THING: Oliver Bonas
As it’s a bank holiday today, I will be briefly stepping off the hamster wheel of capitalism and partaking in the small pellets of pleasure it affords us - a coffee that costs £5 and a sandwich that costs £15. After I’ve had my fill, I will return home to gaze fretfully at the smart meter, before I start my night shift at Madame Bazonga’s Peep Show in Soho. Ain’t life grand?
However, if you thought I was going to let a socialist bank holiday pass without having a go at Oliver Bonas, you can THINK AGAIN, comrades!
Okay, so I don’t really hate Oliver Bonas, despite the fact that it’s owned by a red-trousered Tory whose girlfriend ran off with Matt Hancock. I’m actually quite conflicted about it, because at first glance it’s a tasteful high street shop for women like me who enjoy nice, bright, pretty, sparkly things. Some of the stuff they sell is lovely. I have bought gifts from there, and people have bought gifts for me from there, and it’s all very nice. *sips Prosecco and eats a Perello olive while smiling gratefully at friends and family*
But, come on. After you’ve wandered around for five minutes, mumbling ‘Ooo, that’s a cute print of a cactus‘, or ‘Ooh can I pull off this funky jumpsuit?’ you start to realise something. It really does sell QUITE A LOT OF ABSOLUTE SHITE.
CRAP WITH INITIALS ON IT
I got over wanting my initials on things when I was about 8, but Oliver Bonas is O.Bsessed with them. Trinket dishes, mugs, key rings, coasters, necklaces… Do people really need that much help to remember their own names? I suppose rich people have to initial everything in case they get their expensive possessions mixed up in the communal changing rooms at Eton. Last thing you need is to take Dougie Twattington-Smythe’s sponge bag home with you. The man’s an absolute bounder!
VERDICT: L for loser
PATRONISING ‘TIRED MUM’ GIFTS
Oliver Bonas has the whole late millennial market sewn up. It’s filled to bursting with straw crossbody bags, bright graphic prints, chunky sandals and more succulents than a Mexican car park. And that also means plenty of soothing gifts for frazzled parents. Well, I say parents, but let’s not be coy, they’re really for the mums, aren’t they? (Dads get shot glasses, bike accessories and mugs that say ‘HELLO HANDSOME.’) Some would say that it’s cynical to sell essential oils, diffusers and pointless unguents to exhausted women under the guise of self-care, but not me! Here, have an eye mask that says ‘relax’ on it and then get on with the dinner.
VERDICT: Mama, I killed a man
GOLD LEOPARDS
Honestly, how many gold leopards and monkeys and duck-billed fucking platypuses could anyone need? It’s like King Midas shat himself in there. We’re not really talking gold, though - these brassy doodads are deeply mass-produced, and despite the ambitious pricing, if you saw them on Temu you’d run a mile. Put them next to a velvet fringed cushion and a copy of the Dishoom cookbook, though, and suddenly you’re a chic boho traveller with friends in Indonesia.
VERDICT: Goldminger
TWEE LITTLE BOOKS
Can’t think of what to buy a friend of a friend of a friend or a colleague who merges with the wallpaper? Oliver Bonas’ range of inspirational, perilously charity-shop adjacent gift books will do the trick.
I’m not talking about actual books, by actual authors. These are simply a series of shit homilies from celebrityquotes.com illustrated with stripes, flowers, stars and mushrooms, designed to be taken out of a gift bag in a small plates restaurant and never seen again. They have the shelf life of a yoghurt. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seriously doubt that anyone’s answer to the question ‘What’s your favourite book?’ would be ‘Yas Queen: Inspirational Quotes for Awesome Women (£6.99).’
VERDICT: (Probably) don’t read all about it
WOEFUL ‘PICTURE FRAMES’
Finally, Oliver Bonas should also go to jail for some of its crimes against picture frames. I can almost hear this random collection of shapes falling apart in the night.
Then there’s this. This is apparently a photo frame. But it’s ‘gold’ so it’ll go with your monkey bookends and your suicidal leopard doorknocker!
And if you want conclusive proof that Oliver Bonas is a bit crap, how about this?
A corn on the cob of human teeth, fringed with bathmat.
VERDICT: Bone-ass
I’ve always called it Oliver Boner. Surely I’m not the only one? It’s as if that other horror show, Boden, has decided to stalk our high streets…Bone-ass indeed
I have never forgiven ‘the powers that be’ at Embankment station for removing an actually useful shop that sold Fruit-tella and samosas and replacing it with Oliver Bonas.