Monday, May 10, 2010


Fashion Week is like an orgy. Instead of taking off your clothes, however, everyone puts on their prettiest most expensive shit and seduces one another through comments on how good they look and compliments each other on their shoes.

I found myself in the employment of a divine friend of mine Leticia, who runs her own company arranging corporate sponsorship for designers. One of two assistants, it was all about getting models to be photographed with the products of the company sponsoring the show, whispering sweet nothings to the representatives of the companies, and just generally running around screaming and yelling at others, chainsmoking furiously, and asking anyone that walked by if they knew where the fuck the Perrier was. Oh, and obviously, collecting as much free shit as possible.

Backbreaking, the days often started at 5am and finished after midnight. Incredibly, I unearthed new layers of Cunt within my own personality, most memorably the "discussion" (psychotic rant) I had with the PA of the CEO of a delivery company whom, when late with the delivery of product for a show, I threatened with a lawsuit.

You will forgive a blogger for taking a good 48 hours after the end of RAFW to wash off the sweat, soak the corns on my feet, and squeeze a solid dose of hardpartying in before blogging about the week. I would like to start with a few little comments I heard onsite to give you an idea of the verbal atmosphere:


High-Regarded Make-Up Artist Talking About Very Busy Model:

"Her walk has improved SO much since last year. She is so skinny at the moment. I FUCKING LOVE her skinny..." we all do!

Faggy Stylist Known For Wearing Womens Necklaces Talking About some Model:


Fashion Editor Whispering About Twinky Model:

"Do you know what agency that boy is with? He's beautiful. But have you seeeeeeeen him open his mouth? I't like someone drew GASHES in his mouth with a white pen...." Don't worry about whats in his mouth. Focus on whats in his pants, and how far he'll go for some editorial...

Silly Bitch Who Obviously Didn't Get the Brief That Noone Likes a Fattie at Fashion Week:

"I haven't Had A REAL meal allllll weeek" wah-wah-wah honey. The model's haven't eaten since they were 14...


As it turns out, there were very few people with any sort of original dress sense there at all. For all I know, they could of popped into Target and just bought every black garment they could find. Geniusly, a picture of myself with a couple of friends made it into the Sydney Morning Heralds story about Fashion Victim Week. It kills me that the picture isn't online so I can't show you, but heres what they wrote:

Front rows, starving models and catwalk catfights are only half the fun at Australian Fashion (Victim) Week. What is worn to the event is a tale equally as absorbing, dramatic and every so often, tragic.

With Leticia Dare, James Dykes and Shaun McGill, from hairdos to accessories, it was like Andy Warhol had been kidnapped by the Addams family.

Fashion blogger Alexander Spencer might have stepped from a crypt at Waverley cemetery. Her ghostly white skin was set off by layers of black fabric and Mongolian lambswool teamed with lingerie bottoms more like saucy harem pants. (another friend of mine)

Curator Nathan Sullivan sashayed into Fashion Week in a vintage Versace shirt, long leather coat with fox fur collar, huge velvet bow tie, denim shorts, leather brogues and a pork pie hat (yet ANOTHER friend who made it to the column!)

SO GOOD! in light of this, I've put below a few pics of what me and my friends wore whilst guzzling free booze at the Rosemount Bar and staggering to shows:

White Trash Temp Tatt by Chanel

Cool Runnings, 90's Mambo= "Eat Me Fashion Week, I'd Rather Be Punching Bongs at the Beach"

The Lezzies: Erin angelic in Dion Lee and Aleisha filthy fucking riche in Romance was Born (the two most celebrated shows of the week)

Leticia's Prada Crystal Shoes: By far the best shoes I saw all week. Whenever anyone spotted them, a crazed, hungry look flashed over their face....I want them sooo bad....

Straight from a Garage band festival to the Ksubi show....

This is what I wore to the Romance was Born show. I borrowed my headpiece from the studio, and obviously its THE BEST THING I"VE EVER WORN IN MY LIFE. As soon as I got there everyone started calling me 'AVATAR"...



A complete spectacle studded with an volcano dress, neon coloured hair extension embellesments, and gold cross bedazzled bodysuits. As always, the prints were strong as hell: most memorably an acid trip dinosaur design in every colour of the rainbow, and an endlessly elegant violin print, best used on a blazer...


Leather, Chiffon, Baby blue with either highly polished finishes or jagged edges. I know the clip is fucking rubbish, but there are pics you can see (and i think you should) on my previous post. Insanely wearable, but in no way pussy....

Those are my three picks for the week. There were a few other good show's (Ellery, Frederich Gray, Gary Bigeni (though it was verrry tame but you just know he'll sell the shit out of it and the clothes were lovely in pastelly-pretty-chika kind of a way)) Time is money babes and I can't be fucked wasting my webspace....Youtube it!

My regrets for RAFW are as follows:

1. Not spending nearly enough time at the Rosemount Bar: next year homey's gonna be there from open to close I PROMISE
2. Forgetting to follow Jenny Key home and become her adopted son
3. Not running down the catwalk naked at Kate Sylvester to wake everyone in the audience up (sooo boooringgg)
4. Eating
5. Forgetting to go down to Circular Quay and giving my backstage pass to a homeless wino

Now if I may, I'm gonna take my sorry fashioned-out carcass of a body to bed and prepare for the realities of the real world. A place where not everyone is 6 foot 4 and you have to pay for skincare, drinks, and sushi....


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