Anglomaniacal

Last night Selfridges had a case of Anglomania: the parking garage was taken over, not by a hungry hoard of camera and note-pad wielding fashion press, but bastions of Anglomaniacs and some of the Dame's most prized customers, including Lady Victoria Harvey, Nicola Roberts and Julia Restoin Roitfeld. It was a bit of a strange affair--more of a social event with a catwalk thrown in than a proper runway show, even though Daisy Lowe walked twice. Vivienne herself emerged from backstage before the show to sip lukewarm champagne through a straw in front row seat beside her son, Tim, and watch the show along the rest of us. With such an unusual frower in our midst, my paparazzi instincts automatically flared up and I began to squeeze along the side of the catwalk in search of that perfect shot when, to my horror, a burly security guard gave me an icy stare and asked me if I was a guest. I waved my entry rubber wristband in his face and went to resume my blogger's duties when the ogre put a firm hand on my shoulder and said "that's enough." That's ENOUGH? The whole point, surely, of a fashion show is to snap snap snap, cover, cover, cover. But this was no fashion show, if it walks like a marketing ploy and quacks like a marketing ploy, it probably is one.

Regardless, my evening was full of faux pas after faux pas. I don't know what it was, but I smashed two glasses (honestly, who puts an ice sculpture in a car park? And next to the bar where it looks simply like a sweaty glass surface upon which to rest one's drink?), walked up to Richard Young and said "don't I know you from somewhere?" But the greatest faux pas of all, as we were squirming in our seats, scanning the front row for the usual familiar faces and recognizing none, I turned to my friend Ally and declared with a somewhat exasperated tone that the laypeople had penetrated the so-called inner fashion sanctuary that is a runway show: "I don't see ANYONE here I know." In that instant, I look up, the Dame is standing right in front of me. Smoooooooooth.

Vivienne (left) and Young (Right)

The runway show itself was Westwood to a T. Bunched tartan in fresh spring greens, yellows and pinks, folded and tucked blouses, tee-shirt dresses with anti-propaganda messages straight from the Manifesto emblazoned across the front and so on. The accessories were the best part--sunglasses made out of recycled Coke cans, runner's bibs pinned to the front of dresses with messages about climate change and chunky plastic skull trinkity necklaces. This collection, with its collage of tribal prints juxtaposed with clean white and navy sailor stripes, bears the Westwoodian orb at it core: and it's far more intricate and sartorially crafted than Anglomania usually is. The attention to detail perhaps even surpasses recent Red Label collections, which is certainly surprising. But Vivienne said it herself at the reading of her manifesto: "Don't buy fashion right now, wait until you see something you really like...that will last you..." Seems like the Dame has taken her own advice and applied it to her entry-price label and created pieces that, even though the line holds the third place spot on the Westwood hierarchy, are intriguing enough to merit just such an investment. So next spring, get Anglomaniacal!

Daisy Lowe

A model presents Tim Westwood with flowers

The missing Obama sister, Dionne Bromfield, performs post runway

Dionne and Viv share a moment

Nicola Roberts and Florence Welch

"You only get ONE photo with Julia." Snap.