsy grey booths that contained the officials reminded me of a cheap, flimsy film set. The woman in front of me was sporting a bleached mullet and matching leopard print coat and leggings. Everything looked slightly like a bad, 80s-time-travel pharce. Until now this airport had only been used for domestic flights, and I imagine a pretty good testament to its original Soviet purpose.

Staring hollowly at the concrete punctured wilderness around us, insane drivers occasionally clunked past us in their 1977 issue Soviet Ladas, shooting round the corner with time to pass a glare at the obvious tourist scum we had become. My frazzled brain snagged repeatedly on half-missing Cyrillic lettering, propped on the top of the building blocks. We wandered down the road to a graffitied and half-shuttered porta-cabin with cigarette cartons in the window. There was a woman with heavy make-up and an apron behind a plastic mock-marble bar and a variety of meaty, sweaty looking substances piled onto plates and litre bottles of £2 vodka. She couldn't speak English, but we purchased bottled water after reading that even brushing your teeth in the local tap-alade could cause a nasty bout of dysentery. Also, with the entire of Ukraine's water supply running under the Chernobyl reactor we didn't fancy taking our chances.

Eventually from under our layers of panic induced cold sweat we decided to consult my £3 guide book which strictly advised us to not stray away from the centre of Kiev, a good ten miles away. This particularly cheery paragraph did nothing to soothe any feelings of apprehension; "As you get further from the city centre, the underlying poverty becomes more obvious, fewer and fewer people speak English and facilities that can help or cater for visiters become fewer and fewer." And fewer, and fewer, and fewer...said the voice in my head, along with "you're sacrificing revision time in the middle of exams to get lost in Eastern Europe and contaminate yourself with radiation and you forgot to even ring your parents to tell them where you were going."  We eventually plucked up the courage to hop onto a beat up yellow minibus that served as unofficial public transport, chucking coins onto the mat beside the driver and praying for a divine sign to guide us to our stop. Luckily, a rare, English speaking local overheard our pathetic whining from the back of the bus and felt compelled to help us on way, interrupting our panic with an offer of help, frogmarching us to the stations and buying us our 15p metro tokens.

We followed him onto a never-ending escalator, descending into the art deco gloom of the underground. Soviet splendour and mosaics lined the walls at the bottom. Some stations are situated in old nuclear attack shelters, the hundred metre descent took some time before we could reach the rickety old trains and dark splendour of the station. On boarding heads of commuters bowed solemnly as the bulbs flickered on and off and the extremely old looking trains shuddered through tunnels. We initially observed the etiquette of not speaking on the train before Alex felt it necessary to nudge me, pointing in the direction of a fully leisure suited, middle-aged man. A gold sovereign ring was bestowed upon each sweet, hairy knuckle, a bellowing crown of shiny, permed mullet fell around his ears, and a perfect, testosterone-rich moustache framed his lovely eastern European lips. “It’s Kevin fucking Keegan man” Alex blurted in full blown hysterics, much to the disdain of our fellow travellers. From that moment on we embarked on a mullet count that was to number a full eighties Newcastle squad by the end of our trip.

 Reflecting on the possibility that were it not for the kindness of strangers we could've been bundled into the trunk of a car by now and slowly chopped into hotdog meat, we were arrived into the beautiful streets of Kiev to immense relief. Ukrainian break dancers were performing outside the metro station to what sounded like the basic drum setting of the ancient KORG synths we had at school, complete in old shell suits and miss matched sweat bands. In a country with only 20 years of capitalism, it seemed from the occasional smug Ukrainian in full, red matching leisure suits that Nike and Addidas were the ultimate status symbols, perhaps the epitome of Western cool. Balconied apartments lined either side of the main street, fountains and beautiful wrought iron street kiosks, golden domed, icing cake monasteries and cobbled winding lanes. Thousands of shoppers walked around in conservative skirt lengths and fleeces, despite the 25 degree heat that would have most Geordies stripping off their Toon Army away shirts.

Our landlady for the evening sat quietly spooning cabbage salad into her mouth as she strained to decipher our ridiculous regional accent, “Are you sure you’re speaking English?”  As I looked around I saw the Ukrainian equivalent of Cheryl Tweedy circa 2003, complete with vertically placed hair scrunchie and double denim girl-band ensemble. The original Charlie's Angels theme tune played out on the speakers as I slurped on sour borsch and observed the fleece wearing, stern faces around me. I didn’t judge the locals for being weary of tourists. Reading up on the history of the Ukraine, I learnt about features such as repeated crippling of the economy in the Chernobyl disaster,  the collapse of the Soviet Union, the 2008 economic crisis, civil war, invasion, political repression under Stalin and the Nazis, struggles for independence and governmental corruption up until 2004, to name a few.