The most interesting developments this show season happened not on the catwalks. Yes, Miuccia Prada made us pause for thought with her sizeist polemic and Raf Simmons’ Jil Sander collection left some confused about what sort of working women wore tailored romper suits. But all that’s just a mere distraction from the matter at hand – Fashion Broadcasting.

Munch: The Scream

Information overload or a democratic putting across of one’s opinion? This is the season where live streaming went a few steps further and you could pre-order what you saw careening down the runway. Designers such as Christopher Bailey at Burberry became reporters. Domenico and Dolce took us behind the scenes to stamp a seal of authenticity on their heritage of craftsmanship.They also have their own TV channel. Everyone’s tweeting, blogging, streaming, self-publicising. Clothes? What clothes?

The choice is dizzying. You have the Rocks of Sages on one hand – Suzy Menkes, Sarah Mower, Cathy Horyn, Tim Blanks – and his trusty camera man. Admittedly, Cathy’s the most with it of the bunch – New York Times Blog and Twitter! Let’s not forget the bloggers – Bryan Boy, Tavi, Tommy Ton, Susan Lau of Stylebubble, Diane Pernet, Garance Doré, Scott Shuman of The Sartorialist… the latter two are a real life couple. Cute.

Most interesting is when editors themselves become TV presenters. See Sophia Neophitou from 10 Magazine coming over all Mother of Carrie. I love 10 Magazine and they seem to love every show. Is that possible? Never seems to be a bad word said. Hmmmph. Its all very entertaining. The show must go on but under what guise, I wonder? Props to Alex Fury over at Showstudio. I think we’ve found our heir to the Colin MacDowell throne.

What next? Fashion Big Brother or I’m A Fashionista, Get Me Out Of Here!? That really would be hilarious. A bunch of fashion darlings trapped in a desolate factory in Romania forced to do menial tasks like stitch on buttons or fold jumpers. You could have them show their fashion stamina by setting up challenges where they have to wear labels like Escada or St. John and see who took the longest to breakdown. Actually, some of the boys might enjoy that. And how about trapping them in a dark room with interns hellbent on getting revenge…? Scary.

Yes, interns. The unsung heroes of this jamboree. I interned once at Clements Ribeiro – during their original incarnation, I might add, on South Molton Street. Some of my tasks involved hunting down Suzanne’s Louis Vuitton cigarette case she’d left in a bar in Soho – which one she couldn’t remember – the night before and mailing flat-hunting letters by hand for the evil product manager who wanted to live in a W1 postcode but couldn’t afford it. She actually wanted me to go around every residential property within a 1km radius! Witch! Miraculously, luckily, quickly I found the cigarette case and proceeded to spend three hours in Soho Square, in the glorious sunshine, cruising the talent. As for the Evil Product Manager’s mail-outs, they ended up in a bin at the back of John Lewis and I made my way to Selfridges to dribble over Comme and Margiela. There you go. Just desserts.

PS The irony of a blogger taking a wry look at blogging, etc. isn’t at all lost on me. LFN


Tweet me, baby, one more time.

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