Kids

Ooh, those young kids and their crazy fashion. Or actually, is it quite so crazy?

Think Fifties and images of Natalie Wood and James Dean will crop up. The white tee with leather jacket is a look much respected today but think back and it was shocking, revolutionary. The tremors running through Peyton Place were measured via the ripples on the blancmange.

The James Dean look moved onto a certain Mr Presley, and daughters were locked away from the aggressive lothario whose songs referenced the tough nuts of the jailhouse and how the kids rocked. Mr Presley evolved, rock'n'roll became the youth culture and the many artists cemented the new generation of society. And let's not forget our own Cliff Richard; he may be the butt of many jokes but he was very cool to kids left of the pond. And the next time you watch Summer Holiday check the wardrobe, its damn good!

Newsflash, The Beatles arrived. Sharp suits and polished shoes brought the kids back to Savile Row – well, the Burton suit – and suddenly, if not emulating one of the Fab Four, it was being cocky to Miss Moneypenny. This was of course if you were clean cut and wanting to be respected by the parents – go on and be the bad kid, the black sheep, and gyrate the hips and unhinge the jaws like Mick Jagger. Rock'n'roll was growing, the cutesy cute of Californian surfers was far too twee and alien to the grey shores of the English Riviera. The Who and The Kinks, The Small Faces and Procol Harum sounded of the streets, of the Kings Rd. Granny went on a trip and she was joined on the ride. Chelsea girls and Chelsea boots strutted down Carnaby.

Hold on – a certain festival was soon to occur with a soundtrack of Hendrix and Joplin, and love was to be felt. Placating the parents was now no longer a concern; being the black sheep was too square, let's just be in love! Daisy chains, in all varieties, even the once respectable Beatles were in love; weed saturated afghan coats and beads, shaggy hair and experimental guitar riffs abounded. It laid the path for Ziggy and Bolan, creatives that were challenging then and still are now. Roxy Music took us to Virginia Plain and we flew to Rio, discovered life on mars and rode the white swan with glittered eyes and an androgynous wardrobe.

We shall here try to forget the tartan army of the Bay City Rollers, or the beaming smiles of the Osmonds (however, what a tune was ‘Crazy Horses’). Teenagers were experimental like never before, beautiful and glamorous, prepping themselves for the truest onslaught of shock and disturbance.

Malcolm McLaren came back from New York, enlisted the raw talents of angry musicians and punk broke forth. Inspired by The Ramones and the New York origins of punk, London beat the drum loudest and angriest. The Sex Pistols had the kids swapping the glitter for safety pins, makeup for hair gel and colour for black. It was a scene to change youth culture like nothing before. Punk to post punk, the new wave was just as loud and its creativity was in abundance. The aesthetic may have calmed, well in England anyway but the music maintained a strong, youthful voice.

New York saw the rise of Talking Heads, B-52s and Klaus Nomi to mention a few, whose music matched their amazing aesthetic to an extent of otherworldly dimensions. None more so than dearest Nomi, whose talent is much missed since his all too young death from that dreadful disease which saw the loss of too many creatives who gave so much in their shortened years.

The eighties saw various styles and scenes amongst the kids. John Hughes' view was polite but fun and in its own way subversive. Two Tone was sending people in droves to the mirror in the bathroom as they sent a message to their dearest Rudy. Bowery was kicking up a storm in Soho, him with his fellow gender benders blitzing through the capital and making everything all Kinky and Gerlinky. No one was fading to grey as the chameleons found their karma. Bowery too followed McLaren across the ocean and joined the equally outrageous Alig.

The club kids of Club 2000 partied in the limelight of lorries driving through the streets of the city, never losing a piece of their costume, though I'm sure many brain cells were lost from the excessive amount of drugs coursing through their painted and corseted bodies.

The more accessible scene of the Haçienda had kids all over the country flocking to Manchester to party happily, ecstasy aided, till the wee hours, acid smiles to match the ones on their faces. Manchester became the music powerhouse under the wing of Factory Records. Youth had never been so financially viable.

The 90s saw the loss of colour and glamour to youth culture. The lad and ladette scene turned a scornful eye on the flamboyant and wielded a nasty tongue which flicked acid, such a shame as it drew heavily on the early sound of the 60's. Soon came the Noughties and a re-emergence of the beautiful happened. New Rave hosted by Boombox, the Studio 54 of the Noughties and golly, the characters returned. The streets of London were awash with the bizarre and beautiful; it became alive because freedom returned. London Fashion Week hadn't been so popular since the debut of Westwood and Bodymap on its catwalks.

Pugh, Schwab, Kane, Tough, Goldin and Giles paraded designs as renegade as their predecessors, Galliano, Westwood, McQueen and Howell. But then the box stopped booming.

And it has not boomed since. A short moment of ponies stepping to a canter beat was enjoyed but it wasn't maintained. The catwalks lost their splendour, the streets held no sashaying aesthetes and M.I.A. joined forces with Timbaland. Youth ingenuity has slowed to a deathly plod, It’s the few now who remain and maintain the powder and patches of the 20th/21st century.

It had been diminishing over the years but has now been relegated to a novelty rather than a wonderment to behold and experience. It’s a fruit pastille when it was the gateaux.  The return of conformity has rung the death peel of the once amazing kid.

Walk the streets of the east and see a bevvy of the acne monsters spouting vile words at the few who choose to embrace the glitter of Bowie. Hear them scoff at the ones whose adoration of the new romantics borders on imitation and watch their fingers point like weapons at those who will never forget the genius of dear Leigh.

The kids are no longer crazy, in their mad clothing and listening to alternative beats. With desperate hoping I shall wait to see if it will awaken and we shall be treated to a sight of the bizarre beauties that only the young can concoct.

Symphony

I shan't lie to you; I'm a single male, with a dog and a stack of books. I wish bad upon couples, I spit at them, cut an eye at them, snort my derision at them, hate myself a little when around them.


They are the Mozart to my Salieri.

With dreams of being the wanted ideal I spent adolescence praying to gods of couture and when the blessed day of financial independence came, days were spent in attendance at the houses of worship on Oxford, Regent and Bond Streets. The blunt knowing that I was no Adonis had me desperate to become beautiful; the instruments of clothes were at my disposal. 


I studied fashion literature with such veracity that the ensuing melody came in experimental forms, new genres, new beats, new orchestrations, but again, these left me out in the cold. So to the mind I went, from couture to literature. 

Books had been ever a constant. A childhood was spent with words, suckled and weaned with newspapers, toddling with tales, scribbling at puzzles and babbling over dictionaries. Books had lined my walls and carpeted the floor where I trod and because of such, it had been taken with total ignorance as to their importance. 


So when realising my strongest asset was the mind – for my aesthetic was failure – books in every form became what I idolised. Never forgetting my original devotion to gods of couture, I became polytheistic with my prayers. It was all desperation, to be sought after, to be found attractive. Rather than creating music I read it and wrote it and imagined it. Heard the strings, the brass, the percussion, knowing how to utilise them instead of the actual performing.


Little did I know that being a blue stocking was also to lead one on a path to deeper isolation. Seeing around me people partnering, falling and being hopelessly in love rendered me hopeless. I, the one with the closet of clothes and the library of books, a mind saturated with knowledge and information, was sitting alone amongst a throng of the unread and unknowing.  So I plotted and schemed ways to show my hatred of them all. Perfecting the evil eye, summoning curses so they too would become as dreadfully alone as me.


My aesthetic orchestration was no longer seen, creating raised eyebrows and curled lips; it was simply overlooked by sexual beings.  Here was my lacking, a serious lacking of person. I simply am not a sexualised being. Whatever sex I had experienced had been one of convenience, a convenience to the other person. When no one was around, then I could be seen.


No longer wanting to be seen by any kind, I hid away amongst the books and clothes. No more music was to be made – a life of silence and isolation was to be mine. With evil in my heart I ventured out to work and executed daily chores, trying desperately to ignore those around me sporting a loved one on their arm, hands holding another hand made my heart burn with vicious fire. 


However, what the heart wants, the heart tries to attain. I could not maintain this anger; it was ruining the mind of wondrous knowledge I had gained. No more pleasure at the music I heard, only the war drums of loathing. And I wanted to hear the concertos, the operas and minuets so beautiful in sound and aesthetic.


I try now to be content with my solitary existence, praising those who find love, living my own love through theirs. The pain it creates is brutal and scarring; it jars the mind upon every occurrence but I bear it with the greatest equanimity one can muster and dab the iodine over the lacerations, repeating the arias in my head to soothe the ache being felt as I see lips meet and hands grasp each other.

To return home to the books and the clothes, my unsexual body is swathed in cottons, cashmeres and silks, no longer having to see its deformity. Building the mind with new information, theories, settings and vocabulary, I find love using the instruments only known and ever trusted.

Molly

Stop the press, grab the rail, clench your teeth! I had never seen Pretty in Pink. Though being a mad fan of Ferris Bueller and Weird Science – God, Kelly LeBrock was hot – I had never seen a Molly Ringwald film.

Teen romance, often the cause of many a smile and scoff and snort of derision, was put before me in a wonderful, beautiful form where I could not but smile.

In a strange way, having not seen Jon Cryer's amazing wardrobe I was amazed at how, when at a young 18-19, I had donned the brooches and rings of Duckie – not the Duckies shoes, mind – but the jackets and plaid trousers had been a favourite, all without the film reference. We are twinned souls, and like Duckie I too now find myself helplessly infatuated with a friend whose affections are focused away from me.

Molly was a divinity. The so-called crazy girl from under the rocks of fashionable society is fashion. A vision of post-punk, making her own clothes because she can't afford off-the-peg, her finale prom dress bettered the $650 draped ghastliness. Her red curls and full lips would leave anyone with a discerning eye broken-hearted. Andrew McCarthy may have had the eye, but what a pain in the neck – snooze!


The rock I dwell under with my fellow leftfielders is a tight habitat foisted upon us by the conformist minds who consider us to be a protozoan commune deserving of ridicule and abuse. But we have hearts and souls, and most importantly, dreams. Watching Molly crudely drawing, then tearing, snipping and sewing because of her tenacious wish to prove her worth reminded me of those days when I had to keep on keeping on being who I was. And thank God I did, because I got somewhere. One can't helping wondering if James Spader's character made it or simply lived off his daddy's money, drinking and drugging his way through life until it sent him to the Betty Ford Clinic. The cliché has me vomiting.

On the whole, modernity has seen the loss of the punk, the young person who dreams and strives to be themselves. The entrepreneur is growing and flourishing – well, at least amongst my circle – but the punk is different. We don't try, we are. Emancipated from bank loans, with £10 we create. Troubleshooting with ingenuity and imagination results in truly wonderful creations.

Molly looked resplendent in her homemade pink dress, pretty in pink, as did the punks of 70's London, the post punk art of 80s New York and the music of Manchester. Their effect is with us; Basquiat and Haring can be seen everywhere; Joy Division and New Order permeate through music today and still garner respect and awe from young kids new to their talents.

I want to channel Duckie's determination with my own "Andi"; perhaps I can perform to Otis Redding and show my energy winning over the one I want so badly. Molly's tenacity and self respect is a lesson to us all and one I shall be definitely taking to heart; perhaps then I too can win over the one I want, who too considers me to be from the wrong side of the tracks. However, if all else fails, I assure you I will not be sitting in the rain crying. Imagine the damage to my new creation.


After watching, it had me rummaging in my library for a poem, a John Clare. " The heedless mind may laugh, the clown may stare. They own no soul to look for pleasure there. Their grosser feelings in a coarser dress." Such words are a motto for the punk, they are what motivate us, they are a reminder of how lucky we are to be able to open our minds and see the different, to actually own a soul that looks for pleasure and owns wisdom. Without it we would be just another hater who must purchase and consume to be accepted.

We accept ourselves, I accept myself, and hope desperately that I too will be accepted by "Andi". I won't be wearing pink, that is a definite but perhaps the Duckies will be the tipping balance. Without fail I shall be digging out my old brooches and rings, adorning them with memories and hoping they refresh my determined spirit. But damn the thinning hair; no kiss curl, I'm afraid.

Cardies

Did you know a revolution is occurring? It’s outspoken and renegade, punk in its truest form. It is individual yet collective, emotion-based and with its own particular uniform.


Singleness. Not chosen singleness but singleness by default. Being part of this revolution, a newcomer but already a very committed revolutionary, we live quietly, unheard, often unseen but existing and spreading our declaration in quiet, passive-aggressive pamphlets. An underground scene, we recognise fellow revolutionaries by a certain item of clothing, a common garment but with a certain identifying mark.


We wear cardies on a regular basis in varying shades of drab – greige, creams and ecrus, browns and charcoals. It is an item of highly particular distinction. 


First of all it’s not a cardigan, it’s a pristine item preferably in cashmere or merino, fitted and in rich colours worn for nice events and purchased for fashion or style. A cardy is bought either in Marks' or a charity shop (never vintage which again elevates to cardigan status via the price tag); if once an old relative’s and hand knitted, so much the better – this is for the Robespierre of revolutionaries.


A cardy is worn at all times despite whatever weather experienced, hot or cold, worn with various layers, misshapen, bobbled and stained. There should always be a dribble of egg or coffee on the front; for those truly alone, a cigarette burn on the sleeve. Crumbs will inevitably be found within the knit, hobnobs or digestive or shortcake; for suburban dwellers ever lemon puffs. A lingering aroma of fried bacon, eggs and chips permeates the garment and yourself and the person must be adorned with a dab of baked bean juice at the corner of the mouth. Only dab, mind you – any more and it’s a sign of dementia. We are compo mentis and are proud to be.


Our loneliness is put upon us, not chosen; it is a situation foisted upon us because our place in modernity is deemed unworthy, and so we read our loneliness away, read and ponder, muse and peruse, cogitating and comprehending. Loneliness has paid the high price for our gained intelligence, debts repaid with celibacy and cold beds. Installments are heavy and regular, but we bear the situation with more books, radio and cigarettes. It’s all we know. To experiment is a concept far out of our reach; the challenge of a new author and genre is welcomed but it’s a calculated risk.


The last time we risked it was on the last date we had, several months (or, for some, years) ago, so horrendous that it cemented our determination to give up on humanity. It simply no longer exists, the proof in the amount of mutants and zombies we have had to share a beer or coffee with.


After each horrific date we ran to the comfort of our books, to chain smoke with a mug of coffee, warmed by the cardy. It is the ultimate safety net; it will cosset when trembling, shroud when pale, warm when cool. The cherished garment to keep near at all times, it was depended upon, but is now required for fear of the world collapsing or one’s blood halting in circulation.


It was our companion in the hermit existence, but since realising we are part of a Lonely Hearts Club, it has become our members badge and is worn with pride.

Bears

Big, hairy and strong, bearded and sweaty. Bears. Masculine, burly bears. Men who are men.


Ha, I wish.


For a while now the dreams of big burly bears have overtaken my fantasies. The sunshine dreams of Sebastian Flyte in a sunlit park and liberated Jeanne Moreau running through the crowded streets of Montmartre were exchanged for the strong arms and hard bellies of bears.


As someone who has preferred the more aggressive, don't confuse me for a sadomasochist; the idea of being pinned down by a man with experience and weight behind him has sent me into convulsions of erotic fantasy.


The search for a bear able to find me, a younger, colourful admirer, attractive has been arduous and dispiriting. They have proven themselves to be vain, narcissistic, judgmental and cliquey.  A friend – who is also enamoured by the idea of a bear – and I attended bear nightspots across the city only to be scoffed at, dismissed and ignored. 


At first we waited to be pursued. Surely being older, bigger and stronger men they would approach, when they found us attractive. They would see two young men smiling and being happy amongst so many hairy chests and want to know why we had attended, why we were happy, why we wanted to know them. I again scoff at this assumption.


So we became the pursuers. Summoning what courage we had we smiled pointedly and said hi only to experience cold shoulders and sarcastic replies. The next technique to play was the game. Pretending to be totally uninterested we acted the nonchalant, which was a lie but gained meagre attention. Staying in a tight group like teenage girls, the use of peripheral vision scoped out the occasional eyes our way. 


And there it ended, just eyes, some smiles but that's it. Enter the arrival of an exuberant friend whose personality is comparable to nuclear radiation and some of the bears began to smile a little wider. At one night spot a dreadfully intoxicated bear with a lisp commented on how we – the ‘dancing trio’ – were the talk of the night. Our reply was: don't talk about us, talk to us.


Do bears own balls or are they castrated?  Surely they can't be scared by a trio of twenty-somethings dancing and being happy and having fun? Can they?


That same night I proceeded to be followed by an older – not old, just older than me – man around the venue like a puppy dog. Not once did he open his mouth. I acknowledged him and smiled; he did nothing and after half an hour it began to seriously piss me off. The venue had lots of very hot bears, but hearing a cacophony of lisps and a flurry of limp wrists whilst a contradictory show of muscular bravado was being played had me searching for the sick bag. Where have all the men gone?


The search on the World Wide Web had proved fruitless until the reply. Having spread the seed far and wide I got a seedling. A muscle bear who would like to go for a coffee. Apprehensive but excited I organised the meet. Conversation was hard going, with little if any wit, but a softness that disarmed me. Not what I had dreamed of but the second meet would hopefully unveil their inner man.


Ha! A selfish lover, but then proceeding to rock me as a child in big solid arms – nice for some but not for me. Where was the butch strongman who would pin me down and devour my person as the tussle for supremacy ensued? No Oliver Reed in front of an open fire.


Next! And fortunately a new reply. A proper bear – belly, salt 'n' pepper beard and short hair. A wrestler too. Now I was ready to be grappled.  Drinking our pints, I caused a raised eyebrow when I suggested that bears must really stop judging. Their conversation was again minimal and uninspiring. This was obviously only going to be sex so back to mine it was.


Amid soft kisses and gentle caressing I felt confused. I hadn't experienced such delicacy since being with women and I was rapidly becoming bored. I tried to spice it up but to no avail. And to make matters worse, another selfish lover. All for them and little for me. The 45-minute cuddling post had me commenting on how female the whole scenario was, they replied it was a bear cuddle, like a teddy. The wrong type of bear, I'm sorry.


My limited experiences with bears have revealed them to be cliquey, queeny, selfish and vain, lacking masculinity and proving themselves to be a bunch of women. I'm after Jeanne Moreau again – now she had balls.

Belting

Oooh, the cool northern winds have us layering vests, t-shirts, jumpers and coats to Michelin man proportions. Those of you whose jogging and gym routine was unflinching during the summer must now suffer the bloated silhouette of autumn winter. No revealing cottons or silks now; that wind from the north has spoilt your chances of parading the rippling pecs and strong biceps procured from the excessive hours pumping iron. And thank God!

The onset of the cooler months is welcomed for those, like me, whose belly is soft and squishy, their pecs more breast-like and derriere a sagging mess; the big loose tops of summer were relied upon, but we can now disguise the unexercised physique with layers of soothing, warming fabric. The more the merrier.


However we too are aware of the swollen shape sported and must think of ways to give some definition. We may be porky but we're not obese, we can still squeeze our jelly into a 30/32 waist – it’s the muffin top that must be concealed.

Consider Armani's catwalk (Giorgio not Emporio) – quilted nylon jackets sporting leather belts positioned high above the waist, fitted but not tightly to give a slight cinch and hint of a waist whilst concealing the moobage and muffin top. The important factor here is the jacket, which must be concealing, but not excessively so, to achieve this elegant suggestion of shape, the fabric light and the quilting minimal. Remember, you live in the city, not the frozen tundra, so you can easily do without the Moncler. 

This technique can also be achieved to marvellous results with slim cardigans as seen also at Armani (again Giorgio, not Emporio), and with the quirky denim boiler suit from Kenzo. Again, the importance must lie in the fabric, which must be light enough to allow for gentle slimming pleats, and the shape (the achievement of elegant hints of a waist are what is here desired), of the garment must be comfortably tailored.

But for those of us, and here I count myself, who dream of the drama afforded by those strong gusts that blow along the Thames, conjuring ideas of watching ships set sail for new adventures then we have to look to Damir Doma. 

Excessive amounts of soft wool in excessive shapes gathered at the waist with matching broad belts or the several-times-wrapped leather belt created a dramatic yet poetic aesthetic. It inspires visions of gales billowing drapes, as if sailing along the pavements. It is drama, but done with a deft hand. One must not be play with colour to attain this poetry; sombre shades of black and grey will provide the perfect iambic pentameter. 

Similarly wonderful were the Gianfranco Ferré overcoats waisted with leather belts, gathering the heavy wool in happily awkward folds and leaving a train just aching to fly out from a momentous rolling wind. But again, the palette must be simple; monochrome tweeds and houndstooth will blend and warp to create graphic patterns.

So, now to the middle ground. We all need a little colour during the grey months and Ferragamo gave us that – neither flashy nor gaudy but tones of earth green, brown and navy blue. The most devastating green suede trench coat was tied twice at the waist with a brown leather belt and worn with matching brown boots, a look so beautiful I think I cried a little. We also received a heavy, navy ribbed-knit cardigan with a beige suede belt, and ruby-brown leather overcoat with matching belt. They are a beautiful evocation of autumn, precious shades that can't help make you smile and feel a little warmer despite the drop in temperature. They are never excessive, nor do they require a discerning eye; it is all very easy and simple; throw the coat or cardigan on, and as looking for the keys one ties the waist with the belt ever attached, and experimentation with colour or texture is more than welcomed depending on the occasion.


Who said belts were merely for holding up jeans – sling it high and put it on show and give yourself a waist.

Summer Solution

Blissful sun, enchanting warmth, delicious picnics and smelly armpits. There is so much to love and loathe about the summer. Wearing short shorts (who am I kidding – borderline hotpants), of-the-minute Gladiator sandals à la Bernhard Willhelm, sunglasses ’til 9 hiding the constant-hangover dark circles – all lovely things which have me rushing to Green Park at any chance given.  

With a good book, the dog and a bottle of evian nothing is more enjoyable; all that's missing is Le Petit Trianon, and a devastating beauty in muslin. Smoking is rather difficult, the heat and nicotine seeming to congeal into a ghastly gunk at the back of the throat, but nothing I can't handle. I can handle most things, the sweating (a good heavy-duty aluminum-laden deodorant), the UV rays (shaded parks) and sleepless sticky nights (sleeping pills and the birthday suit). However, the proliferation of naked flesh is way out my control.

It is the height of peacock-dom to be strolling through the park with your torso bare; I don't care if you have a six-pack gut and rippling pectorals – put it away. There are enough lovely vests and tee shirts to clothe yourself with, Dries Van Noten had a chic ethnic tee with a silk yoke this season that screamed ‘buy me’; Kokon To Zai – ever an inspiration – has fun oversized tees allowing air to billow around your sweaty body like a couture Bedouin, and if all else fails, head to Sainsburys and treat yourself to a £4.00 striped vest, long enough to cover the perspiring crotch if wearing the Givenchy leggings that won my heart – colourful stripes that echoed Brideshead and cheap enough to splash out on some nifty sandals from b-Store. 

There is simply no need to be making me feel queasy at your protein-fuelled, exercised body (I can smell your farts from here fyi); I hide my bulge quite well, and when I have binged on the rococo chocolates, simply breathing in does the trick. 


Strutting Schwarzeneggers are the negative of summer, along with flying ants and B.O.; for each case, a quick trip to Sainsburys does the trick.

Kiss My Gold Lips

All that my friend has asked for the last fortnight is why didn't she get his number. The first three times she asked this I would reply with consoling 'it just wasn't meant to be' 'why didn't he get yours?' 'there are more fish in the sea'-type replies that started heartfelt and ended up being monotone comments to keep the peace. Unrequited love is boring and everywhere and yet something I haven't experienced; poo to love and its emotions, I shall leave it to those who spend their evenings in front of a Nancy Meyers movie. 

Unrequited purchases, now that I have felt. The pain of not purchasing the Dior Homme Mary Janes still burns my heart on a regular basis, the lack of a Van Noten scarf aches my cold neck each change of season and as for the Margiela bag much coveted in l’Éclaireur, well, let's not even go there. The agony is too much bear at times and the need for Tanqueray is as imperative as Nurofen to a Champagne hangover.  


Each season gives me this pain, this unrequited purchase. Sometimes simply out of financial reach (Van Noten scarves), or designs being unproduced (Dior shoes), whatever the reason, the pain is still felt and the tears still shed and the bottom of the Tanqueray bottle is reached. However, for the first time the unrequited purchase for spring/summer 11 is not a garment, nor shoes nor scarf nor coat (even Yves Saint Laurent), but a feature. 

Cosmetics for men is always a rough road, the debacle of Gaultier maquillage was truly epic; black eye liner is one for parties only (and often I'm the only one sporting the Alice Cooper look), and lets not even go into waxing, plucking and tanning. Was that a gin hangover or the idea of such making me heave? But as I perused the collections on Style.com, what should I see but gold lips at Thom Browne? Bright, 24-carat gold (cold?) lips that simply screamed luxury; the collection was his usual slim tailoring, gym-time me thinks, but the lips, my god the lips! At first they look like patent lipstick applied heavily à la Bette Davis in the 40s but when zoomed in, gold leaf – yes, gold leaf – Midas blessed each model and they looked like Croesus.  

The genius of the gold lips is that they made even the thinnest of lips look full, never collagen-enhanced, simply pouted and many times has a pout been required for an outfit, the Pilate genius of artisan-inspired shorts with brothel creepers (S/S08) required the pout; any Lanvin or Balenciaga should be worn with a pout, and a good rich fox fur should be sported with a pout as PETA chase you down Sloane Street. And just consider it, gold lips, oh the decadence, the luxury, the self-importance one would feel, and if couture doesn't make you feel important then what's the point, I say.  Go to Primani rather than Armani. Gold embellishments have the power to give you confidence wherever you are; slap some Van Cleef and Arpels on my wrists and fingers and I can take on the Taliban, put a Sobrani between my lips and no amount of chavs can stop the strut. However, the problem starts there. 


One can't simply slip on some Crocs (did I just say that?) and pop to the local hobby shop and buy any old gold leaf, slap it on and head to Dalston as I just might do at Halloween. This is an embellishment of the utmost luxury and decadence, galerie de beouf, 1776 seulement. An aesthetic that treads the couture/costume line so carefully that away from the catwalk, pre-Robespierre French aristocracy becomes the worst form of costume – it becomes drag! Gaultier all over again, or even worse, GAY regulars with plucked/drawn eyebrows and some vicious D&G bag with an overabundance of chain draped on the elbow.  


It has to be done with a deft hand and my valet is recovering from the small pox.  It needs Cartier gold leaf and they won't reply to my earnest emails.  Versailles is having a refit and so all soirées are cancelled; even the fallback of Studio 54 has closed for good.  

So until all these obstacles have been overcome, to do so would require Pierre Hardy high tops that don't come in my size, I shall have to settle on the normal lips blessed with and let it become the unrequited purchase of spring/summer 2011, there are more fish in the sea and another bottle of Tanqueray in the freezer.