Shit fashion boys do and say

The adventures of our resident FROW frequenter and prize party boy take us to the helm of fashion week season…

The day I got my first invitation for Paris’ couture circus I sat and stared at it for almost 30 minutes. Even as I boarded the plane to Paris, hungover from the previous night’s festivities, it still hadn’t registered in my brain that OMFG couture has called. After seasons of frequenting its Ready-to-Wear rival, I was finally going to witness, first hand, the grand circus that is haute couture…

First off, props to Easy Jet for deciding to land an hour late. This meant getting dressed for Chanel in the backseat of a cab from Orly Airport with a pervy driver who kept making eye contact in the mirror (ew, vom). If it wasn’t for the 3 for €2 glasses of wine I treated myself to, on the plane, I would have probably had a fit that the show was starting and I was nowhere near the Grand Palais. Instead I checked out cute French boys, missed Chanel of course and had a bit of a cry (and a glass of Moscato) because of it, in the bathtub at The Plaza Athenee before I got my shit together to go to Armani & Julien Fournie.

Day one was pretty much a bust – especially as I managed to fall on my face at the Trocadero in front of everybody taking my picture. P.S chiffon man skirts photograph really well in the wind.

Day two came and I was highly-hyped that Elie Saab’s show was scheduled after 12pm meaning I could sleep off the effects of Le Marais’ party scene. I woke up feeling like a human being and took the metro in another man skirt, this time in cheetah print, much to amusement of fellow passengers. I was feeling FIERCE.

Arriving to a show is always sort of a weird thing. You can either stop and pose or do the ‘I’m too busy to stop’ deal which will have the street style snappers chasing after you. From experience, either tactic works.

I arrived right behind Ulyana Sergeenko (big name on Russian’s fashion campus) so I stole her residual attention until the pap pack realised we weren’t actually together. Once inside the venue, I found myself seated SCROW (Second Row abbreviated but you knew that already) directly behind the angelic beaut that is Vika Gazinskaya (another of Russia’s notable Fash Pack names). The collection itself was a dream. Karlie Kloss worked and turned, serving me my heart on a platter.

In the hope of catching a cab before the onslaught of post-show chaos, I climbed up and over the runway (still in cheetah man skirt with dignity in tact). I was immediately stopped by a man who wanted to take my picture – he turned out to be THE Gilles Bensimon – aka legendary photographer. A moment that I can only describe as a totes FASH-ON life highlight, genuinely. I let out audible, clichéd, fash boi sound fx, let him do his thing and returned to aforementioned cab chasing while fighting the urge to squeal all the way to the next venue.

That next venue was to watch Gaultier, the ultimate. Of course there were no cabs and I had to walk like 40 plus blocks which ain’t easy in the summer heat and a pencil skirt. I eventually arrived and all I wanted to do was cool off under the AC. Instead, I was greeted by an old man brandishing me a bitch for not letting him snap me.

My seat was opposite the Vogue Row – cue casual name drops – Grace, Edward, etc. WITH Carine but SANS Emmanuelle. An unfashionably late start of an hour over schedule was forgivable as I instantly died watching Carine’s reactions to Andrej Pejic in a sheer bodysuit. Eye rolls for DAYS. The woman gives no fucks.

The fashion festivities continued all day long: I FROW-ed at Rad Hourani and Quentin Veron, got yelled at by photographers to uncross my legs, Elena Perminova told me to me to move bitch get out the way, outside Valentino because I was blocking the wind she needed to make her Chloe dress photograph better, I missed Margiela because I was stuck in traffic but met Raf Simons on the street (he’s even cuter in real life) and had Olivier Zahm (Purple Mag) wave to me as I was sprinting down Rue de Bretagne which was sort of a very fitting end to my first Paris Haute Couture.

Will I be back next season? You better believe it and I will be serving high drama with every look.