When I'd been to fashion shows before, afterwards everyone usually rushes off to the next one, and only the people who work for the company usually stay on, plus any liggers who don't have anymore tickets.
Julien's was the last show of the week, before the whole freak show started again a few days later in New York, so it was quite a busy party to say the least.
I was wandering around chatting to people, sipping [necking] the drinks that were being passed around freely. Some of the people I recognised, Anna Wintour, editor of American Vogue, Suzy Menkes with the big rolled bouffant, of the International Herald Tribune, and of course lots of models.
Naomi Campbell who was stood there by herself, she smiled sweetly and came across and said hello. I had a friend Rachel, who had to dress her for a Liza Bruce show in New York, who said she was an absolute cow, and treated her like dirt. But hey ho, I take people as I find them, she was being nice to me, it may have been an act, but I'd give her a chance.
The party was in a steel theatre with a balcony, a bit like in the film The Hunger, running all the way around, looking down on to a packed dance floor, with the tunes being banged out by Lisa Lashes.
Julien eventually came into the place to great applause, and people wanting to congratulate him on a fantastic show.
Intermission:-
I feel I need here to say what I think about fashion.
It's not a cure for cancer. It's frivolous and frothy and silly. However, it is the fifth biggest industry in the UK. I enjoy it as a I would a piece of theatre. If you think about it, people, who'd travelled from all over the world, applauding a frock on the back of an emaciated young girl is quite surreal. I enjoy it though, and have no trouble with the fact that one of these dresses would cost more than a man in a third world country would earn in a life time, sadly thats the world we live in.
Back to the party. Julien made his way through the throng like a little sun God, accepting homage along the way. He made his way over, and we laughed and hugged. I whispered in his ear in a perfect Welsh accent,
'Oh, you made some lovely frocks to show 'em Nerys.'
He laughed, and said we should come to the real party behind the scenes, so myself and Ms. Campbell joined the conga line behind him and headed off backstage.
The next bit is censored, but I will just say it's not just cigarettes that keep models unaturally slim.
Eventually the party finished at two o'clock, for the cleaners to get the place ready for the hunderds of thousands of people who would be arriving the next morning at the Millenium Dome, [joking.]
Stood in the middle of no mans land, with hundreds of other people on a cold Febuary night suddenly seemed less appealing. There were two queues, one for a taxi rank, which seemed to be served by one cab, and that had a line of people waiting with no end to it, and the other offical London Fashion Week car stop, which was mainly for the press and buyers.
I'd spent most of the night with Ms. Campbell and we'd decided to share a cab back to south London. She told me to stick close by. She marched to the front of the offical line, and when some American buyers tried to get in the next car she manhandled them out, and gave one woman a sort of push/slap that dared to answer back, and started screaming like a Banshee at them that this was our car. It worked, and we enjoyed our free ride back to south London courtesy of London Fashion Week cars. Her mood had changed quicker than she can change an outfit, but then switched back, and we giggled all the way back home, me guiltily.
There are lots of other stories re: fashion shows, and I'm sure I'll probably write them down, when other inspiration eludes me.
Julien's was the last show of the week, before the whole freak show started again a few days later in New York, so it was quite a busy party to say the least.
I was wandering around chatting to people, sipping [necking] the drinks that were being passed around freely. Some of the people I recognised, Anna Wintour, editor of American Vogue, Suzy Menkes with the big rolled bouffant, of the International Herald Tribune, and of course lots of models.
Naomi Campbell who was stood there by herself, she smiled sweetly and came across and said hello. I had a friend Rachel, who had to dress her for a Liza Bruce show in New York, who said she was an absolute cow, and treated her like dirt. But hey ho, I take people as I find them, she was being nice to me, it may have been an act, but I'd give her a chance.
The party was in a steel theatre with a balcony, a bit like in the film The Hunger, running all the way around, looking down on to a packed dance floor, with the tunes being banged out by Lisa Lashes.
Julien eventually came into the place to great applause, and people wanting to congratulate him on a fantastic show.
Intermission:-
I feel I need here to say what I think about fashion.
It's not a cure for cancer. It's frivolous and frothy and silly. However, it is the fifth biggest industry in the UK. I enjoy it as a I would a piece of theatre. If you think about it, people, who'd travelled from all over the world, applauding a frock on the back of an emaciated young girl is quite surreal. I enjoy it though, and have no trouble with the fact that one of these dresses would cost more than a man in a third world country would earn in a life time, sadly thats the world we live in.
Back to the party. Julien made his way through the throng like a little sun God, accepting homage along the way. He made his way over, and we laughed and hugged. I whispered in his ear in a perfect Welsh accent,
'Oh, you made some lovely frocks to show 'em Nerys.'
He laughed, and said we should come to the real party behind the scenes, so myself and Ms. Campbell joined the conga line behind him and headed off backstage.
The next bit is censored, but I will just say it's not just cigarettes that keep models unaturally slim.
Eventually the party finished at two o'clock, for the cleaners to get the place ready for the hunderds of thousands of people who would be arriving the next morning at the Millenium Dome, [joking.]
Stood in the middle of no mans land, with hundreds of other people on a cold Febuary night suddenly seemed less appealing. There were two queues, one for a taxi rank, which seemed to be served by one cab, and that had a line of people waiting with no end to it, and the other offical London Fashion Week car stop, which was mainly for the press and buyers.
I'd spent most of the night with Ms. Campbell and we'd decided to share a cab back to south London. She told me to stick close by. She marched to the front of the offical line, and when some American buyers tried to get in the next car she manhandled them out, and gave one woman a sort of push/slap that dared to answer back, and started screaming like a Banshee at them that this was our car. It worked, and we enjoyed our free ride back to south London courtesy of London Fashion Week cars. Her mood had changed quicker than she can change an outfit, but then switched back, and we giggled all the way back home, me guiltily.
There are lots of other stories re: fashion shows, and I'm sure I'll probably write them down, when other inspiration eludes me.
