Today was a day of utter rejection. For the first season 125 weren’t invited to Mulberry, Vivienne Westwood, Paul Smith or Matthew Williamson. Apparently even the luxury brands are having to economise these days. We had invites to other stuff, but I was so shocked, appalled, snubbed, affronted, offended and wretched about not being invited by these four heart-breakers that I decided, like an unrequited lover, to go anyway to show them what they weren’t missing. I wanted them to tell me, to my face, with the mascara running down it, that I was not good enough for them and that it was over.
What I hadn’t bargained for was my ‘crew’ disguise and the fact that, in fashion as in life, it’s not who you know, it’s who you’ve shagged. And luckily for me (and of course for them) I’d shagged just the right person to slip me in the back door. So to speak. Granted I had to stand at the back and pretend I was a runner, but you know, I’m a cheap date and not really very fussy.
Not so the glittering crowd mincing around, looking right through me like I was Mr Cellophane. Lana Del Ray (may she rest in peace) was on the front row along with some other very famous people I recognised but can’t name. The show? Fur, leather, gold, animal prints, zigzags, Where The Wild Things Are… whatever. I’m so over it. Ok, ok, it was amazing and I’m a worm who’s going to die alone without a Mulberry handbag. Apart from the free one everyone gets at the beginning of Fashion Week. I feel so special right now.
Vivienne Westwood. Now, I thought we had a good thing going. She reminds me of my grandma. I think she’s totally a babe. We’ve been getting on so well recently. What went wrong? Well, I don’t know, but we were shunned. So I just showed up at Goldsmiths Hall with a chainsaw and went to work on the nearest tree. Before you could say, “environmental degradation” I was in. The next best thing to sex is threats. Always keep a record of your ex lover’s Achilles heel. And the show… is it just me or is the Red Label all kind of merging into one? I’m not supposed to say that right, but it’s the cash cow, while the Gold Label is where it’s at of course. A/W12 was a tad more grown-up. For God’s sake Viv, don’t grow up woman! In terms of trends, these are really beginning to filter through now; leather, metallic gold and bronze, 40s and 50s, checks and tartan, that lovely deep orange/red terracotta, sports (in the form of a ruggers shirt), and strong prints.
I was feeling a bit mean after threatening Viv so cruelly when she’s doing such sterling work, so for my next trick I asked nicely. Now Paul Smith is a true English gent and would never leave a ‘lady’ standing rejected on the street in front of a pack of fashion hounds, so I was discreetly slipped in. The back, naturally. It’s not just cos he was nice to me ok, but this collection has been one of my favourites so far. The smoking jacket print on silk robe and those staple drainpipes just took my breath away. I’m going to call this collection Sherlock-Chic. Velvet, great piping on wide-legs, there was something that reminded me of wartime Britain, but then, there was also the luxury of pre-war and the clean lines of modernity. This felt really fresh actually and was a very pleasant surprise.
Matthew Williamson brutally and cruelly rejected me outright. Neither tears nor tantrums would pierce his cold cold heart. My box of tricks was empty, I was exposed as a fraud and vagrant and decamped to the nearest pub, fashion-fucked and comforting myself that he really does have very silly hair.
Vanessa Austin Locke