August 22 2014

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10 posts tagged "Peaches Geldof"

Kate’s Literary Leanings, Riccardo’s New Muse, And More…


Kate Moss’ post-modeling job? Novelist. Naturally. [The Sun]

Riccardo Tisci’s next muse is…Adriana Lima? The Victoria’s Secret model goes goth in Givenchy’s Fall ad campaign, and, we never thought we’d say it, totally gives Mariacarla Boscono a run for her money. Up next: Miranda Kerr? [WWD]

Amy Winehouse strikes again. The disheveled crooner has been tapped to design a clothing line for British label PPQ, formerly Peaches Geldof’s métier. [WWD]

Madonna and Jesus: just friends. What’s so funny? [The Daily Mail]

Photo: Monica Feudi & Gianni Pucci

Blasblog: Happy Birthday To The Manor Born


The lower left part of Manhattan that is Tribeca isn’t exactly known as a shopping hub. Sure, there’s an Issey Miyake down there and a few other things, but generally speaking it’s mostly new moms in Tory Burch flats than it is ultra-cool sylphs in Alaïa wedges or Margiela boots. That is, until a year ago, when Davinia Wang and Ryan Korban blew into the neighborhood with Edon Manor, their lovely and airy Greenwich Street store stocked with the hottest kicks that any uptown or downtown girl could ask for. Last night, Vanessa Traina and Jen Brill hosted an anniversary party for the shop, attracting a whole slew of the pretty young people down to De Niro-ville to sip Champagne and snack on Mr. Chow’s Chinese food from across the street. Piling into the store were the likes of Peaches Geldof, Arden Wohl, Alexander Wang, Ferebee Bishop Taube (who is pregnant, with twin boys no less), and models Shannan Click and Julia Stegner. Teen Vogue‘s Amy Astley, who lives nearby, observed, “This is the coolest crowd I think I’ve ever seen on Greenwich.” And it just kept getting cooler. Erin Wasson was one of the last to make it to the fête, exclaiming, “All I want to do now is put on my iPod and jam to some Wu-Tang.” I wonder if the Tribeca locals even know that The Wu-Tang is a rap group? “Nah, they probably think it’s a noodle,” replied Wasson. And they say women aren’t funny!

Photo: Neil Rasmus/

blasblog: young and younger


I know of two surefire ways to immediately make myself feel old and pathetic. One is try to do that 8 a.m. yoga class at my local gym (I tried it once, failed, and now even thinking about it makes me feel old and pathetic). My second method is to hang out with girls who were born in the nineties. Yesterday evening, at the sweaty dance fest that has become Wednesday nights at Lit—a phenomenon that’s due in no small part to resident DJs Harley Viera Newton and Cassie Coane, who are quickly assuming a spinning monopoly of downtown events—it was all about the latter. Joining me and Chrissie Miller of Sophomore (like me, not born in the nineties) were Cory Kennedy and Peaches Geldof, the latter of whom was proudly showing off a daisy ivy tattoo that ran down her body, “from tit to knee.” Throughout the evening, Geldof was happy to point out she’s much older than her age may suggest: She was actually born late in 1989 and is, ahem, a married woman. “That’s right,” she said with a smile, flashing a ring and referring to an August wedding in Vegas. “A few months ago to this handsome gentleman called Max from a band called Chester French.” Ah, young love. I have made no attempt to hide my infatuation with youth—I will so be that guy sleeping outside the cinema when High School Musical 3: Senior Year hits theaters—and it seems I’m not alone in thinking this little venue is the place to score with the kids. In the back of Lit is a gallery, which last night was turned into a makeshift casting ground for a future, no doubt naked-kid-filled Ryan McGinley project.


Photo: Dan Kitwood/Getty Images


free speech: hadley freeman on peaches geldof coming to america


Peaches is coming! Peaches is coming! America, I come riding to you like Paul Revere, to warn you of the incoming invasion. But, unlike the threat Paul was giving you the heads-up on, I worry that you might not be able to fight against this one. As you may or may not have heard, Peaches Geldof will soon be gracing New York with her presence. God bless this transatlantic exchange: You give us Madonna, we give you Mel B; you give us Gwyneth Paltrow, we give you Simon Cowell. One man’s trash is another man’s, um, something. How marvelous. Anyway, you might think that you’re perfectly used to living in the near proximity of the attention-grabbing progeny of someone who was once famous. Americans, you have no idea. Yes, sure, you might have your Carnie Wilsons and your Sean Lennons. But in America, famous people’s kids tend to have done something themselves to merit at least a sliver of the attention they believe is their due. In England, we don’t care about such things. This is a country that still has a royal family; we believe in the power of birth and lineage. Yes, you guys have Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, but at least they were once on a TV show. We have Kimberly Stewart. I sneeze on your Paris and Nicole.

I like to think of it as almost a tradition, really: We hand over the most random hodgepodge of celebrities for y’all to sample; sometimes they manage to blind you with the accent and sometimes they don’t, and you can’t predict who will be able to pull it off and who won’t. Take (astonishingly) Piers Morgan, who in his native country was a sacked tabloid editor with an embarrassing hunger for self-promotion. Yet in America, for some unknown reason, he seems to have been accepted as a spotter of talent. Similarly, America embraced soppy singer Natasha Bedingfield but rejected the annoying but actually pretty talented Robbie Williams. Happily, Oasis went down a similar dumpster when they went stateside, so there is occasionally method to the madness.

But back to Peaches, who is quite a little bundle of zeitgeistness. What does she do? Well, she hangs out with London’s resident well-connected designers, PPQ. She’s part of a DJ collective (of course she is) called Trash Pussy. She recently got married in Vegas—not to her boyfriend, who was waiting for her back in London thinking she’d just gone on a short vacation, but to someone called Max Drummey, who’s in a band called Chester French. Her occasional bouts of TV show “presenting,” as we call it over here, have prompted literally hundreds of hate-filled Internet chat rooms. Yet London remains fascinated by her. This is partly due to the aforementioned bloodline thing, which seems to enthrall the British press much more than it does the American. But it may also be because there are far more celebrities in the U.S., so in the U.K. we have to make do with the grumpy few we have and the occasional “tired and emotional” child of a sixties rocker, i.e. the continuing and improbable interest in any offspring born of the Rolling Stones. And Kimberly Stewart. Have I mentioned her already?

Another factor in this rather lurid fascination with the spawn of has-been stars is that the British are far more interested in people who, to use a libel-free euphemism, “behave badly” than you seem to be in the States. This may be because the British papers are less concerned with verifiable facts than their American counterparts, and more excited by making risqué innuendos about people who probably won’t sue (hence the phenomenon known as Pete Doherty). The progeny of former rock stars are good game for this, simply because the media tends to assume they all grew up in a house blanketed in snow, if you see what I mean. Which is why I’m quite interested to see what happens when Peaches begins her American sojourn. She’ll be coming from a city where she’s considered A-list and her father is basically a deified saint. And she’ll now be somewhere where her face is not her ticket and her dad is pretty much an unknown. Will she self-combust? Or will she surprise us all and triumph? Peaches, don’t worry. Even if those Americans don’t know a good thing when they see it, I guarantee you there will be some British reality TV crew following you on your travels. So whatever happens, it won’t be a total waste of time.

Photo: Dave M. Benett/Getty Images

ptp’s guide to etiquette


Before there was Posh Spice, England’s spiciest posh was Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. The contrast between Palmer-Tomkinson’s much-hyped pedigree and her less-than-ladylike antics have been religiously recorded in the U.K. press, but we can report that she still values ladylike manners. “I owe my manners to On/Off,” she purred at the cocktail party/fashion exhibition/charity auction of quirky beach huts designed by Jasmine Guinness, Alesha Dixon, and Peaches Geldof which On/Off and Bluewater organized for the fashion fair’s ten-year anniversary. Gallantly standing in towering patent-leather stripper stilettos at the top of the staircase at the Royal Academy Burlington Gardens venue which On/Off calls home, she explained, “On/Off always sends me the best invites. I try hard to be a good hostess, and they are the best!” We’re betting that Palmer-Tomkinson hurried home at the end of the evening’s festivities to write a thank-you note to On/Off for the goody bag, which included Dr. Scholl Party Feet blister gel.

Photo: Ana Finel Honigma