About Carole Morin

Posts by Carole Morin

Desert Island Lips

desert-island-lips

When Guru Gill invited me to select some of my favourite things, I had to resist loading the entire site into my basket. I’m struggling to find anything VH that I don’t adore.

Except maybe Enterosgel, the drink that stops diarrhoea, because it reminds me of a pig farmer sitting next to me on a flight to Columbo who said, “Don’t worry…I have lots of lovely pigs at home. You are not my type.”

But I don’t want to be banished from the inner sanctum. The Guru has already told me off. At least she hasn’t taken the Wet Brush to me. When I beat the manservant, I use the pink watercolour detangler with the scary spikes. Disciplining him totally tones my arms. Read More…

Bum Bum Bum…

shower head turned on

I’m on my roof in Soho, lurking behind a big tree, minding my own business until it’s time for Peeling Solution to come off when Crazy K calls begging for help. Again. She’s accidentally attached a bum selfie to her contacts’ list. Now everyone who gets a message from her is treated to a view of her recently waxed rear, she apologises just as ‘My Bum’ appears on my screen.

There are no compromises in backsides these days. They are either fatties or flatties. But in this pic Crazy K’s bum looks like two demented satsumas with scary sunburn. Funny I’ve never noticed the creepy rubbery texture before; ‘You’re looking at the wrong bum,’ she explains. ‘That’s the one I bought in Selfridges.’ She’d bought a blow-up bum when her boyfriend told her he likes a fatty but it turned out to be more of a farty and kept falling off so she gifted it to her mum. Read More…

My Bad Hair Miracle

bad hair day sign

Some people have bad hair days; I’ve had a bad hair life. Starting when I head-butted a hairdresser “somewhere in Mayfair” who gave me a Dennis the Menace when I’d asked for a Kate Bush. My mum Maddie doesn’t recall the salon, just the embarrassment of being asked to leave without paying and a trip to Regent’s Park Zoo where a gang of monkeys tried to steal me.

Her punchline when telling this story is always, “Your haircut wasn’t that bad!” The brunette in a family of blondes, Maddie did her best to Blondie me but couldn’t get my locks lighter than banana; which clashed with the wee red blazer of my school uniform. I had to wear a balaclava until Aunt Irene the Slut bought me a Lolita wig in a porn shop when she came on one of her flying visits from New York where she lived in self-imposed exile away from the disapproval of her six sisters. Read More…

Weirdo Of The Week Award

Rolled jeans

Just another abnormal day in the life of a VH addict. Selfish Jean is threatening to appear with a tape measure and it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee; after the manservant makes it obvs. Of course at Addicts Mansions we drink Curcumin Latte with an Aduna Super-Cacao chaser. A similar high to so-last-century cocaine; without the risk of widening your beak until a family of five can move in up there with their furniture.

I lay back on my SilkSkin pillow, which keeps my hair Stemm smooth, while the manservant asked nosey-parker questions about my dreams. You know that nightmare when you’re running but never quite manage to escape the strange man who’s chasing you? I turn round and punch him in the face. Let the strange man be careful. Read More…

Confessions Of A VH Addict

Addict

Addiction is in my blood, but in a family of junkies I was the one without a habit. Daddy gave up dialysis to spend more time in the pub. Mummy is hooked on smoking, shopping and risking skin cancer in the sun. My brother took the conventional route with sex, drugs, and suicide. ‘Drugs,’ as Dr Dex is fond of saying, ‘are only a problem when you stop taking them.’ Despite having diplomatic immunity at High School, I was never into angel dust and downed water before it was fashionable. ‘Never get high on your own supply,’ as Michelle Pfeiffer warns in Scarface. It wasn’t until my supply was cut off that I realised I was an addict. Read More…

The 2.0N Club

Colours 2.0N Serum

My VH addiction was in full swing by the time I’d moved from Beijing to Soho and joined the 2.0N Club. It sounds like a cool nightclub for people who like carb free drinks instead of a foundation that looks invisible on the skin. Obsessing about getting my mitts on 2.0N is weird for me because the minute I wake up, I don’t put on make-up. My husband Dangerous insists that I look better without it. He’s never got over the time in Kiev when two nice girls I met in a cafe gave me a makeover. ‘You’d look quite pretty if you wore ten inches of panstick,’ Svetlana told me; while Verushka attacked me with gigantic false eyelashes and a can of superglue. Read More…