ID magazine party

Last sunday, Terrence Koh did some kind of art show in the middle of boom box, and out of nowhere my agent phoned me for the first time in ages. And so it was that I found my self on stage in one of London's most try-hard gay fashion clubs, in pants, nipples painted white, and with something that distinctly resembled a pair of tights on my head. I have to laugh. But only becuase I hate crying in public. See the white hands on the right? They were were stuffed full of insense sticks, which we had been instructed to light. Only some one had been skimping on the cash, because none of the fucking things would stay lit. Then every single one of our lighters broke. Then I can only assume that Terrence Koh though a tiz and refused to come on stage, becuase we were left to stand in front of a very confused, coked-up Boom box for what felt like four days.

However, there was a free tab there for all the models, so most of the more disturbing memories are a little hazy.

(I'm the short-arse on the left)

Gangsters and Politicians

There is something intolerably tedious about student politics. When the time comes around for university elections, numerous scruffy, earnest chancers emerge. It is distasteful to watch a set of inexperienced and unqualified fools struggling to interest the tiny proportion of students who vote, armed with nothing but a few vague statements of intent which promise nothing, and a some spectacularly forgettable tag phrase. It all stinks far too much of real politics. And there is no way I’m voting for a white girl with dreadlocks. Ever.

The student common room is hardly crying for more unread, cheaply printed posters in any case. The student’s space at university is a tragic affair, groaning as it is with the colours of multicultural murals and piecemeal furniture. The whole space is made sadder when you stumble across one of the flop-tastic music nights that hobble into the room some evenings. Which is probably why the trying-but-not-quite-cool-bar, clockworks, seemed so fun on Friday night. It also dredged up halcyon memories of the first year of my degree, when going out did not seem like a self-destructive act of rebellion and an insult against the teaching staff, because maintaining a life and a Japanese degree has begun to seem like a Herculean feat.

It was at clockworks that I wore my new waistcoat, only to find my good (and more stylish) friend was wearing one ‘which he had had for ages…’ Well, it’s no real problem for me, as the waistcoat is part of a new image Idea I am trying to put together. It has probably come from the fact that I have been spending a bit of time with various Japanese fashion students, and it has dawned on me that many of the boys, while capable of being incredibly stylish, have a propensity to look slightly sleazy, as if they have just fallen off the back of a Yakuza van into a fashion course… and so I have become interested in the idea.
I found a Dior image that I think expresses the feeling quite well. So I became interested in collecting clothes that have a slightly 'untrustworthy' image. It's difficult, because if you take a step too far, you look like a cheap mobster, which is not ideal. However, I think if you get it just right, you might be tapping into the very nature of male fashion; because men may have a more utilitarian view of fashion, in that they are more pointedly interested in how the opposite sex respond to their clothes. So, if you are willing to embrace the sleaze a little, you might be able to make a comment about how men interact with fashion. Maybe. 今日はそろそろ。