I went to the first MAYJA fashion show for the year, Vivienne Westwood Spring/Summer 2010 in Wan Chai. At the Convention and Exhibition Centre, of course, not Lockhart Road. While walking into the Grand Hall 15 minutes before show time, I noticed Aarif, hot new local singer-songwriter, sitting all by his lonesome self, fashion faux pas early, front row not-so-center. I had just walked past him, then decided to pause, and announce: “Hi. Johannes. HK Magazine. I’m going to interview you!” “Hi. Uh... now?” he responded, somewhat startled. “No, not NOW. I mean like next week, if your schedule permits. I’m going through the proper channels; I’ve been talking to your people already. Enjoy the show!” I don’t know why I always do that at big shows. Last time it was Bryanboy. Fashion shows always does that to me. Fashion makes friendship blossom. It was the debut of the much-hyped collabo between Westwood and Lee Jeans. It was also the runway debut of our local fashionista and modern poet Wyman Wong (together with Lin Xi, they pen most of the imaginative lyrics for the tear-jerking genre of teen Cantopop). Yes, Wyman Wong popped his catwalk cherry and strutted down the runway in a theatrical cape, giant hat and pink leggings. I think the crowd was just kind of stunned and did not know how to react. I think we were supposed to use these inflatable sticks to applaud, but of course, NONE of us fashion people bothered to open up the plastic sticks placed at our assigned seats and exhale air into them 10 minutes before show time. I have to admit, I felt a slight pang of envy as I saw the Wyman werq it down the runway. Just slight envy. #$!*#$&#! Dammit. The show was supervised by Westwood’s pirate-licious hubbie Andreas Kronthaler, who flew especially in for the event. When he walked out nonchalantly for the finale, people were Flab. Ber. Gast. There was no after party. Just a restrained cocktail reception. No DJ, only a string orchestra. No crazy drinks for everyone, no models for modelizers. Just celebrities and VIP guests, and the proficient party crashers, of course, who made it past the ropes and the velvet security, ever so artfully. Over very subdued strings, we chatted with the talkative Hong Yi, an affable PR from Westwood London, whom my cannot-be-named friend, ___________, had actually met this first of January in the East End (Shoreditch) on a night named Kubicle at “the Toilet.” It’s a proper after hours club (think more Homebase than Homebase) named Public Life, but everyone knows it as “the Toilet” as it is an actual converted public toilet. I was thinking of naming cannot-be-named friend, ___________, to elevate him back to cool factor, but he whined and said that his identity cannot be revealed because he was at a club night named Kubicle at the Toilet on New Year’s Day. Whatever. I’ve bitch-pleased you enough times with your name in the column for less iniquity, but if you don’t want to be relegated to wickedness, hey, your choice. Muah.
