The London Paper – 25 Sept 2008
“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every 6 months’ – so said dear old Oscar Wilde and after my experience of London’s ‘Fashion Week’ I couldn’t agree more. Never in the field of human partying has so little fun been had by so many for so long.
When I was a humble Cityboy trudging to work in mid-September I used to dream about going to the sexy fashion parties I’d heard about and dancing until dawn with beautiful ladies. Now, being a Z list celebrity, I had the opportunity to be part of the Boogie Nights world I envisaged. Hence, last Tuesday I valiantly took one for the team and attended what I thought would be two raucous parties overflowing with free champers, bacchanalian dancing and gorgeous models (at the Met Bar and the Mayfair Hotel). It sounded like an acceptable way of passing the time – well marginally better than watching Holby City anyway.
In fact, Holby City would have probably been a lot more fun. Although there was free booze, no-one danced and there was very little interaction at all between the different cliques that clearly existed. For research purposes only, of course, I approached various models and tried to engage them in banter. For some sick and twisted reason these young girls made it quite clear that my presence was 1) not required 2) mildly irritating. Indeed, I left most conversations feeling like a lecherous, condescending, cradle-snatching, unattractive midget. Whilst this is essentially a correct appraisal of my being I don’t need to be reminded of this horrible truth when I could be watching a powerful hospital-based TV drama!
Just when I thought it could get no worse I went outside for a nervous cigarette and was accosted by Nikki from Big Brother who aggressively asked me for ‘a spare fag.’ I had actually just finished my pack and so felt somewhat embarrassed at being unable to deliver – even more so when Lady Isabella Harvey calmly handed her one of her special slim ones. I began to feel like a spare prick at wedding especially as all my attempts to make polite conversation were batted off with a frosty smile. I drunkenly barged my way back into the Mayfair Hotel’s bar almost knocking over a 7ft woman who I instantly recognised as Erin O’Conner. She looked at me with such disdain that I immediately sloped off into the cold, cruel night.
Theoretically ‘fashion is all about eventually becoming naked’ but nothing I witnessed at last week’s parties had even the slightest hint of sex about them. This could be because I missed out on all the fun parties or because I’m a weird-looking goateed buffoon. Whilst both of these assertions may by correct can’t I pretend that it’s because the fashion world has about as much to do with sex as cookery mags have to do with eating? That would make watching Holby City this time next year a much easier proposition.