Tuesday, 21 February 2012

SNIPPETS, INTIMATIONS & WWFW - LFW DAIRY (resentment and tenderness)

So no I am not at London Fashion Week.  Not physically.  Vacuuming requires the presence of my body.  As does receiving grocery deliveries (with open arms!  My biscuits arrived, which is just as well as they are the only reason I am still up at this hour with a smile on my face, despite knowing that I will have to get up at various ungodly hours to tend to the children and then be expected to make non-alcoholic non-pub merry with them and ferry them around to their various social engagements all day tomorrow!!) But I am at LFW in spirit.  With bells on.  One needs bells to indicate ones presence if one is but a lowly ashen assistant at 'lorem ipsum'.

How I miss freezing my butt off in the rejects 'standing only' ticket queue.  How I still crave to be ignored, pushed and shoved and publicly humiliated because I wasn't a Vogue-or Ellenette.  How I regularly reminisce about standing in line like a second rate citizen waiting for my food rations whilst the chosen ones marched on past casting tut-tutting looks at us, the dreadful and bedrizzled (the weather usually didn't take kindly to our existence either) wannabees.  And the evils a tall, skinny and well put together young woman could attract whilst suffering the ordeal like a good little girl!  God forbid if that woman was then wearing a good outfit too, especially if she looked fresh faced and dewy eyed, not like she had been up all night agonising if those shoes really do work with that colour underpant, because people, that is how bad it is at fashion week.  Sometimes the bags under the eyes of the show goer were more formidable than those hanging off the arms, which is really saying something.  It is a time when credit cards are bruised and battered to within an inch of their limit in a bid to coax out the brave inner self from its lair and face another day of scrutiny.  Not getting it absolutely right is a chink in your armour and leaves you open to ridicule, which must to be avoided at all cost. We were like cash cows ready fo the milking and then to the slaughter.

The convergence of the world's fashion drones messes with every participant's mind.  Insecurity is rife.  Everyone wants to be queen bee.  Only giving a little shit, like a poppet sized one, really seemed to have adverse affects.  The obsessives don't quite know how to take it and nor do they appreciate it.  Fashion is SERIOUS business.  The world and its affairs stops during fashion week month, while they all take a massive dump together on the compost heap that is fashion.  Sadly, for some in the industry, the world at large just doesn't feature.  They are not interested in the plight of the earth or anything on it apart from shopping and preening.  If it was socially acceptable, these addicts would wear blinkers.  With studs for extra protection.

This is the bit where I tell you how pious I am when it comes to giving a damn beyond the realm of air kisses, though these didn't really happen in my experience, but seeing as they have become synonymous with the industry, hell, who am I refute the clique cliché.  In fashion terms, ladies and gents, I am practically followed around by a halo.  Years from now I may well be beatified.  Or beaten more likely.  I did do my last season, for the time being anyway, wearing the same Tshirt every single day.  Without washing it.  Unheard of!  I'm surprised men in white Balmain jackets with gold zip-and-buckle detail a la Michael Jackson didn't carry me off to the loony bin.  Reason for by insubordination?  My rebellious streak could no longer be contained and quashed after The Powers That Be (in charge that is) forced me to brush my hair post soul searching in India, where I had carefully collected precious particles of myself along the way so I could figure out who the hell this person who didn't want to brush their hair in the first place actually was.  It also contained Indian matter, which I wanted to take out, look at, savour and stroke whenever I fancied it, forever.  I mean, come on!  I had been warned about the establishment forcing me to cut my hair by Crosby, Stills and Nash, but brush it?  Surely The Powers That Be could have passed me off as pro-grunge to their peers if they were embarrassed about still employing me in this state of disrepair?!  I guess The Powers That Be thought the gap between grunge take 1 and grunge take 2 was too small?  Had it occurred this year, I would have been reverred for my stylistic prowess!  I just peaked four years too early to get away with it.

Back to the tee.  I had been reading up on Burma and Total oil and talked to a few Burmese protesters outside the tall and anonymous Total building on Cavendish Square on my morning walk into Soho.  I couldn't get my head round shoes and bags or even jackets, and everyone knows those are my ting, whilst holding this hot potato on a frosty morning in February.  I went to American Apparel, purchased a sloppy grey long sleeve jersey tee and took it to the printers round the corner.  When I picked it up the next day it read:

             TOTALLY IMMORAL 
              Total Out Of Burma Now  

in big red letters.  I was ready to hit the shows.  I used to get photographed  fair bit by fashion scouts from Elle, Vogue etc and of course Japanese fashion students reporting on the coming and goings of the fasion crew.  I was clearly dynamic!  But that week, barely a vegetarian sausage! The buggers steered clear the one bloody time I wanted to be snapped,  When a scout did ask to take my pic, she was only interested in my shoes.  So here is what I wanted to say to all of you back then:

Yo!  London Fashion Weekers!  Lick my art tit!

But, despite everything, I am an ex Catholic and therefore a sucker for punishment.  Please please, I long to be whipped.  May I come hang in future and worship at the altar of flippy skirts?  I'll try to stick to slogans like: 'Juicy Loves You' and Bella Freud's 'Ginsberg is God' and 'I Love Shoes, Boys and Bags'.  And possibly a vintage pre approved Katherine Hamnett 'Save the World'.  Unless that's a Tshirt to far?  Or I will rock up in Slash.  Yes!!  This is what I would have worn today had I not been busy vacuuming instead, because clearly I was £100Ker and would have no qualms about frittering every penny in the pursuit of shoppiness to mask the bitter taste

Blazer, £225, (Herr) Karl (Lagerfeld) at Net a Porter
Tshirt, £46.98, Chaser at Luisaviaroma.com
Sequin skirt, £2,715 Lanvin at Net a Porter
Cobalt heels, £667.95, Jimmy (ha)Choo at Saks Fifth Avenue
Clutch, $1,370, Givenchy at Barneys NY

'In the Mood for Love' Earrings, £400, Erickson Beamon at Net a Porter
Skull ring, £715, Ileana Makri at Net a Porter

 Bunny coin bracelet, £123, Becca at EC One





Who the hell are WMG and how dare they disrupt your viewing pleasure by blocking this CS&N vid on my blog?  I don't know who they are and they sure as don't know who I am, but please oblige both me and WMG by clicking through to the YouToob and enjoy

Resurgam et Perdurabo

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