Playgirl’s Mr Movember!

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can always tell when a bloke is only growing a moustache for Movember.  For some reason the dignity and gravitas that usually accompanies a genuine nose-muffler, the type grown by ringmasters, philosophers and maths teachers is completely missing. Movember mo-growers either carry it with the grace, aplomb and subtly of an oversized novelty sombrero, brashly waving it around as if to say ‘I’m a wild and crazy guy I want to make party-party’. Or they especially furtive about it, ducking their heads when they catch you checking out their face-friend and giving you sheepish looks through their eyelashes which say ‘I don’t usually look like this’.  

The former I can deal with using the same patient good nature that I use to deal with other people’s ribald dads but the latter I find infuriating because they don’t seem to realise that their bashful moustache makes them about 34% more attractive to me. It makes me so sad that the first day of summer that things gonna be long gone and the city’s make-out appeal is gonna slam right back down to ‘minimal’ until the drunken Christmas parties roll around.

Annyway, I thought I do a little tribute to the most popular ‘tache styles I’ve seen this year. I have obvious favourites, despite loving them all. As my model I have used English actor, J.J. Fields below;

J.J.s pretty awesome permanent moustache honestly make me think, ‘Is there anything wrong with marrying someone based solely on their facial hair?’ The answer is no!

The Bryan Ferry

Although similar in appearance, this thing should not be confused with the Shifty Sam, because it’s  about a billion times more  sophisticated in a never-to-be-attempted-by anyone-other-than-a-thin-attractive-70’s-crooner-or-F. Scott-Fitzgerald kind of way. Just look at J.J. in this baby, he looks like Indiana Jones if he had decided to take art history instead. These things are so classy they have to be rinsed in champagne and styled with tiny silver combs. If I was even  half as well maintained as I should be to deserve a guy sporting one of these,  I’d have to be Audrey fucking Hepburn*

Notable Examples: Bryan Ferry, Clarke Gable, Sammy Davis Jnr. 

Chopper Gringo Hulk Hughes the 70’s Porn and Tennis Star

‘Oh look at me! I’m 100% man oozing with frustratingly charming machismo. I’ve got absolutely no imagination or sense of humour, but I’m great at making out! I’ve never really understood irony but some girl with a fringe and glasses told me my ‘tache was ‘ironic’, and that’s expanded my pick-up range by 20%! I’ll keep milking this fad until it disappears and use the phrase ‘moustache rides’ indiscriminately! Come on ladies, you know I’ll win you over eventually!’

And they do, they always do.

Notable Examples: That dude in Dead Wood, Bubble-O-Bill, and Nick Cave

Patches McGee

Whilst there are a lot of sensory memories about high school which I may still find sexy but patchy pubey facial hair is not one of them. There’s something about this one reminds me of that kid in at school who developed too quickly and had man hips, appalling skin and a shadowy moustache before most other kids could turn 13. Although we should all be impressed with the fact that many men can grow a credible nose-neighbour within a month, there are many who try and fail, miserably. I suggest that these guys don’t bother looking like teenaged nightmares and make generous donations to their more hirsute fellows.

Notable examples: The Woman for Le Tigre, boys from the Brewery Coffee shop on Erskine Street, Leonardo DiCaprio. 

Shifty Sam

Nothing says ‘I’m trying to smell you while you’re not looking’ than a shifty Sam. Even J.J. looks like a sexual harasser in one of these. These kind of thin, wispy snail trails are favoured by office creeps, adult book store owners and the skinny weird villain in costume dramas. But what’s not to like about that? I always said that the best thing about creeps is their perseverance and tenacity.

Notable examples:   Chris Cornell,  John Waters, Crispin Glover (ok, he doesn’t really have one but if he did it would be weird).

Captain Flourish

This is truly the king of all moustaches! It’s majestic, rugged, stately, regal and manly all at the same time. I like these best when they are growing on charming old-timey Southern Gentlemen who say things like ‘I say, well, I say, its mighty fine to meet ya, miss Jo-Maybelleline, would you care for a mint julep and the deed to the plantation in my heart? If you would do me the honour of takin’ it, well, I’d be mighty obliged’.

However, the Captain Flourish may need more than a month to really get going. I don’t think it’s possible to grow a mo in secret, but if you could, it should be this one. Then on the first of November you unveil this beauty and let us all bask in its glory for the next thirty days, a memory to treasure for the rest of my life.

Notable Examples: Corey Stoll, Tom Hardy in Bronson, Mel Gibson in his 'I'm Completely Mad with a beard now' phase. 

Finally, as I woman I felt that I’d been put at disadvantage with Movemeber, being unable to really participate (not that I don’t try, the results are underwhelming). That was until I heard about this lady. I think her story is pretty cool, I think she’s pretty cool. I’ve said it before, I wish I had a credible tache... 

Also also also, before I forget, y'all should really head over to Movember Australia's official site, where you can donate, play games and check out more amateur mos online! Exciting!

*I am currently more like Katherine Hepburn, but the really old Katherine Hepburn who turned up to the Oscars wearing her gardening clothes, covered in dirt.

Dear Michael Fassbender

Dear Michael Fassbender,

What’s up, you ridiculously smoking German/Irish man you?

As your future wife I have to say that I'm thrilled with your current popularity. I don’t think I’ve used the phrase ‘on trend’ in regards to a person so much in my life as I have in the last year and a half. You’re the current talk of the town, the cock of the walk and the captain of my heart and I have to say I’m really glad you’ve found a niche playing handsome weirdos in every other movie going.

Moreover, I'm really glad that the time has come where everyone stopped all this ‘OMG RYAN GOSLING IN MY PANTS PLS!’ nonsense and remembered that there are actual men still alive in the world. Actual real men, walking around on strong, manly, Olympian thighs of gods, with thrillingly sharky sharky smiles.  Are you about to kiss me, or take a bite outta me? I dunno, but I think it’s just… neat.

What’s the deal with Gosling anyway? I completely fail to see that dork’s appeal. Honestly, you, mo mhuirnín,  make him look like a wet cocker-spaniel puppy with a cold who has just been told about Bambi’s mum from the bottom of a well , i.e.  drippy, wet and annoyingly pathetic (P.S. could you please shield me with your amazing manly arms of wonder when the Gosling fans come baying for my blood? Those hounds! Thanks.)

All your hotness aside, it doesn’t really change the fact that you are a probably more than a bit creepy. And it’s not just because my mother thinks your eyes are too far apart. It’s your collected body of work. I just watched the viral for Prometheus, David 8 in which you appear to be some sort of TERRIFYING FLOWER SNIFFING ROBOT BUTLER from the future.  Add that to:

• Serial Shagging addict 
• Serious Doctor/Patient confidentiality breach
• Secret Wife Haver
• Masochistic Spartan 
• Sadistic Roman
• Giant magnet with a serious chip on his shoulder

And those are just the one off the dome, I'm sure a couple of hours of IMDB research would yield more proof of your sexy creeping, occasionally in German. Oh Michael, just how many languages can you act in, mein lieber schatz?

On the crazy and hot celebrity scale (1 being the lowest, Justin Timberlake = Surprisingly Normal and 10 being the highest aka Christian Bale = probably would eat someone) your collected body of work (not to mention, you know, your body) would probably earn you a solid 8. This means you've probably got a couple of years before you go Oliver Reed/ Richard Harris style bonkers, drink yourself to death or start narrating IMAX features.

But Mikey… Fassi… Bendi? We’ll sort out the nickname situation later. It should be said that it’s not just your glorious jolie laide face, stupefying bod or air of crazy danger that has us so excited, it’s the fact that you may have the ability to refresh the power of the edgy UK actor once more. 

The golden boys of the nineties are gone; the Rickmans, the Oldmans, they have become jowly and old.  The hotties of the 2000s- Ewan McGregor, Ralph Fiennes and Gerard Butler-  have failed us with shitty rom-coms like Down With Love, Maid in Manhattan and that one with Katherine Heigl… eurgh Heigl, she is pure whitebread boring and I'm gluten intolerant!

And what are we left with? Can we really rely on Rupert Penry-Jones to deliver strength, or Benedict Cumberbatch to supply sensuality? Neurotics and mad geniuses maybe. The truth is, Mister Fassbender, fan girls of the world need you to deliver obscure United Kingdom hotness out of the dark depths of Middle America date movies and ABC costume dramas and into the white hot light of good films with self-respecting actors.  Come on, Toms Hardy and Hiddleston can’t do this all by themselves. Fassbender, my heart, we are all counting on you.

You future frau/bean chéile,

Joe

Things you can tell yourself next time you feel like crap

According to my naturopath, when you hold onto bitterness, you get stomach problems, so I feel that positive affirmations are very important. Say you’ve had a shit day. Say you got yelled at during work in front of everyone, or you fell down in a really awkward and embarrassing way and laddered your new tights. Maybe you found out your ex-boyfriend is getting married to an 18 year old and you stop watching where you’re going and sixty yards of barbed wire hits ya right smack in the puss and then a wild animal comes over and runs away with your shoes and your car blows up suddenly and your windshield-wiper ends up in your mouth and ya can’t move and the mud's rising up to your nostrils and you’re sinking fast and ya can’t hear yourself screaming anymore? Is that what’s on your mind, cousin? Perhaps you need to give yourself a good talking to, like I have below….

So other people appear to have perfect lives full of sunshine and flowers. Well, they might have something going on that you don’t know about, like they’re allergic to peanuts or they can’t find jeans that fit - problems that, though small, may be slowly making their lives uncomfortable in some way. You’re definitely not wishing that on them, you’re just saying that could be the case.

But really, your life is pretty excellent. You have so many great shoes and that really nice orange coat that everyone comments on. That is a great coat. Even though the rest of your clothes don’t fit and everything you buy falls apart pretty quickly, makes you look old or like an overgrown high school kid, that coat is still amazing. Well done, you own one piece of clothing which doesn’t make you look like an idiot.

So you think you’ve sent that guy one message too many. So what? If he’s scared by that, he’s a wuss and do you really want a skittish man as the protector of you and your young? No, yo mamma taught you better than that! And it’s not as though you’ve done anything really crazy. You haven’t sent five messages a day or kidnapped any pets. You don’t know if they have any pets anyway because you’re not a crazy Facebook stalker either, and even if you were, Facebook stalking isn’t actually stalking. It’s checking up on friends and that’s what Facebook was made for.

Anyway, if anything, it shows that you are persistent. And polite. So polite, you should teach a course in manners.

You don’t have the time to be stalking anyone, what with your glittering social life full of extra –curricular activities and sophisticated friends. You know loads of interesting people who bring boutique beers to parties and let you try them, and buy you hamburgers on your birthday. With friends like these life is a big bowl of cherries! And you’ve got the spoon man, the silver spoon!

In fact, you staying home eating macaroni and cheese both Friday and Saturday was the respite your body needed after this week. You’re a pragmatic grown-up who takes care of themselves. You make wise decisions regarding your health and finances and that $70 jumper with ‘JUMPER’ written on it was a wise investment in comedy clothing and I’m proud of you. And think of all the weight you’ll lose now that you can’t afford to eat this weekend!

And look at your hair. You hair is perfect, every time. It’s like a realistic My Little Pony’s mane it’s so shiny. But you’re better than a mere pony, you’re a horse, a tall graceful, lithe horse. You are a Silver Brumby of a woman.

So what if today was way stupid? That doesn’t mean that tomorrow will be. Tomorrow might be the best day that ever happened to you,  the beginning of the rest of your life. Just because life usually plays like a guinea pig running in a wheel, around and round with the same old crap doesn’t mean that the same thing is going to happen tomorrow. In fact I know that it won’t, because if most of the day seems like shit, I just found $2 and I’m going to use that to buy you a mars bar for dessert tomorrow. That’s right, you get a mars bar, you’ve earned it.

The LadyVom Manifesto

Once in a life time a band comes into existence that threatens our core ideals of music, artistry and taste. Spume Records are proud to introduce their newest, most dynamically dangerous acquisition, LadyVom.

An all-girl acidelectropopglamrock group in the style of Peaches, The Runaways, Devo and Minty these five luscious ladies deliver gut-wrenching, leg leaping, bile inducing music energy like a punch up the bracket. A volatile mix of raw female sexuality and bone rattling rhythm, these girls are on a jet powered piston into music history!

Spume Records owner Bilious T. O’Really discovered playing in a secret tunnel party in Errskinville and was immediately taken by the group kinetic, laser like intensity and their determination to keep playing even after the audience left. Described by critics as ‘five Iggy Pops, except some play instruments, and they’re girls too’, LadyVom are a force to be reckoned with!

Expaktro Vulgaris - Vox and Theremin
Not much is known about enigmatic lead singer Expaktro Vulgaris. Some believe she was raised by a family of mutes in far hidden village in the Las Hurdes region of Spain. She communicated only through Theremin till she spoke her first words at the age of twelve - ‘Benedict Cumberbatch’. Expactro’s dusky voice infused with mournful theremining and sensual, guttural screams lead LadyVom’s rich abrasive sound.

Alex Vomette - Bass

Known to the press as ‘the funny one’ Alex Vomette is indeed hilarious. She has been known to set the LadyVom tour bus on fire as a joke. But when it comes to her bass playing, Alex is as serious as the plague, standing on the corner of the stage like a stone Aztec goddess of pulsating cadence. Her lurching, grumbling bass line forms LadyVom’s heaving, queasy core. Guaranteed to make your stomach skip a beat.

Lizzie Whizzie- Drums
The first thing Lizzie Whizzie did when she left reform school was steal a drum kit and start playing for LadyVom. Unfortunately the band’s then drummer, Kaka Spiv, had no idea that she’d been replaced and the next couple of months were really awkward for everyone. Lizzie’s drumming thrashes and crashes like an American bull terrier in a steal cage, bring an animalistic rabid frenzy to the heart of LadyVom that’s oh so danceable!

Lady O’Barf- Lead Keytar
Daughter of nobility, Lady ran away from the gilded cage of O’Barf Manor at 16 and has been playing in underground acidpopelectropunk outfits ever since. She penned the iconoclastic ‘Give me all your cash, Stupid’ during her time with Haggy and the Dumdums, but soon left after a creative and romantic argy bargy with titular Haggy Von Moron. Her retching keytar riffs and explosive licks drive the steaming, speeding juggernaut that is LadyVom.

Pukesie Collins- Tamborine and percussion
If someone can beat a tambourine like it owes her money, it’s Pukesie Collins! This spicy unsettling firebrand of pure throbbing rhythm gives LadyVom its subtle mystery and delicate timing. The none-to-secret love child of Stevie Nicks and Rudi Van DiSarzio and Spider Dijon, this bangin' beauty is a multi-instrumentalist, master of the triangle, square and dodecahedron.

LadyVom’s demo single ‘Sick with Love (Hold my hair)’ is available to download on iTunes now, with their debut album Ewww due to launch on April 1^st, 2012

Pour vinegar on the thorn in your cardboard heart... whoa! That's depressing!

Google is a wonderfun thing. I’d like to think if I was unemployed, or in hospital for a long period of time (say for argument I had suffered a terrible fall after trying to jump my Shetland pony, Morgrim the Wonderhorse, over a matchbox in a steeplechase) I would happily wile away the long futile hours in traction with only my left hand in tact by going on the Google and looking up things.

I love that Google will just hand me interesting things to look up. Hey there Joe, did you know it’s the 100th anniversary of water? Find out what it’s made of! It’s a distraction engine.

Yesterday, of course, it decided to tell me all about Valentine’s Day, and the ensuing five minute Wikipaedia break lead to the discovery of a twee little tradition known as the Vinegar Valentine.

For those of you who don’t know what this is (and haven't already clicked through) participate in this scenario. Imagine this, the dude that you like, let’s say for my example, the tall cute beardy one from Commercial Kings, Rhett, wants to meet you on Valentine’s Day. You see him approach; he might even be wearing a subtle red shirt for the occasion. From the sheepish, promising smile that you know is only for you, you can tell that the small pink envelope he’s handing you is the magical key to all the wonders of a long term, serious and outlook-changing relationship that is seconds form being yours.

You giggle demurely as you snatch the espial out of his hand and tear it open only to find this...

What a slap in the left, right, lower and all other ventricles. I can't think of a more delightfully weird and wonderful way to tell someone that you hate them than give them a card on a day usually reserved for love, niceness and special sexy underpants. I cannot believe that someone would actually give someone this and not expect to be paper cut eviscerated.

I mean Valentine’s Day was concerning enough but I had no idea that instead of just being plum ignored I could be handed a deceptive, hope-raising item which will then viciously lampoon all my character flaws in a concise little card with an unflattering and painstakingly accurate caricature.

The vinegar valentines I’ve found have been olde worldy, stuff like ‘shiftless man’, the ‘bookworm’ and the ‘busybody’. It seems like such a weird thing that in a time where snark is the go to attitude, people swear in wedding vows and people play sarcastic songs at funerals, I surprises me that these haven’t replaced genuine romantic cards. Why don’t we give in nasty cards to the ‘constant status updater’, the ‘competitive dieter’ or the ‘glued to your iPhone guy’. The person who comes up with the best one in the comments gets a Kit Kat

The day I left my phone behind: A tale of Gen-Y anguish

Friday morning I left the house in a hurry. I had woken up late and had to wash my hair and was very preoccupied by the requirements of the coming day. I am not trying to excuse what happened, I’m not a bad person, I was just distracted, ok? I’m sorry.

I carry two phones most days, my work phone and my personal phone. By pure coincidence they are both the same model. This makes it so easy to make mistakes. I knew that the work phone went in the bag that day, and when I put my hand in my hand bag to check during the walk to work, I swear I felt two. I assumed that everything was as it should be, as it always was. It wasn’t until I got to work that I realised there was something was actually very wrong.

I opened my bag. I looked. I looked again. I took items out and placed them back in. I began to rifle through my bag like a starving animal rummaging through a bin, strewing it's contents across my desk. Nothing. Cold fear gripped me. It was as though I was missing a leg. I felt without. I felt incomplete. I felt stranded and alone. And so was my phone.

I picked up my desk phone and started to dial my number. Insane I know, but panic makes mad men of us all. What did I expect would happen? That the phone was going to answer itself and tell me where it was?

I imagined it ringing in my flat, the first few bars of Bend It plunking out, bleating sad and alone in the empty room. Unanswered What if the neighbour heard? I was embarrassed to think that they might hear it crying and think I was irresponsible, forgetful, undeserving of a phone. I pictured their judgemental glances in the hallways, their knowing whispers. ‘Neglectful phone forgetter’.

It rang through to voicemail. I heard my own voice. The sound was unrewarding and hollow. I still had no idea where my phone was.

I used my work phone to text my mum. ‘It’s Joey, Forgot phone, if needs be call on this line’. She texted back ‘ok, shall do’ and it read like damning disappointment. I thought of her, and all the other people who could possibly be trying to contact me today, and could not get through, assuming I was ignoring them, or dead (my mother has assumed this before). Was I missing emergency calls of urgent importance? What if my apartment was on fire and no one could tell me. What if I had won that lottery and claiming the winnings was dependant on my instant response? What if the Prime Minister was calling was calling, faced with an international copy-writing emergency which required my specific expertise to avoid nuclear chaos!?!

What if I hadn’t forgotten my phone, but lost it on the way to work? I pictured it dropped and laying in a gutter somewhere, the cracked screen soaking in dirty water. Perhaps it had already been found by a kind stranger with a caring smile had picked it up and was right now taking it to the nearest police station, or calling my contacts to establish a connection.

What if it was not a Good Samaritan, but a mean unshaven stranger, with malice of intent, pushing its poor little buttons with big dirty finger, scrolling though its contacts, interfering with its settings, stripping it down and removing its memory card? The thought of my phone in some foreign filthy pocket made me feel sick. My helpless phone had been already sold into slavery and there was nothing I could do!

But then I remembered my voice mail. I called it again,expecting at any second for a gruff voice to answer and demand a ransom, else they’ll be sending it back one key at a time. It went through to voice mail, either it was still at home, or I was way too late.

There was nothing I could do but wait. When my boss told me to take an early mark, I was gone. I walked fast. Half way home I began to run. I vaulted up the stairs, keys in my hands. I fumbled with the keys and swore, every second was crucial, another moment where things could be getting more and more dire. I opened the door and… There it was on the bed where I had accidently left it. Without touching the keypad I picked it up I looked at the sleeping blank home screen. Three missed calls, all from me. As I held it in my hands, the notification lightflashed like a fluttering waking eye. The reminder tone chirruped to me as if to say ‘hello mummy. Welcome home'.

Australia, Australia, Australia. We love ya.

So it’s Australia Day, we all got a holiday and another excuse to have a barbeque!

I’ve finally come through my adolescent activist angst surrounding this day (an angst that coincided with the Howard years funnily enough, because what wasn’t to hate back then) and come to thoroughly appreciate the celebration of living in a moderately egalitarian country with a decent healthcare system, great public education and weather that generally doesn’t necessitate a large coat.

But, in addition to these blessings that have been afforded the lucky country (and very much avoiding problems like poisonous creatures on land, air and sea and a tendency to say ‘somethingk’) there are a couple of things that I am particularly happy to celebrate this Australia Day.

-Lamingtons

Whilst there are many different version of when, how and why the lamington was created, one things for sure, it’s as Australian as Vegemite and flat white coffees but not Pavlova, apparently New Zealand had dibs but I’d like to see them prove it! I found out on Tuesday that there’s such a thing as a lamington eating competition and Papa, I want in! I’ve often dreamed of entering an eating competition and unlike pie or hot dog eating competitions I think I could kick a lamington eating competition in the arse with a glass of water and an empty stomach.

-Thongs

There’s nothing more satisfying than the ‘slap, slap, slap’ of thongs against feet. Chuck on a pair of double pluggers and you can go pretty much anywhere and still be well dressed. I totally get why people overseas might call them flip-flops, especially if their already using thongs to describe underpants, but we call those G-strings, call erasers rubbers, call ‘rubbers’ frangas and call everyone mate. If you’re from overseas and are at any point lost in the lingo, call someone ‘mate’, we’ll hear the ridiculous way you shorten the ‘a’ and understand you’re not from round here.

-Fireworks

Australians will celebrate anything with fireworks. Seriously.

‘Cool, I just opened a can of beans!’

‘Yay! Fireworks!’

‘I just brought the cat back from the vet!’

‘Catherine wheels and those Saturn wavy ones that go PAATT-EEEW!’

‘I just passed a clean urine sample.’

‘Whoooo! Golden shower off the bridge!... wait… Eww!’

Australia is renowned for our fireworks, which is weird considering we're a wide brown tinderbox. Our Sydney NYE works started the tradition of insane pyrotechnics and we will continue setting more things spectacularly on fire for years!

-Flying your flag

On Australia Day, you are obligated by law to sport the Southern Cross somewhere on your person, worn on a bikini or temporarily tattooed on your face, if you haven’t gotten it and your post code tattooed on your back already.

We wear our flag on our backs like a cape, which is very enterprising, turning every drunken sunburnt teenager into a dashing superhero. If Australia had a superhero, Aussie Man, his super powers would be getting drunk, starting fights and speaking with a rising infection or somethingk?

-Being drunk

We Australians are number 1 drunkest nation in the world (according to a study I made up). We have an appauiling reputation overseas as Foster’s swilling sots and do nothing to tarnish it. Heck I’m drunk right now, and it’s a Thursday! I would have been drinking since 10 if I had gotten up earlier. But that’s what Australia Day in about. Eating sausages and being drunk. Check and check my friends.

Remind me again

I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror and thought ‘you know who I remind me of? Miss Piggy.’ I’m essentially a slightly less glamorous, brunette version of Miss Piggy… with teeth. Like if Miss Piggy had been a hamster… Miss Guinea Piggy. Now, whilst some of you may think I have some tickets of myself to compare myself to the Devine Swine; I’m definitely less stylish, less high maintenance and less skilled at hitting people than she is. But like it or not, at some point we all remind others and ourselves of someone, or something else.

People often tell me that I remind them of someone they know, to which I usually reply ‘I’ve just got one of those faces’. I may very well have ‘just one of those faces’, you know, the kind with two eyes, a nose and a mouth that could pretty much be anyone. I totally see why folk are frequently mixing me up with completely disparate people. If you’ve ‘just got one of those faces’ it likely that you don’t care that you look just like their sister’s boyfriend’s second cousin either but will politely agree that you look just like some person you’ve never meet as long as it lets you get on your life.

Having said that, I really don’t mind if I remind you of someone, especially if it’s someone you like or think is fun and tells good stories. It’s kind of nice that there’s another version of me. I hope we meet up one day and mess with everyone in a series of wacky misunderstandings.

I am also totally happy to remind people of celebrities, as long as they are vaguely attractive, intelligent and sane celebrities. No one wants to hear that they're a dead ringer for Mickey Rouke. Someone once told me that I reminded them of Maggie Gyllanhaal and I was like ‘that’s such an insane leap of reasoning that I’m actually flattered that you’d attempt it just to make me smile’.

Comparing someone to a celebrity is a weird pick up gambit because it could go so terribly wrong. Forgetting subjectively attractive celebs like Sarah Jessica Parker - those ones that really divide people- you could just pick someone who’s played someone unattractive once. Saying ‘you look just like Charlize Theron’ to a person who has only seen Monster would probably crush their living soul.

I use like to use celebrities as a point of reference; say if I am trying to describe a hair cut or a clothing style or some person that I know. It makes life easier because they’re a visual reference that most can recognise or Google. It also helps because I use up all my adjectives here I actually run out during conversations. ‘You know Whathisface? He looks like that dude in that thing with the monkeys... Franco! That’s the one! He looks like James Franco if he was ginger and had a hunch.*

*I know no one who even remotely looks like Franco, so stop asking.