The A-Train

The Hannah Montana premiere

Highlights of the Hannah Montana premiere:

- Miley Cyrus' complete inability to walk in her hot hot shoes.
- Billy Ray doing this thing where the barracked fans are flipping out, he gives this stern stare into the crowd, then, maintaining the stare, starts dancing his way over to them. He did this at least four separate times.
- Miley shouting (accidentally) into my ear "WHERE ARE THE HOT ONES?"
- Walking Mitch Hewer, ie Maxxie from Skins, all the way down, through press and paparazzi, and basically becoming bff with his mom. I touched him gently on the elbow a lot. 

FabSugar at Saks

Last night I went to the FabSugar event at Saks downtown. Aside from the amazingly camp crystallized sugar champagne, what just tickled me was getting thrown back into an actual community of internet folk, and meeting the two ladies in charge of the sensory overload fabulosity that is the FabSugar network. All those Sugars -- Gawker's gay nephew? Little sister with ADHD? Either way, any Brittons out there need to bookmark FabSugar UK like nobody's business.

I wasn't really on it with the photos, but if you wanna see a few take a look here...

Every day's a school day

Dear American girl at Catch the other night who in the bathroom revealed duct taped boobs while wearing a dress that you clearly couldn't wear a bra with...

 

Thanks for the tip.

This post is a little bit about Amsterdam, and a lot bit about my pictures in Vice

Amsterdam - not that great.

The Fashion Issue of Vice - There are pictures of me in here, but they call me Fiona (not my name) and things are written that I did not write. For example, on page 101 where I look like a fat hooker, I DID NOT WRITE: "My initial plan was to visit a guy I used to, ahem, screw but then I realised he wouldn't know anything was up."

Not me. False. Intern Fiona. Who is wonderful. And lewd. Jokes. How my pics got in instead of hers is a long story, and a fun one, and this was all planned and fine. I just wanted to clear that up.

With that said

hoo ha mah pictures are in a mag-aw-zine!

London Fashion Week pt 2

I gotta make this quick because I've got a phone date with Vivienne Westwood (the store not the human, if all goes well I'll get into it later) but here is FASHION WEEK PART 2...

London Fashion Week pt 1

I want to go to there.

This is part 1 of the entire story of my Fashion Week. This is word for word what I wrote to my parents in an email; I am too lazy and too without-my-glasses to change any part of it. So there will be lots of "IN LONDON THERE IS A PLACE CALLED WHISKEY MIST" and "MOM THIS IS WHAT PR IS" but try to wade through all that. It also will not be written well, because I read somewhere that mothers love you regardless of poor stylistic choices. Most of the pics are mine. Let me just run through the cast of characters:

George -- the loveliest guy in the world, recruited me to Rubbish out of the blue, has a fraternal twin, dresses well enough to get papped like Lilo.

Kila -- blog editor, brilliant illustrator, "posh rave" coordinator, red carpet presenter for Peaches' mag, executive chief of having fingers in many pies and succeeding wildly.

Catherine -- Whitney from the Hills, in appearance and professional experience, except better in all regards. At any given show/function I was at, she had informed me who the designer was, why they were important, why I was going, if the runs in my stockings were unbearable. She also kept me company and may very well be one of the most stylish people I know. Cute as a button.  

Jenny Dyson -- I don't think I had fully appreciated how influential this woman was until I realised that merely saying that I was representing her for fifteen minutes got me treated like effing royalty. She is absolutely amazing, influential and commanding, without being in any way pretentious or off-putting. I hope one day I can call her a mentor.

Ok that's it. Here we go.

If I see any of these at FW I'm gonna pepperspray Heidi Middleton

I do not like oil-slick (or wet-look, robo-legs, what have you) leggings. It's not that I don't think they look sexy. They do. On this model at Sass-'N'-Bide they look magnificent, like the glory of the sun. It's just that someone needs to tell 99.8% of women that they CANNOT PULL OFF oil-slick leggings like no one has ever needed to do anything. A bit like the bizarre reaction elicited by very, very big girls with fuzzy boots circa fall '06 (OH NO BEAR -- oh its a lady, phew), when larger ladies, or even just not-incredibly-modelesque ladies, slap these on it evokes a malformed barbie doll, warped in the sun after summers of disuse, or just fat robots which we all know would never aid society.

With that said, I have learned that in very cold weather, oil-slick leggings act as space blankets, insulating human heat like absolutely nothing else, and London has almost definitely not decided to stop barfing snow, so they're going on today.