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Botulism paralysis at London Fashion Week

Vivien Lash surveys the scene at London’s bastard child of the shows


London Fashion Week, already the bastard child of the shows, has been upstaged by of all people that supporter of British brands the Prime Minister.
Designers and their dresses just can’t compete with allegations about the leader of the sexually repressed world fucking a dead pig in the mouth.
You couldn’t make it up, and why would Lord Ashcroft want to? Porn revenge perhaps? No pictures yet, but give it time.
Sam Cam may be an odd choice to lead Vanity Fair’s best-dressed list but you have to love a lady in red who sits front row at Roksanda on the day the world discovered her husband’s ex was possibly a pig.
If I was unkind I’d call Mrs Cameron a very well-groomed horse, with a look often resembling top of the range Marks & Spencer; though I’m sure she paid more for it. But let’s applaud Sam even if she does have a unisex name, long teeth and poor taste in men.
Dave is on record saying he had a “normal” student experience. My days as an undergraduate with farting veggie wankers at drama school must have been abnormal! I never felt inclined towards either necrophilia or bestiality though I did suffer students simulating sex with skeletons during my brief interlude at medical school.

This year LFW’s HQ has moved from Somerset House to Brewer St car park, helping to ‘bring a buzz to Soho’ according to one of the organisers.
Is she, like, deaf and blind? You have to make allowances for crumblies, as long as they don’t smell, but Soho is already buzzing and the streets are too narrow for all those big bummed old burds who work at Vogue.
Of course, Brewer St is restricted to the faux shows for people from the burbs who pay to get in, like the 3 fat ladies who had ‘stood on a train for 3 hours’ then not seen any celebrities.
‘Is the poor train all right?’ I asked but they, rather rudely, did not respond.
The “real” shows pick their own venue, like Burberry in Kensington Gardens with an orchestra and trench-coated Alison Moyet singing live; distracting attention from the models in their see-through lace worn with big black pants, which is a bit Kate Middleton as student model when she caught the eye of Windsor Willie.
Kate Moss, who made Burberry (a brand formerly associated with football hooligans and ladies who wet their knickers) cool, was sitting FROW with a depressing case of face bloat, between Cara Delevigne who appears to be growing a moustache and this month’s UK Vogue cover girl Sienna Miller – born again ginger and, defiantly or stupidly, wearing green fur. The Miller couldn’t keep her paws off Kate, or maybe she was just trying to get her freckly mug in-shot.
The Frows with their botox faces and their old knees peeping out of ripped jeans are determined not to enjoy anything. Or maybe that’s just botulism paralysis. To be fair they’ve seen it all before, probs more than once.
Retro fever is out of control but I confess I am addicted to YSL white Go Go Boots which I first wore in the playground when I thought I was Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.
Next time I come home with a pair of boots almost the same as the ones stacked in my shoe room already, Mr Lash will be relieved that I haven’t bought an old cafe on impulse like my Persian Princess friend.
Infected by nostalgia for decades past, that senile attachment to mothy stuff, and the sight of girls who should know better mixing mustard with denim and 1970s platforms which encourage a forward slump creating a saggy stomach that is probs illegal in the era of gut cleanses, the Princess just couldn’t resist coughing up cash for a greasy kaff; money that would have been better spent filling her closet with Christopher Kane.
Dr Johnson probs wished he hadn’t said when you’re tired of London you’re tired of life, because no one remembers another word he uttered. But I’m guessing by London he meant north of the river and south of Camden. If you must buy a cafe, don’t pick one for down and outs in Kilburn.
Some other dead fucker said that London is a collection of villages and in each part of town there’s a fashion tribe.

Soho’s days of sleaze are numbered now that Stephen Fry is leading the charge to preserve its sex shops for any tourists daft enough to be abused in them. I’m sure Oscar Wilde was churning in his grave when the Fry guy played him in the biopic, with Jude Law as his wee balding boyfriend.
In Golden Square, where the shows are streaming along with the rain, I bumped into an old girlfriend of Mr Lash’s – ok I pushed her – who recently gave an interview about their ‘really bad break up’.
Fascinating as Mr Lash is, it is bizarre that a magazine would want a kiss and smell about him a quarter of a century after he dumped the floozy; even if it was in Swedish.
Say what you like about his exes – and I often do – but while some of them look like pigs after the unkind passing of time, none of them actually are pigs.

If you like Shallow not Stupid you will love Spying on Strange Men

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