Someone has to tell the Truth about Fashion
I write this still exhausted from the assault course that was London Fashion Week. And I do mean assault: the male bouncers at Vivienne Westwood shouted at me, and pushed and grabbed me. Promised a night of ‘dancing and cocktails’ by Stella McCartney, instead I was humiliated in a pen, some several hundred feet above the action.
While committed fur-wearer Anna Wintour was seated on Stella’s right at the six-course dinner, I – an animal rights activist for 30 years, and a huge fan of Stella’s work and ethics (she refuses to use leather) – was given a couple of almonds to chew on, unable to see the clothes. I had to smile at the irony, though, after my scathing review was published and I was couriered a fabulous gift of perfume, shower gel, body lotion and chocolates (vegan, hopefully), and a handwritten note from Stella herself. Was this an apology? Or a bribe so I would play nicely next time?
On Monday, I was called by Sir Philip Green, the boss of Arcadia. He told me he enjoyed my review of London Fashion Week, most particularly of his Topshop show, so much that he had instructed his assistant to bike me the olive greatcoat I’d liked so much.
‘Ooh, goodie,’ I said. But he went on to say that he’d immediately cancelled the order when he reached the last paragraph of my piece, which revealed how, every time Sir Philip sees me at one of his catwalk shows, he asks, without fail: ‘Who let you in?’
Like a trend, you can be in one minute and a snow-washed denim pariah the next.
When I read all the other reviews of the McCartney love-in, I felt as if I was living in a parallel universe. ‘I was in the queue for the loo with Kate Moss!’ gushed one grown woman.
This is an example of why you can never dignify a person who writes about fashion or edits a glossy with the epithet of journalist – and most certainly can never utter their name in the same sentence as that of someone like Marie Colvin, the murdered war reporter.
While committed fur-wearer Anna Wintour was seated on Stella’s right at the six-course dinner, I – an animal rights activist for 30 years, and a huge fan of Stella’s work and ethics (she refuses to use leather) – was given a couple of almonds to chew on, unable to see the clothes. I had to smile at the irony, though, after my scathing review was published and I was couriered a fabulous gift of perfume, shower gel, body lotion and chocolates (vegan, hopefully), and a handwritten note from Stella herself. Was this an apology? Or a bribe so I would play nicely next time?
On Monday, I was called by Sir Philip Green, the boss of Arcadia. He told me he enjoyed my review of London Fashion Week, most particularly of his Topshop show, so much that he had instructed his assistant to bike me the olive greatcoat I’d liked so much.
‘Ooh, goodie,’ I said. But he went on to say that he’d immediately cancelled the order when he reached the last paragraph of my piece, which revealed how, every time Sir Philip sees me at one of his catwalk shows, he asks, without fail: ‘Who let you in?’
Like a trend, you can be in one minute and a snow-washed denim pariah the next.
When I read all the other reviews of the McCartney love-in, I felt as if I was living in a parallel universe. ‘I was in the queue for the loo with Kate Moss!’ gushed one grown woman.
This is an example of why you can never dignify a person who writes about fashion or edits a glossy with the epithet of journalist – and most certainly can never utter their name in the same sentence as that of someone like Marie Colvin, the murdered war reporter.
