Wednesday, 22 September 2010
A sugar filled penultimate day of fashion week.
Wow it's Wednesday already, yesterday I came out of my black hole and straight into the throng of London Fashion week, via Gordon's Wine Bar for a massive cheese fest with the delightful jailbird Kitty Bang Bang and job interview. Once into Somerset House, just off the Strand I secured my press pass and headed up to a presentation on the first floor. It was that weak I made no effort to remember the designer’s name, cheap looking expensive tat, flimsy unflattering fabric cascading tiredly, circa 2001, Kylie, Can't get you out of my head. Zips and tailoring clashed with ineffective urban sportswear. Entertained by the mass of people shooting the collection, I felt no connection with the designer’s vision as I contemplated whom it was designed for.
Next up we discovered the delights of the press lounge, comfy sofas and complimentary drinks provided a welcome respite. There was music coming from the tent, I grabbed Sarah and rushed into Ashish, no ticket, just a few cheeky words and we're in. Oh my, the place is heaving, we scale the side of the seating, clutching onto the railings in order to gain a good viewpoint. My arms ache with the weight of my body, yet somehow invigorated by the discomfort. He sends down fringing, spots, sequins, feathers to a bad ass soundtrack, a pumped up version of Cazwell, Burger King and some dancehall vibes, effective.
Back in the lounge I approach Caryn Franklin from Clothes Show, a business card later, there's an interview in the pipeline. She's a legend. Smudge joins the party and we head out in search of alcohol and entertainment. A cab ride later we're in West London surrounded by cocktails and candyfloss. Dannijo presents Bellatrix at Scream gallery, a cute jewellery collection; there are girls in little leotards some look decidedly glum at being sat on the floor for three hours.
Smudge taking in the collection, ooh look at the concentration
Next we attempt the Dolce and Gabana party, fail, big well-policed queue. We cut our losses and head to Beyond the Valley, it's jam packed, the pub opposite the shop is fighting for outside street space, it's great, inside is a lot of heat, and cognac, we gather the cognac and head back outside. A goodie bag is thrust in my hand and I devour the jellybeans, sugar, sugar and well more sugar.
Perhaps the most humorously bizarre point in the evening is the make up party at Vauxhall Fashion Scout, we enter a carpeted room, our sense are hit with the smell of fried food, Sean grabs two cocktails, takes a sip and immediately discards, I wisely opted for Champagne. The stage is cleared and a girl with a booty in tight black leggings belts out a tune "I can suck my lollipop, you can lick my ice cream" subtle.
We look around at the occupants; some seem embarrassed to be there, a distinct Essex wedding feel. We vote unanimously to exit, next stop Hoxton Pony, not very busy, a little flat; we stay for a drink and push on via Dui Sardi on Kingsland Road.
Craig Lawrence's party at Vogue Fabrics is our final stop of the evening, everything thing is blurry at this point, my shirt comes off and I'm dancing like an idiot in my bustier, high energy finale, my feet hurt, I wander home wishing I had my bicycle, sleep.