So last night London Fashion Week “launched” with a much-hyped party at Battersea Power Station.
Male underwear models + an abstract edgy venue + free bar + a performance from Robyn = AMAZING. Right?
We arrive at Battersea Power station as instructed, only to be told that the party actually starts at 8, not 7 like it said on the invite. This wasn’t their fault, the PR girls were quite adamant on letting us know whilst listlessly stroking their iPads, dubious manicures a-go-go.
A crowd of cold hungry sober media personae started to gather outside... A fifty-five year-old magazine editor starts to wonder what the fuck she is doing in SW8.
Four feckless heater lamps were installed. People didn’t mind waiting an hour though because there were lots of cute little bars and bistros dotted around so we could just hang out in those for a bit... oh no wait .. there weren’t actually... BECAUSE WE WERE STANDING OUTSIDE BATTERSEA FUCKING POWER STATION.
"Punctuality in PR is essential. If the invite says 7pm and journalists turn up at 7pm and you've made them travel to Battersea then you let them in at 7pm and handle the situation from there or you hand them a fucking drink. Isn't that just common sense? Like in journalism if you have a deadline and your article isn't ready then you drop everything and finish it, what you don't do is say "Well, I know I originally said it would be ready, but it's not quite ready, so can you like just print a blank page this month or make the pictures bigger and I'll maybe finish it later?" " - is not the kind of small-talk you want to hear at the beginning of your event.
A more successful PR move would have been scratching Bjorn Borg's name onto a plastic bucket and kicking it in the Thames.
So... Journalists started mingling with staff from other PR companies, complimenting each other’s winter coats. Journalists started saying how they weren’t going to write about this event now, even if it was really good, because they resented being made to wait in the cold, whilst older PR people gave a whispered commentary on how embarrassing the situation was for Bjorn Borg, as if he's sat at home watching us on CCTV, and that this is why the PR industry shouldn't be 50% staffed by sense-illiterate interns who steal toilet roll from work.
Still waiting. No drinks. More people. A lady from a national newspaper left because she needed a piss. She was probably one of only ten guests who had genuine and influential editorial content at her finger tips, but not to worry - someone from Made In Chelsea is going to show up!
Finally we were let in. Just when we thought our Thursday night was going to be dancing to the sound of our own teeth chattering in a gravel yard connected to a giant dump.
We're inside and the music is good! Whoever organised the overture playlist was a genius, it instantly put everyone in a better mood, I’m talking golden oldies by Kelis, Eve and Adina Howard. Although to be honest, just having electricity and basic amenities was a joy.
I had my first sip of a drink since lunch. Possibly the longest period of sobriety this year. The free bar sprang into action, better late than never, but was disappointingly staffed by people wearing all of their clothes. But who cares – we’re drinking.
It occurs to me that this event may as well not be in Battersea Power station.
We’re in a marquee inside the power station and it could basically be anywhere, like my Auntie Patty's wedding in Guildford or a 16th birthday party on cable television. The “Swedish forest” that some of the advanced press coverage picked up on is just a few plastic department store esque Christmas trees that you can’t even appreciate because the smoke machine is on top notch like it’s 6pm at a mid 90s school disco. The PR strategy seems to be "If we put enough exclamation marks on Facebook tomorrow and keep serving wine - nobody will notice". That would have been the case if I wasn't intensely sobered by the fact that Robyn.. oh no wait... read on...
Food arrives and is really good. Oysters, meatballs, cured meats, sashimi. The food was the best part of the event, but we didn’t know that then or appreciate it enough at the time because we still thought that Robyn was going to... oh no wait.. read on....
Models in pants begin to appear. Girl models in Bjorg Born pants start staging extrovertly contrived pillow fights and jumping on wooden benches. Call me old fashioned, but if I was a straight girl, I would choose to wear nice lovely delicate, possibly ornate, knickers - not block-colour glow in the dark boxer shorts.
The male models wore two pairs of pants, one on top of the other, instantly ruining the sex appeal for gay members of the media, who were everywhere. As one gay journalist told me: “It’s not like I’m going to pull a model’s pants down at an event is it? Why are they being so lame? I want to see some cock definition”, to which another guest replied “Yeah but Caroline Flack’s here”.
I had my photograph taken with two models. The one on the left is called Luke Worrall. Before this photo was taken a woman told me: “At the peak of his career he was dating Kelly Osbourne and was a muse for blar blar blar blar at i-D magazine”
During the taking of this photo I am thinking the following. 1) How did this rock-hard little boy end up dating Kelly Osbourne? 2) How much money was he paid to do this event? 3) Isn’t it tragic that someone said “At the peak of his career”? 4) What will Luke be doing in twenty years time – maybe we could live in a seaside village together and do jigsaw puzzles and take drugs?
He’s actually quite hot, but would look hotter in ANY OTHER PAIR OF PANTS IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I’m not just being a bitch am I? These pants are pretty bad right? Also – do the eyebrows come with that bikini? Don’t get me wrong, I like Bjorn Borg pants, but this pair aren’t cutting it baby.
But yeah, Luke is hot in real life as well as in editorial. Also - this is only the fifth ever photo of me to appear on my blog, that's one photo of me per year, and I look a bit ropey in it too - so I hope you appreciate this if you're reading Luke. I'm imagining Luke Worrall naked in a fashion designer's bed now, conducting a 24hr Google search of himself on his laptop, reading my blog, with Tetris and the Student Loans Company open in other tabs. So Bret Easton Ellis.
In the background you can see the sauna-style seating. It’s Swedish – get it? Things can also fall down it.
Some kind of world exclusive film happens on the outside side of the building, but of course we’re all inside the building. I don’t get the excitement behind “world exclusives” anyway. I think archive footage is far more interesting, like this. Bjorn Borg is a hot retro tennis player who flogs pants to gays now, I like that and would rather indulge in his impressive back-story rather than kid myself that there’s a connection between the piece of fabric around my cock and the future of fashion - this is why I can't work in fashion.
Some people from Laid In Chelsea turn up which keeps girls at the event amused for approximately twelve minutes. Gays take the opportunity to rape the bar or go for a cigarette. If the cast of Gimme, Gimme, Gimme turned up - we'd have been there.
Finally Robyn comes onstage. This is the moment everyone has been waiting for. Everyone knows it is the most important segment of the evening, which is why this guy starts filming it without even looking at it:
Does he realise that he is living his ONE LIFE on this planet RIGHT NOW and that there’s no playback in heaven? Stop filming and start fucking looking!
So anyway, we’re all thrilled to see a butch little Robyn come onstage with her effortlessly unbeatably cool hair, but then in a horrid twist.....
SHE DOESN’T SING ANY ROBYN SONGS!
NO CALL YOUR GIRLFRIEND. NO HANG WITH ME. NO DREAM ON. NO WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT. NO NEVER BE MINE. NO FUCKING ANYTHING!
All Robyn does is sing an acoustic heavily edited version of Indestructible and then sing two or possibly three random downer rock songs with Coco Sumnothing.
Coco Sumner is basically Sting’s daughter (younger readers: Sting is a retired popstar who used to be The Police who sang Message In The Bottle), and she has this little band called “I Blame Coco” and everyone in the London fashion world seems to think that she’s actually a popstar, happily overlooking the fact that nobody can name any of her songs, no gay bars play any of her songs and nobody could pick her out from an identify line-up of 3 random girls that you met on the Tube. Girls at boarding schools in Kent share I Blame Coco videos on their Facebook walls, one woman in Chichester once mentioned Coco Sumner on her Pinterest page, and that’s about the extent of it...
Meanwhile, Rob fucking Yn is on the stage and she's not even singing any of her songs!
I blame Coco indeed.
Then, almost as an apology to the crowd of disappointed gays who are swearing they'll never wear Bjorn Borg pants again unless they're free or a one-night-stand leaves them behind, Jodie Harsh appears and starts DJ'ing a compensation playlist of hot gay dance.
Drunkenly I suspected that this horrifying actuality of Robyn not singing any Robyn was because Robyn was annoyed with someone organising the event, and so I tweeted Bjorn Borg because his Twitter address was plastered in black gloss over all of the walls - which is definitely a mistake at a free-bar media event.
Bjorn Borg’s Twitter then replied saying this:
I don’t know who tweets from Bjorn Borg but why on earth would they reply to me – a drunken lame gay man complaining at a free event which is actually pretty fun – on Twitter, thereby drawing the attention of Bjorn Borg followers onto me, and subsequently my tweets about waiting in the cold outside their erroneous party and other bitchy riff raff? There must be SOMETHING happening in Sweden they can tweet about? And even worse - they CC Robyn into the tweet, like the kid who does Robyn's Twitter from an improvised bedsit in Stockholm gives a fucking shit.
At 2.30 this afternoon I am still at the top of Bjorn Borg’s twitter page. Madness.
So, needless to say, before the sheer tragedy set in of seeing Robyn on a stage here in London and not getting to hear or dance to even one of the many fantastic songs in her impeccable songbook, we left and went out in Vauxhall, where lots of proper Robyn was played.
On the way out I saw this guy and took this photo of him on my telephone:
He’s at EVERYTHING but I don’t get what he does. He was even at a random Austin Reed event last year where we got free socks. And when I say he’s at everything, that’s not a good thing, because I’m a complete nobody and I get invited to the same things. People who are really relevent don't actually go to things, unless it's like a Royal Wedding or a tea dance at Davina McCall's house.
Also, being interviewed by someone who is a lot hotter than you is not a good look. Unless your fame has nothing to do with style. Nor is looking like a joke character from The Mighty Boosh a good look.
Can I also just put it into words once more how hot that interviewer guy is. HE’S SO FUCKING HOT! There, that felt good.
Finally, I didn’t see Diana Vickers last night - which is a first. Maybe something good was on telly?
Check out Bjorn Borg's hot new glow in the dark pants here: BJORN BORG'S HOT NEW GLOW IN THE DARK PANTS. And then let's finish on some I Blame Coco, oh no wait - I can't think of any of her songs. Well here's Robyn instead...