Monday, October 09, 2006

Pout, Pout, Shake It All About ...

The latest round of fashion shows have now, thankfully, drawn to a close. One can now let out a sigh of relief and begin the pleasant task of invoicing ... no more early morning starts and stressed-out journalists.

Like any fashion season you care to mention, it was nothing out of the ordinary - but don't forget that this is the rant of a troglodyte who has no artistic flair or appreciation of the 'fash-industry'. To me, it's all a total waste of time and is simply a vehicle designed to pander a mass of over-paid nancies who 'create' articles that can never be mass-produced, let alone worn with any degree of comfort in public.

Then there are those who are invited to witness the mentally unstable and physically awkward 'mod-uls' who parade before the World's cameras and industry critics. The socialites, who's sole 'raison d'ĂȘtre' is filling their electronic personal assistants with as many invitations from other socialites, make up the bulk of the audience ('bulk' being the operative word). In they come, a rush of badly dressed wannabes, hoping that they've got a reserved place in the front row. "Will the cameras stop at me for a shot of my newly inflated chest?" and "How about my beautifully sculpted tropical fish lips?" Flash go the teeth and flash go the cameras.

43yr old Demi Moore (who's not averse to having pictures taken of her with her kit off) arrived at one show with her new husband, 16 years her junior. In 1997, Christopher Ashton Kutcher was a Biochemical Engineering Student scraping together a few dollars sweeping biscuit crumbs off a factory floor. Now, 11 years later, he's married to one of the World's most beautiful women - though he now gets to handle a much better class of brush. Naturally, The press were all over them like a rash. Janet Jackson, the sister of the guy who has that terribly debilitating skin complaint, showed up. Her minder, a 20-stone failed ex-boxer, repeated the only phrase he can remember "back orrf", whilst pushing the ladies and gentlemen of the press in all directions. These 'stars' are here to be 'seen' but their so-called security insist on getting in between their bosses and the lenses. Fat chance of good coverage ... but a good chance of 'fat'.

We now turn our attention to the 'mod-uls' themselves. Outside of their professional arena, they look terrible. I very much doubt that anyone would cast them a second glance in the street. Great tall streaks. The last time the World was subjected to images of miserable starving people, the BBC claimed a scoop and without it, Live Aid would never have happened. Honestly, what future do these girls have? With a maximum professional career span of 'years', these self-starved waifs drift off into design, management or the back-of-beyond, never to be heard of again. Unless, of course, they are lucky enough to become a 'Supermod-ul', when the combination of a explosive temperament and the command of a 6-figure sum to act as a clothes horse sees them into their 30s.

Lie a catwalk model on her back and you'd have a relief map of the Benelux countries, stand them up and you run the risk of running out of clean needles.

Stu

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