London Fashion Week Men’s, ahem … Hello? .. I’m down Here!

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Can I have a job?” Paulie, Rocky 3.


Do something with your hands?” My Annie poked. I shuffled them inside my pocket.

No do something exciting for once.” She’s blunt my Annie. Not to mention tired at my lack of imagination when it comes to striking a pose. To be utterly clear I’m not a model. I have no look, I have no hair, height, discernible features, a cool scar, any maladies I own are purely social and not physical. My face is bereft of character. My eyes aren’t half bad, but soured with blackened rings. My nose tells a story of running from fights and never quite having the minerals to spar in my seven years (on and off) of boxing training. The story delineates the divine definition of symmetry. But where’s the fun in symmetry?


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You know what,” Annie hangs her head, fiddles with the camera and casually reassigns the lens cap, “you need to google some model poses.

But I’m not a model,” I say plaintively. “I’m a writer. I’m the best writer in town and the only fashion blogger that never gets a solitary invite to London Fashion Week. Why? Four years on the circuit. Not one invite!


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Of course this churlish rant was the emancipation of conceited envy. I watch London Fashion Week blow through each year, each year my inbox remains unmolested. My contemporaries have been flown in from Glasgow, put up in the Mondrian, have their balls fluffed, their mouths stuffed with foie gras canapés and their livers pickled with free Bollinger at all the private showcases before being rounded up and flown to Florence to do it all again at Pitti. They’re off hobnobbing and guffawing at the LFWM Ambassadors Closing Dinner, grabbing sycophantic selfies with Dylan Jones, editor of GQ, all looking for a benediction from their peers on social media. Look how far I’ve come to be sitting next to Dylan fucking Jones.

Maybe it’s your shoes,” Annie bats back, “You don’t own a decent pair of shoes. I should be there at the next shoe acquisition.” It’s an unrebukable aphorism and I sigh heavy all the way back to the flat. Next year Rodders. Next year you childish twat.


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Scotch & Soda Herringbone Biker Jacket £165

Scotch & Soda Check Scarf £27

Diesel Fedora £40 (Available in Carnaby St, can’t find online).


 

 

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