Dylan Jones

Tigers, red lipstick and death

It can only be a blogular update on Lana Del Rey

Gosh, Lana Del Rey. We're not too sure about this one. We feel like she might be a bit late. Cue an [warning: over-extended metaphor] image of her stamping up a steel fire escape in North London in her Converse, exotic felines and emaciated tattooed men in tow. She knocks a little too loudly and an art student called Delia opens the door, looks her up and down, tugs at her ironic knitted reindeer pullover and says "Oh. Lana. I thought we'd set the Facebook event to private."

Of course the worst thing about all this is that we secretly like her. We LIKE that pretentious beehive and we LIKE that slightly gormless pout and that seemingly indiscriminate iconisation of the American flag (don't worry Lana, we know you're just trying to be retro/chic with that rather than harboring intense patriotism and ingrained xenophobia).

The title of latest single Born To Die is, probably, a little bit attention seeking and a little bit annoying, but you know what we don't care. We think this song's original.

Lana Del Rey's album of the same title is due out at the end of this month (someone else wrote something much nicer in the mag, fret not Lana fans). We're not quite sure why she's doing this as it will be hurled bouncing into the post-Christmas musical wasteland left behind by Little Mix and co., who will no doubt storm through leaving nought but a hissing, steaming wreckage of Paul's Boutique bags and slowly spinning Topshop bangles in their wake, Olly Murs wheezing his final death rattles under a skeletal, petrified tree.

We won't go on about her any more but we will say this; In our previous blog on her in October we said "before long she'll be on The Jonathan Ross Show with a ridiculous fashion sense and an alcohol problem". We've just read she's due on episode 1 of the new series in a few days' time. *Sips raspberry tea smugly*

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