Pearls of Wisdom

I've just been over at this site, which I found on Bloggorah, which incidentally is extremely diverting. When I got up this morning I didn't realise that I needed another reason to despise Caroline Morahan but apparently the universe decided I did. Besides the fact that she was once an extremely pretty girl who went and fuglified herself because, goddamnit, she's Ireland's premier fashionista and that involves looking as ugly and outlandish as humanly possible. And there is nothing I hate more than wasted beauty. Well, maybe Pat Kenny. But it's a close one.

Our Caroline is apparently quite the style guru nowadays. What the word 'style' has to do with Debs balls is completely beyond me. The only thing less stylish than your average Irish Debs is your average Irish Knacker wedding. But until you are bride at an Irish Knacker wedding, your Debs is the only occasion you have to be tirelessly obnoxious and enamored with yourself so you might as well milk it. Caroline did.

Have fun with your accessories. Some designers are very sleek and simple but I was far more dramatic. I wore a pink feather boa and earrings in my hair that were like hair jewels. Put time into accessorising as it can make or break an outfit.

Such glorious advice! Coco Chanel is punching up dirt screaming 'Why didn't I think of a pink feather boa and hair jewels? Fuckit for a wasted life!'

A must-have in any evening bag is powder or concealer. You can dab it discretely on your nose and forehead. And, especially after the meal, it' s great to close your mouth and go around your lips with a concealer pen to tidy up your make-up.

Oh grow up, Caroline. Sometimes it's great for you to just close your mouth. I don't give a shit if you want to draw a pen around it after.

SIGH. I'm sorry if this sounds amazingly inane and ridiculous. I only got all mad at Caroline because I read the last paragraph first and it made me so mad I punched an actual hole in an actual wall with my fist. Really. Except substitute 'actual' for 'imaginary'. But I might have! If only I wasn't so damned apathetic about wall-punching.

And, remember, it's a long night so don't drink a stupid amount. I'm no t-totaller or anything but there's no point getting completely wasted, not remembering anything and being a pain in the arse for the night.

There. See? I couldn't be madder even if she had followed this with: 'Yeah, Lucy, that one's just for you'. And now I'm sitting here with my head in my hands crying great big tears of confusion and upset. WHAT IS THE POINT OF A DEBS BALL IF ONE DOES NOT GET COMPLETELY WASTED, REMEMBERS EVERYTHING AND SPENDS THE EVENING NOT BEING A PAIN IN THE ARSE?

I am shaken to my very core and am questioning my most closely-cherished beliefs. It is like I am a sixteenth-century pope and Caroline is Galileo. I must crush and excommunicate her immediately. If that analogy even worked or made any sense.

In answer to your unasked and perhaps as yet unformulated questions, I spent my Debs night in a delightful cerise frock bought in a sale, wore no feather boas and got twisted by 8pm. I also spent the guts of four trillion pounds, old money, and spilt a pint down my dress, giving it the unimaginable glamour of a dirty tea-towel. I woke up in a bed in Mairead's house beside a terribly soggy Marie, who had fallen into the sea during the early-morning beach escapades we and sixty other evening-gloveliesovlies had been getting up to. That's how we roll here in Tramore: all parties end down the Ladies' Slip amid bonfires and accidental ocean-dips. You'll learn to love it.