This latest Desert Island Disc selection is brought to you by Tomb Raider megastar, Lara Croft. You can get the playlist here.
Going underground (The Jam). You’d be surprised at the number of young women who are quite heavily into the spelunking scene (I originally stumbled across it myself from a mis-typed Google search). Some love the adventure, some the exploration, others the physical challenge. Personally, I’m just grateful that 50ft of solid rock means I have no mobile phone signal, and hence a break from mummy’s constant barrage of questions about when I’m going to “settle down with a nice man”. Pffft. She just doesn’t understand that not all girls are driven by such out-dated goals.
Can you dig it? (The Mock Turtles). Being a hot, young debutante, people often forget that I’m a genuine archaeologist. No, I don’t lecture at a University like that bookworm Prof. Jones, or mooch about in fields looking for bits of broken pottery like those bearded Time Team dorks. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own archaeological ideals. I’m driven by the quest for old, expensive shit to sell to daddy’s old, rich chums. And incidentally, the “Tomb Raider” moniker I’ve got stuck with actually has very little to do with me stealing antiquaries from third-world countries. I earned that name during my teenage ages when I discovered means of generating money from the fuddy-duddies without the need to go treasure hunting first. I don’t do that kind of thing any more though.
Straight outta Compton (N.W.A.). Daddy still keeps a little house next to the French embassy in Brompton, Knightsbridge, in case I need to pop into the city for any little chores. I like to joke that I’m “straight outta Brompton, a crazy motherfucker named Lara Croft!” But seriously, I definitely know “where it’s at”. All my girlfriends come to me for advice about inner-city living and for my real-world contacts. I’m the gal who proves you can be both street- and boulevard-wise! Only last week I was able to broker some very reasonable stable fees for one of my home-girls, right in the heart of downtown Windsor.
Tick (Yeah Yeah Yeahs). Mummy’s constantly pointing out that my biological clock is ticking. Honestly, her dual standards drive me insane. I’m a good 6 months younger than that jumped-up schoolboy James Bond, and mummy seems more than happy with his juvenile antics (don’t think I didn’t see her slip him her room key at the last Monaco fund raiser). Anyway, there’s always adoption. After chatting with Madonna, I’ve been looking at African orphanages. It’s a beautiful, responsible thing to do, and is no way “snatching from the Cradle of Life”.
Girls on film (Duran Duran). I have a love/hate relationship with the camera. It obviously loves me, and who can blame it? But sometimes, I really hate the camera. Time after time, I’ve caught boys angling their cameras to get a better look at my arse. And sometimes it seems people are more concerned with getting a good look at my ample cleavage than they are about looking where they’re going, and end up clattering into things and falling over. I’m sad to say, I’ve even seen a few deaths from this, though at least they’ve all gone with smiles on their faces!
Independent women (Destiny’s Child). While I’m not one of those horrible “I don’t need a man to be whole” feminists that most of my still-single girlfriends seem to be turning into, I am fiercely independent. For instance, I don’t care one hoot if Guy doesn’t call me back. I only hooked up with him in the first place because of mummy’s meddling (she insisted he was the most eligible bachelor on the polo circuit at the time). And in case he’s reading this: All those missed calls were simply the result of my phone speed-dialling in the pocket of my overly tight shorts.
