Ello all. This week I wanted to clear up some fallacies about my person. In my time here in Orem, I don’t go a day without someone asking me where I’m from or guessing that I’m from Australia, South Africa or Sweden (don’t ask). I wonder if there are many other Australian people out there as that is what I’m predominantly mistaken for. Not that I really mind the Australians – for a bunch who were originally British-banished crim’s, they haven’t ‘alf done badly for themselves. They make really good soaps, and I grew up on NEIGHBOURS and HOME AND AWAY.

People always comment on my accent, and while I’m proud of my mudder tongue, all this time it does make me wonder if I should affect an American accent just to avoid the nonsense some people come up with.  And by “people” I mean those members of the race I don’t know. All the friends graced with Aunty Lyds’s company have this endearing way of affecting my accent, sometimes without even thinking about it. It just pops out. The accent. The accent pops out, DIRTY.

This leads me to Matina. For those of you in the dark, Matina is a transgender drag artist on the East Coast and for a while, she was my closest confidante. We had been on a cruise and during the first few days everything had been hunky dory, but then a few days later people started looking at me oddly and whispering behind my back. I wasn’t being paranoid, they really were talking about me, I could hear sniggers and whispers (which if you ever do in public don’t bother, people can hear you). Then the day before we were s’posed to come into port, I was in the water closet havin’ a waz and I hear Matina flounce in with someone else and Matina starts spreading awful things about me. Anyway, I burst out of the closet and both Matina and the first mate go really quiet, really quickly.

I slapped her so hard her false eyelashes popped off. We punched, kicked, rolled around on the floor (ugh mingin’ bathroom floors), slapped, poked and I ruined my best sequined Westwood. “Whossitallabaht?” I shrieked, mascara running, lips smudged and nose bleeding all over the place.

Matina’s reply was haunting. She said she didn’t understand me and that I should speak “proper English … proper American English,” and she left the bathroom limping and black-eyed. All I want in life is to be understood and respected. Isn’t that what we all deserve? To this day I don’t know what had happened to make her act in such a way, but I DO have the notion that we should treat people with respect. I wonder if it had anything to do with my havin’ a pash with her Australian bit of stuff. You can never tell with people from New York.

Laters all, and until next time, Luv ya bums.

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Ello all you fashion-forward lot. A few years ago I was doing the rounds at the Milan, Paris and London fashion scenes. My friends Matina, La Lemmah and I became a part of Galliano’s inner fashion circle. He gave us fashion focus projects so that he could be informed and on the cutting edge of his game. Haute Couture was and still is a big deal in my life. Anyway, we learned many things from Galliano, about fashion, life and the art of sewing, so I’m going to impart some of this fashion advice for all you students out there.

Bodices: You need a good bodice. Tailor-made to fit your particulars and able to lace up the back. These can be sequined, but I think appliqué is so underused at the moment. A nice red and blush lily draping from one breast round to your coccyx would be fabulous. Also a push-up bra underneath might help if you’re a bit flat-chested. Don’t worry – it’s more normal than you think.

Dresses and skirts: Now this one can be tricky. Despite what some might say, dresses and skirts don’t always work for all body types. I would suggest a beautiful wrap that parts at the front and trails off to the back in a train. Now, this can be sparkly gold fabric or can be laced with any number of carats, cos if you’re like me you just love a bit of gold.

Knik-knoks: Ok, so we have this parting at the front; you’re thinking that you’re a bit exposed. I already thought about that. You need some shiny, tight knic-knocs that cover the prize at the end of yer passion trail. I would suggest black gold. Some people like sparkly bits right there, but unless you’ve got a one-track mind and that tracks going only one place, then it’s best not to draw too much attention.

Head, hands and feet: I love wigs. White ones are my favorite ever since Viv Westwood’s Liaisons Dangeroux-inspired shows, and I always like diamonds or opals in my jewelry. Shoes must be winkel pickers or have a seven-inch heel. Heed this advice and you can sing while you win.

Well that’s the men taken care of, now for the ladies. Ooh I seem to have run out of time. Um… do all the above, just add a bit of pink.

Laters all, luv ya bum.

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Lydia at work

Ello all, it’s that time again. Every year around this period, I start feeling it in my body. Cramps, irritability, anxiety, mood swings, angry outbursts and tender mamas are all signs that my favorite holiday – I like to call it ‘ween – is here. I hear some of you dissenters whispering that it’s too early for talk of ‘ween, but no, it’s not too early. It’s becoming more of a regular occurrence for Easter paraphernalia to appear on shelves just weeks after Christmas and Christmas goodies appear on the shelves just after Halloween. I think this is the perfect time to talk about our Dark Lord’s favorite day of the year. If it’s one thing you yanks do well, it’s Halloween.

Back in England, my buddies and I had so much fun at ‘ween. Then I came here, and I thought I’d died and gone to some kind of heaven. There were sweeties, chocolate (despite America not knowing how to make it taste good, I’m not picky), elaborate home and garden shows with the names of all the houses occupants written on little grave stones (bless), corn mazes, and my favorite … haunted houses.

When God thought to create haunted houses, he thought, “Well I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but let’s really try messing them up and put it down to adversity building character.” Well, on behalf of all America, thank you God, we owe you one.

Anyway, I digress. A year ago I was a corn maze virgin. Friends asked if I done it before, and I went “cheeky beggar…” and then said “no I never,” so off we went.

Wow, I was blown away. There’s not many places that you can be swallowed by an inflatable beast, see a giant pig and be chased by a chainsaw-wielding psycho. Back home, I’d either have to be at my mate Nobby’s house (say no more), or down the local nature reserve after midnight, only there’s less chainsaw-wielding psychos.

What I’m trying to say though, is don’t be sittin’ on yer arse all month and not be involved in this wonderful time of year. Every week I’ll be here to remind you of your duty to get some ‘ween, so go eat some sweeties and above all, if you’re a corn maze virgin, I think it’s high time you get shucked.

Laters all, lav ya spooky bums.

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