Such is the blurry-days-into-nights-into-days fog that descends over Paris Fashion Week, the only way I can recall post-trip what went on and where is via trawling pictures and identifying what outfits I wore and when. Anyway, here’s a hazy recollection of Parisian misadventures with my accomplice, designer, Johanna O’Hagan.

Thursday began with a tres civilized and pleasant affair at the plush Mon Hotel for a Glam Media publishers’ love-in with Style Cartel, Mademoiselle Robot, Clothes Whisperer, Wonderland Charlottes VVeb. The frustrating egg-cup sized champagne portions did encourage much yo-yoing to the bar, mind.

Whizzing to Le Meurice to catch my idol and namesake, Grace Jones playing at the Viktor and Rolf bash, the intense scrum outside and subsequent lack of entry inspired at first, anger, denial, fear, then reluctant acceptance. So on we roll a few doors up the rue du Rivoli to the VIP lounge for Barbara Bui - and what seemed like a case of de ja vu finding VV Brown performing - exactly like the last time I was there.

What a heinous error of judgment it was to return to the VIP the following night for the Model’s Rock party. Crawling with slimy Eurotrashy creatures it was an anti-fashion party of epic proportions. Quitting that bitch faster than you can say, “fuck-am-I-in-Paris-or-St-Tropez?” it was onto Le Baron where it seemed all of NYC had descended into Paris for Sunday’s New York New York party, including hosts and good-time-guys, Steven Rojas and Tommy Saleh.

Retarded moment of the week came when I turned to bon vivant and all-round dude, Tommy at the bar to exclaim, “Haha, look at that guy he looks like a really fat James Murphy” only for him to yell over, “Yo, James, you wanna drink?!” Needless to say, I forgot LCD Soundsystem were in town to provide the soundtrack to the YSL show…

Arriving at the On|Off do at L’ARC stupidly late on Saturday (think we were operating four time zones behind) we missed the actual party but were able to catch Lee On|Off for a chat and a few vodkas before scooting off to Baron again. Here I bumped into fellow Londoners, Henry Holland, Robin Sketch and total asshole, gigolo and self-styled author, ‘Golden’ (who was rude to me ‘cos I refused to sleep with him years ago - pah!) and literally, bumped into Mark Ronson vacating la toilette whilst zipping up his flies. I think that mental image will be indelibly marked in my brain forever.

Fashion Fatigue had well and truly set in come Sunday, which made the New York New York party at Le Regine virtually unbearable - to say the dry-bar inflamed the pain is an understatement. Wandering around like a zombie I spotted Busy P, Matthew Williamson, Mishapes, Hannah Marshall, the omnipresent Mr Holland, and actual zombie, James Goldstein.

United with fellow sufferers, photographers Laurence Passera and Chris James, we knew old faithful Baron wouldn’t fail us. Busy P made a repeat-appearance, a hilarious Mark Eley Kishimoto bowled around in a very lubricated state, sporting a nasty gash on his forehead and a tired Amy PPQ snoozed off on a banquette. Olivier Zahm, his perma-aviators and Camille Bidault-Waddington managed to hold court till the very end.

Drained yet determined, we bundled in a cab with Nathan Gossip (who’d been spinning at Baron) joining Jean Pierre Braganza at designer Tillman Lauterbach’s studio, who in honour of his British guests, charmingly served tea with vodka. At 8am. From thereafter it was no sleep till London…

Clicky here for last season’s Paris mayhem

Images courtesy of http://www.weknowwhatyoudidlastnight.com

Posted on March 12, 2010 at 4:42:22 by The Real Runway