They Killed for Fashion

It’s London Fashion Week, or it would be if they hadn’t had to stop because of the fucking pandemic. Everything had literally ‘gone viral’ and the shops and the stores and the markets and boutiques and catwalks had crumbled and closed. Unnecessary Public Gatherings had ended and the faces and the frocks and the fabulousness and the fashion darling had been asked to reinvent itself, to stop polluting so much, to calm down, to face the music, to grow up, to evolve, to revolve, to revolt, to promote ………………………. Kindnesses, it bit its lip to admit it had no interest in, to clean up to be less, well less more! To limit their excesses buy buying less dresses, “frock off Darling!”

“It’s not the fucking same online Darling, I neeeed to feel the fabric! And I need to be seen feeling the fucking fabric Darling!” Seen Darling Seen!

Put the devil in Primark! They were heard to remark, ‘Rafs gone to Prada’, Satan will just have to try harder. There’s a trade to be made here, but it not going to be Fair, not while there’s make up and lights and the shoes and the hair. Don’t care. It’s been this way for ever and must be preserved, conserved, revered and observed. Not Reveilled and removed, quantified and approved! “Frock off Darling!”

They’d no right to end the mannequin parade. What did they think this was for? “Get your fucking gloved hands of my fucking Dior!”

In the pursuit of perfection there were debts to be paid. Pants made, skins flayed and hot hip – hop tracks to be played, stars made, and wages of astronomy paid. Underground, there’s the sound! The sound of the underground, Now the bound of the streets was out of ‘Style’ A new playground would need to be found, A fool’s yard of fashion to adore and beyond. A new venue must rise, and a vibe must be found. Something Drop Dead! So Now! Forget Last season it was so viral! Something new. Now.

But they weren’t happy, the editors and the acolytes, the bloggers and the blaggers, the ‘ista’s and the influencers and the writers and the bullshiters. They weren’t happy at all.

Tagged? Registered, counted and accountable? “Don’t you know who I am? “Get Anna!” Tell Karl!” Frow Darling Frow – It’s the only place to be! Don’t you know! Darling Frow! “Oh, Frock off!” They ignored the advice, they were rebels, renegades, anti – establishment, heroes, Heroine chicers! Rule Breakers If they were going down the then they were going to look fucking fabulous darling!

So, they met, underground, silent disco sound so underground – no sound. Only the click and snap of the heels darling, on the floor stomping out that hippy rhythm just like before, and they sat and stood as close as possible, to get the shot to snap the chat, to tik the tok, and, but, shock! They couldn’t now share it, post it, roast it, toast it? Nowhere, cos it would track they were there, with no views of their hair? the bag? that hag? The wag?

So, secret it stayed till in lines they were laid, the istas, the editors and the acolytes, the bloggers and the blaggers, the ‘istas and the influencers and the writers and the bullshiters.

Laid out in rows with immaculate toes, with the bags and the fags in couture body bags.

The old century debate rattled on unabashed “It is Art Darling!………. Isn’t it?” There’s torture and suffering …………… There needs to be? Right Darling?  There’s no tangible purpose Darling? …………. Is there? “It’s symptomatic of the human condition Darling…………. isn’t it? It’s about diversity and creative cultural expression Darling! ……………isn’t it? It’s Fabulous Darling! ……….. Isn’t it? It’s Eternal Darling! ………………. isn’t it? It can never die Darling …………. Can it?

So, they’d kept it alive and they Killed for Fashion.

By Chris Hodge | @christyhodge41

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