Menswear A/W 2013

Ladies...gents?...you may want to take a few moments to drool. These posts are, for obvious reasons, some of my favourites. Sancerre in hand, the only noise being my fingers clicking off of the keyboard and music floating through my ears.

As the last of the champagne is sipped, Louboutins are switched for loafers and people's homes are being restocked with food having spent weeks surviving on canapes. The last of the shows are over and we are left to mull over whats been presented. Over the last decade menswear has blossomed to a level that designers, journalists, bloggers and the boys themselves could never have imagined.

One of the most risky trends of the season appeared to be grey on grey. Grey, normally being a base colour was the focal point of many collections. Never mind fifty shades (it had to be said)...gorgeous hues of charcoal, slate and gunmetal were beautifully mastered through prints or worked in with other colours.

Another popular colour was claret (Bordeaux wine apparently, don't worry I also had to Google it, well done to three years of art college). This dominated the catwalks, being without a doubt the boldest colour of the season. Whether it was brands like Alexander McQueen and Topman that were brave enough to go full on head to toe or Prada who paired it with complimentary colours like teal which completely shocked me. Richard James stayed classic with beautifully cut suits and loafers, dressing it simply with black and white. Canali produced beautifully luxurious velvet waistcoats which suited the colour down to the ground.

Trends that have been creeping into the highstreet recently like baseball jackets and oversized square patterns showed themselves. Models' "carved by angels" cheekbones were kept snug in oversized coats  and capes, many with rollnecks. Navy was ditched for new, exciting electric and sky blues. Whether you support it or not fur was huge with brands like Emporio Armani and Hermes. And finally one of my favourite trends, pyjama style prints. Granted these can be a little over the top sometimes, but on a night out teamed with an all black ensemble will work stunningly.

So there you are boys, some food for thought to get beyond this "Topman coloured cinos andVans" bug that seems to have spread. 

No excuses now.

El Banditos

Anne Hathaway knows her stuff.

Sticking with the foodie note; from hipster-filled-organic-tapas-quirky-wine-bar, to Cork's first burrito bar. Good honest grub, fast but not worryingly so and beyond good value for money.

A family run business, found in the old Turquoise Flamingo of Washington St, we decided to pop our heads in out of curiosity, and hunger. Being such an adventurous pair we both went for burritos with chicken and medio salsa (said meal was also lining our stomachs for the night out that was to follow and we had no desire to take any risks, however ladies if you're planning on sporting anything tighter than basic underwear after an entire one of these...good luck).

The staff are beyond laid back and really really friendly, even those in the kitchen shouted out as we were leaving to wish us "buenos appetitos" (my Spanish doesn't go very much further than the beginning of the Hail Mary...)

At 6euros a pop, these are a steal. Full to the brim of meat, beans, rice, cheese, salsa, yada, yada, yada...el works. It took me a good three sittings to come close to finish it. I will be back, with many others I can only imagine as everything I've heard back has been really positive and the boys should be proud of themselves.

The Black Pig

 From the way the folks kept on about it, I knew I was going to like the Black Pig. An evening spent on the other side of the fence when one is a waitress, drinking wine and grazing is a rare occasion, certainly on a warm evening in August. So, despite the dread of Kinsale on a Sunday evening, we decided to go give it a try, and it certainly didn't disappoint.

Started up a few months ago by Dublin pair Siobhan Waldron and Gavin Ryan, The Black Pig boasts eighty wines by the bottle and over forty by the glass. Their tapas menu manages to be simple, whilst having everything you could want on it. This can also be said for the place itself,  the restaurant is made up of a gorgeous, inviting bar, the furniture; a mixture of chairs thrown together, but that you couldn't imagine anywhere else. Beyond here is the sweetest little garden that you could get lost in for hours, and we did. Even the staff suited the place down to the ground, really attentive yet laid back, creating the loveliest atmosphere.

He had Hederman's smoked salmon and soda bread, something I associate with Christmas dinner, so that in itself was a treat. I had beef carpaccio with parmesan shavings and rocket, both so so simple but unbelievably good. Both dishes were served with horseradish, a nice surprise especially with the salmon, it changed from your usual dollop of hummus. All was washed down with a Kinsale Ale and glass of Malbec. The whole thing came to 37euro, beyond worth it considering the service and quality.

Cork has seen it's fair share of tapas and wine bars within the past year or so, the trend has taken off and is continuing to bloom. The Black Pig however has something else, having worked in a wine bar myself I thought I knew what to expect, I wasn't even close.

The Black Pig Kinsale

An Cúple

Time to blow the cobwebs off of this...again.

Due to recent events, I have found myself drifting to a certain part of the internet. A part that only such events could bring you to. I'm not one to judge, there's no shame in it...if that's what you're into.

One word...ou deux?

Scrolling through the endless playlists, I smile at the thought of such a pair from the Emerald Isle. A rather clever move by the Kooples not to hit the cobblestones of Temple Bar, Cork's infamous Hillbilly's fountain or the other handful of watering holes / mating grounds across the country.

I van't help but cringe imagining some poor photographer sweating, having spent several hours editing, using every filter known to Photoshop, only to come up with something like this...

This young damsel wouldn't have come across her knight in shining brogues at the opening of an underground Belvedere - Dom Perignon  nightclub in Lisbon, wouldn't have run into him under the Eiffel Tower on her way home New Year's morning, wouldn't have been persistantly seduced by him having seen her hop out of a car outside Hotel Costes. She would have given him "the eyes" while sipping her vodka and raza, clutching the edge of the bar to fix her spanx, allowing her to suck it in for that last half an hour, fake eyelashes batting almost as subtly as the blisters on her soles burst from the heels she knew she shouldn't have worn. 

He, forcing the end of his pint into him, would try to figure out in his drunken "come-on-man-don't-be-sick-keep-it-together-only-half-an-hour-to-Burger King" stuper, whether said damsel was trying to get his attention or having some kind of seisure.

Stage two ; instead of keeping up the eye contact, leading him to some quiet part of the club, not saying a word, simply clinking champagne flutes before leaning in for a kiss that would change her life....she runs to the bathroom to the group of friends, half of whom are hiding there finishing the drink that had been stowed away in tights, clutches etc, the other half have been swallowed up by this particular night, heads in toilet bowls, mascara all the way down to their chins,=; these are the wise few that will no doubt have her knight falling after her (and not just due to the last shot of Jager)

She returns to the dancefloor, full of vodka inspired confidence, surrounded by whats left of the army that have managed it out of the bathroom and not retreated to the taxi rank. She locks her eyes on his, which is somewhat difficult due to the 'rabbit-in-the-headlights' drunken stare. Eventually the pair, post grinding, lock in a tender embrace, jammed up against a sticky nightclub wall (from all of the spilled sugary mixers surely).

Stay tuned for further adventures of the Cúple...

Prohibition

Sitting in my turquoise dungeon of an office filled with horrific fluorescent light was not my preferred way to spend  a hangover. Listening to the rain patter off of the footpath outside, enraged drivers blowing each other off of the road and explaining the parking disc system to foreigners at least twenty times. All while nursing what I'm pretty sure is a broken hip.

Trés exciting.

Who would want to be one of the dozens soaking up the sun in the US, jetting off to festivals in Europe or planning adventures down under when you've got Cork Citay on your doorstep?! 

Slight sarcasm 

In all seriousness though, the city has succeeded in pleasantly surprising me every now and again with little treats such as last night's event in the Half Moon Theatre; Prohibition did not fail to impress. After a few failed attempts to win tickets we still thought it would be worth it to fork out the €8, get our gladrags on and hit the town. Friends arrived from the Wesht in what seemed to be a perfect Cork summer evening, pink skies, knackers in wife beaters peacefully sipping Carlsberg, a cold bottle of white wine made this all the better.

I slipped into my best teddy, plastic pearls and heels that have no grip whatsoever, in fact I think they do the opposite and encourage one to floor themselves. The Boy working his combover and braces scrubbed up very well, as did everyone at the event, it was really really impressive. Wine induced over confidence lead to what I can only imagine was a hilarious dancing performance. Nick Hollywood's amazing set really added to the night, as did cocktails, dancers and...cocktails. Perhaps one glass of wine too many was had but between  this horrific excuse for a summer, living in a shoebox and work, such a night was needed.

On another note, the Boy had a rather interesting afternoon roaming around St Ann's abandoned mental asylum with Sad Soul Circus while filming bits and bobs for his new music video, have a listen

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One Year On

and i'm so much older and wiser

Not really, I just have a disgraceful amount of time on my hands now.

I finally made the leap to the metropolis, 19 98th Street - I'm trusting those of you from Cork to use this information wisely and not egg the place, our bathroom door frame has recently taken quite a battering and I'm not sure poor Landlord and his hooked nose could take the stress.

My room is somewhat controlled chaos, almost made entirely of cardboard boxes, however just a hop off the broken bed, a skip past some un-ironed clothes and a lopsided mirror, squeeze between the various drawers and the jaws of the wardrobe, clamber out the window and the roof, a little moss covered paradise looks over Cork, from the rooftops of the tiny kingdoms of Noonan Road and Little Calcutta (Little Limerick to others) all the way to Timbuktu...

...or the Northside, take your pick

I am incredibly excited about my return to writing, it would be nice if you are too

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Le Fin...Pour Le Moment

Despite still not having started my packing, I can now pretty much count down the hours to Nice. As I won't have any internet access in the appartment and I imagine all of my internet café time will be spent on very loud Skype sessions, this is Pauvre Petite Riche's last post for the summer.

Fear not, I plan to document all of Nice's fabulousness and have plenty to write about come July. I spent the evening racking my brain for a topic to wrap things up with and decided to go with my five favourite things about the year.

1. Becoming an Alcoholic

When I think back to last year...my liver gives me an affectionate squeeze "Remember when you weren't trying to kill me?"

Headspins after a mere glass of wine, being disgusted at the idea of doing shots, buying sparkling rosé (the recessionista's pink champagne) for nights out. There was no such thing as pre - drinking and I was always tucked up for 3am.

Not that I regret any of it. I can easily say I beyond enjoyed myself every single time we went out this year( I would love to be able to say every night we went out, but that would be lying).

Whether it ended in me covered head to toe in fluorescent pink dust and nail varnish, 'hiding in the bushes', being invited to shower with strange french men or almost taking a dip in the Hillbilly's fountain.

KU - LOVE FO' LIFE

2. Crawfordians and co.

The thought of not being in Scoil Mhuire baffled me. Not sitting in the same classes week after week, not spending lunch with the same girls. My first morning at Crawford was honestly, terrifying. Sitting in the lecture theatre, not recognising a single face. Also, being ridiculously shy did not help my situation.

As the year went on I met some of the most ridiculous, insane, socially unaware psychotics that would challenge some of the profiles in the world's top asylums, both in and out of Crawford. I can't help but adore them though.

One in particular. 

 .

3. Freedom

Not having the Leaving Cert this year meant time, glorious time. It also meant I was finally doing what I want to do, art. As much as I whine about studio it was fantastic having your favourite class all week long.

My parents decided to use my free time to travel as much as possible. No longer did I have to go through my journal to find what aurals I had, or which weekends I had to spend trying to understand biology. Staying in Cork makes them restless, something tht I have definetely picked up. Nice with les filles, Liverpool with Crawfordians, New Years and Dad's 50th in Ile de Ré, Florida and London, I even got to see the metropolis, experience the bright lights of...

...Lismore.

4. Recessionista

Finally being rid of that ghastly school skirt, i took full advantage of not going to a 'proper' college and found some brilliant pieces to wear during the year.

I bought my first vintage bits and bobs, my various cardigans, jumpers, scarves and jewellery, my 1920s ball dress and beloved loafers.

Despite looking like a lunatic anytime I go to UCC or people assuming that I will in fact become one of my grandparents soon enough, I have no desire to change.

5. Being an Idiot

It is safe to say that my passing through first year can be compared to someone being dragged through a ditch backwards. It was in no way elegant, clever and certainly not planned, but it was hilarious.

Beginning the year by being thoroughly over enthusiastic at the glow in the dark night, to becoming the phantom ride, to getting a tattoo in Liverpool, to Rag Week; drinking leftover Jameson for breakfast, getting friendly with the fella in the local offie, Alpen and soda bread fights, turning people's bodies into canvesses, tinfoil everywhere, Charlies pub at 7am and witnessing the vodka pint, to the Paddy's Day Incident, to trying to repierce my ears and failing and the constant races home from the Bróg, with or without clothes.

It has been just lovely.

Gros bisous chéris,

until July

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