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She Wolf lyrics in Spanish translated into English using Google language tools. This could be fun…

Sigilosa passing
Sigilosa passing
That wolf is special
Watch her, walk walk

Who did not want lycanthrope a goddess
In the heat of a romantic evening
My screams are called
I want a tame wolf

I finally found a cure-all that clear at all to blame
I will not stay by your side watching TV and listening to apologize
life has given me a ravenous appetite and you just give me candy
I go with my legs and my youth around even though you killed jealousy

A wolf in the closet
You want to leave
Let him eat the neighborhood
Before going to sleep

I stilettos magnetic
To stop the frenzied herd
The full moon like fruit
It gives advice and listens

I carry a special radar to locate single
If anything I get in trouble also carried the number of firefighters
not very nice or divos types or rich kids I know what I want
have a wonderful time and behave badly in the arms of a knight

A wolf in the closet
You want to leave
Let him eat the neighborhood
Before going to sleep

When they are almost one she-wolf in heat greets the moon
Doubt if walking down the street or go into a bar to try his luck
It sits on your table and sets its sights on their next prey
Pity the unsuspecting who did not expect any of these

Sigilosa passing
Sigilosa passing
That wolf is special
Watch her walk, walk

Let him eat the neighborhood
Before going to sleep

This is so goooooooooood….


First saw this in bar in Paris. Near Palais Royal. A backstreet. One of the few places that you can smoke inside. An odd experience –  sipping German bier whilst puffing on a Marlboro Gold – made even more odd by the mute-button-on screening of La Shak doin’ her ting. Flesh coloured body stocking, inexplicably agile limbs, thrusting “lady garden”, a cage, the glitter-festooned innards of a nymphomaniac cow, nonsensical lyrics:-

…..Starting to feel just a little abused
Like a coffee machine in an office (aaa)…

…Nocturnal creatures are not so prudent,
The moon’s my teacher, and i’m her student…



A good manicurist is so hard to find these days


Spent a lovely weekend on the coast near Brittany in France. Random. Oddly beautiful shell-scapes by locals with a lot of time to kill…Feeling a shell moment a comin’…

Perhaps it’s because the spring-summer pret-a-porter womenswear collections have now come to an end that I’m starting to think about menswear. He isn’t the most obvious muse for autumn-winter but something feels right about Telly Savalas. That straight-talking, no nonsense Noo Yoicker addi-tood… so manly… That glistening, magnificent orb of a perfectly formed, razored scalp…sooooo manly. Yeah, big daddy, bring it on home! Papa’s got a  brand new thang. Telly, we salute you. Just a hunch.


Lights, camera, ACTION!!

On the way to the John Galliano show last night the heavens opened. The torrential downpour was hardly surprising. It had been so close during the day that it took me nearly an hour too cool off after a shower. Arriving at the venue, a disused factory in the south of Paris, there was an eerie atmosphere as people stood huddled in groups under the railway bridge that ran parallel down the street, cutting it into two halves. The current state of fashion could not have been illustrated more succinctly. The bridge seemed to symbolise the disparity between what was real and the illusion of The Show.

The rain ceased, the Gods de la Mode seemingly having wept enough. A strange, quasi-comical dance commenced as precariously-heeled fashionistas gingerly negotiated muddy puddles in The Long Walk to the The Show. The atmosphere was quite laid back, all things considered. There was Queen Carine, the editor of French Vogue, leaning against a railing at the loading bay whilst being interviewed by a Japanese journalist. She wore a heavy man’s coat over her shoulders like a cape. Her kohl-smothered eyes seemed alert but the weight of the coat bellied the constant strain of a month of shows, mad scrums, transatlantic flights, parties, endless schmoozing and air kisses.

I stood for a while, people-watching. I pondered the meaning of the show invite, a mock clapper board. It hinted at the silver screen. It was clear that Galliano had gone to the movies this season. At Dior he had been inspired by film noir. For his own eponymous label the Hollywood brief was sure to be more recherché in its interpretation. It later transpired that his famous research trip for this season had been to LA.

Take One

Take One

We stood for a while longer.

Finally, we were allowed to enter a cavernous hall were we stood a for while. A sense of impatience grew as we were kept waiting, human sardines cloaked in darkness. The air was heavy with the scent of knackered perfume, warm sweat and sour breath.

We stood for a while.

A group of girls began clacking their clapper boards and soon the whole room followed suit. The bouncers at the curtained entrance to the inner sanctum paid no attention. The clacking eventually died down.

We stood a while longer.

Then bang! The rush inside began as a few hundred worn out souls funnelled their way in.

The Kiss

The Kiss

A solitary Grace Coddington. Her haunched I’ve-seen-it-all before shoulders said it all. What followed was a bizarre procession of the ridiculous. One by one, and sometimes in pairs, The Celebrities began to arrive. Dita Von Teese! Sequined pale blue dress, ruby lips, porcelain skin. Fragile. Her lips smiled in a strained way. Hey, she’d seen a lot of shows and done a lot of smiling over the last few weeks. Give an artiste a break-down! David Lynch kept flashing through my mind, no doubt aided by the soundtrack to Mullholland Drive that played. John, what are you saying? The paps were in a feeding frenzy, like piranhas gorging of the flesh of the famous. Flash! Flash! Dita! Ditaaaaaa!!! Then like the fishy shoal that they were they suddenly shifted focus as they caught the scent of more celebrity prey. Katy! Katy! Kay-teeeee!!! She’s-hot-then-not-so-cold Katy Perry appeared for role call, veritable beau Brummel, Russel Brand, in tow. Overly glamorous pink evening dress. Perfect hair. Placid expression. Anna Piaggi, fashion’s greatest living eccentric, shuffled past, ignored. You know that things have gone awry when fashion’s grande dames are treated almost like gate-crashers walking into their own party to find it full of strangers.

Then it was the turn of Leigh Lezark, girl about town. This was one of the funniest scenes I’ve ever witnessed. Squashed next to the International Herald Tribune’s Suzy Menkes, the earlier downpour had created a leaky cavern. Suzy dutifully held up an umbrella to protect La Lezark but perhaps, more importantly, her signature quiff  as the paps “papped” away. Hilarious!

Purple Haze

Purple Haze

Then The Almighty arrived. Prince, pretty in cyclamen. Frenzy. Frenzy. Frenzy! The show finally began, photo-ops over with, deals sealed in tabloid and cyberspace.

What about the show?

Well, it was classic Galliano. Pigalle Revisited via Sunset Boulevard and “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane” crossed with “Grey Gardens”. Faded grandeur. Expired fame. Mild schizophrenia. All paraded through a red laser show and large bubbles that descended onto the catwalk to disappear into a puff of smoke moments later. A beautiful but telling commentary on the ephemeral nature of celebrity. Katy and Dita looked slightly at unease. Prince loved the bubbles, apparently. One stunning dress in yellow bias cut chiffon with panels that danced around the model had every red-carpeter clocking it it up, licking their ruby lips… In reality, the real show centred on the Piranha Moment and Galliano’s infamous bow. He apparently even has a rehearsal for his bow. Now that I would love to see, the master posing for an absent audience!

And then it was over. I leave you with this post-show image. My camera died on me so I regrettably couldn’t take more. It says it all in a nutshell.

Show's Over

Show's Over


The Lone Ranger

Fashion’s Favourite Person seen from the back at the John Galliano show, October 7, 2009. Apparently, Anna Wintour was only in town for the run-throughs with designers before heading back to New York. Could this spell the birth of a new era of shows? A return to salon presentations held exclusively for the great and the good? Fashion is characterised by its tendency towards polarisation. On one hand there is the über private view and on the other we have live streaming of shows on the internet.  Interesting.

It takes two to Tango

It takes two to tan-go

Just had a thought. Are we all being taken for a ride, pawns in a game of fashion skullduggery? Perhaps the idea is to focus attention on the house of Ungaro again (✔), ditch La Li-lo pronto pronto and get in someone proper to do the job. Sounds implausible but there has to be a reason. Wonder who Keyser Söze will turn out to be…Hmmph.

The Usual Suspects

It was destined to be a disaster from the start. It was like the Cassandra Crossing all over again. One train. One wobbly bridge. One colossal bottle of fake tan. One liberal squirt on the tracks. A no-brainer, really.

Which begs the question: who was the brains behind this? Who was the Keyser Söze  in this caper? Mounir Moufarrige, C.E.O. of Emanuel Ungaro? Are there external forces at play? Forces from beyond the boundaries of logic, taste and good old business nous? What did they expect? Duh.

To be honest I’m a little bit disappointed in the fruits of the “collaboration” between tan-aholic Lohan and Estrella Archs. I expected something so earth-shatteringly bad that when the pictures started coming through I kept hoping that it would get worse. The collection was so redundant of any sort of spark, good or bad, that I’m not even going to bother posting them. See the usual suspects –,, The Fashion Spot – for your fix. Cheesy love heart print. Sequins. Dubious colour combos. Ham-fisted  styling. I mean sequinned love heart pasties? Really bad tailoring. The excuse is that Archs only had about a month to damage control but if that was the case why present 45 or so looks? Why not edit and sharpen the focus? Why not just do a presentation and follow with a stronger outing the following season when you’d at least tested the water? Whole thing smacks of desperation to me. Of a quick fix.

Part of me wants to think “victimless crime”.

Li-lo wasn’t up to much anyway. At least this gave her  something to do. Apart from self-basting, i.e.

Archs. Well had you ever heard of her before?

There is a lesson in all this but the sad thing is I don’t think that it will be learnt anytime soon. There is no shortage of two-bit celebs more than willing to put their name to any piece of tat and call it “designer”. There is no shortage of big wigs to Smell The Money and milk the Cash Cow. Squirt squirt. This time it seems that the move backfired.

The house of Ungaro has had a beleagured history since the eponymous couturier let go of the reigns: Giambatista Valli, Vincent Darré, Peter Dundas, sapling Esteban Cortazar. It’s like fashion roadkill. Admittedly, some of those designers have moved on to bigger and better things. The big question here is what does Emanuel Ungaro really mean today? Where does it fit in? In the eighties Ungaro was the go-to frockmeister for the party girl set. All those intense, flouncey florals and fuchsia flashes. Are those strong enough signatures to rebuild a brand? Christophe Decarin is doing nicely catering to the party girls of today at Balmain. And for those of them who don’t quite qualify as girls, well, there’s always Lanvin.

So what to do? The Ungaro fiasco is only a symptom. The cause? Greed, perhaps. Or maybe misguided goodwill to get a return on an investment, if we’re being kind. Most likely, a warped sense of what and who is cool and relevant. Ungaro isn’t the only fashion house out there trying to crawl its way back into relevance. Pucci – incidentally, with Dundas at the helm. Vionnet. The list goes on…

The fatal error was to associate an ailing fashion brand with someone who spends so much time in the tabloids and Worst Dressed Lists that she could take up permanent residency. Buy the whole condo to be honest. And that’s just plain foolish.

My all time favourite Versace show. Remember staying up to get my fashion fix on CNN Style with Elsa Klensch and Planet Fashion. Those were the days… Gianni channeling Helmut and Calvin and giving it a grintoso Milanese spin. Medieval Punk dominatrix glamazon. Those were the days… I look back now and realise what a big impact that show had on me. Ahh, Gianni, we miss you… it was getting so gooooood…

rodarte 3

Slash and burn. Rip tide. Fashion Arson. Trailblazing. The Sœurs Mulleavy are a force to be reckoned with. A backstage interview goes something like this: “Yeah, she was a witch that got burned at the stake and came back as a vulture, yeah!” At which point the interviewer takes a few tentative steps backwards whilst secretly trying to seek out the nearest fire exit. The prom scene from Carrie flashes through her mind. She starts to perspire slightly. Thank God she chose to wear the black Lanvin with bracelet sleeves – they might not notice…

Oh, yes, the Sœurs Mulleavy love a good horror movie. Their latest collection shown at New York Fashion Week, under the Rodarte moniker [a friend once comically quipped Rodent Arte!!! Haha!]  brought to mind a little known B movie called Superstition. A medieval sorceress gets burned at the stake and drowned in a lake. Many centuries later – 1984, actually – she returns to haunt the lakeside house and seek her revenge. Hokum of the highest order but quite fun to watch.

I’m in two minds about Les Sœurs Mulleavy. On one hand they have a really strong aesthetic that is unmistakably their’s. On the other, I struggle to see the clothes. I felt a pang of disappointment when I realised the Atzec-y tattoos weren’t clever tulle bodysuits onto which their collage dresses were underpinned but just… tattoos. I wondered what the clothes would look like once you took them out of the show setting, off the back of some ludicrously lanky model and hung it on a rack in a store next to say a Lanvin dress. How would it match up? I also find myself playing spot-the-difference with the outfits. Ah, this one has a slightly higher neckline. Right.

Well I guess in New York it pays to be different. No 50’s couture inspired dressing here. Or generic downtown cool. They make a statement alright. I just wish they would start to move the clothes on a bit.

P.S. The film Superstition came out the same year as Firestarter AND the Thriller video – 1984. Spooky…