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Thursday, 8 April 2010

PUGH-EEEEEE



So I've been on a bit of a dated fashion TV trip recently, thanks to 4oD updating its available archives I am now fully re-acquainted with old favourites such as She's Gotta Have It, G Girls, This Model Life and best of all Fashion House. The fact that I am dedicating so much time to late Nineties and early Noughties light entertainment is probably quite an embarrassing thing to own up to, err do I actually have a life, but the rewards are so great I really can't stop myself. It's hilarious that what is shown as 'cutting edge' sophistication and improbably chic yet attainable high street style now look as cheap as a sale rail at MK One. I know in another 10 years we'll probably all be thinking the same thing about our masses of straight off the catwalk Topshop and Zara numbers, but hell let's just enjoy it while we can and cross that shoe-booted bridge when we get to it eh? 

Back to my salvation during (numerous) times of boredom - Fashion House. The shows undoubted highlight is the access all areas pass to a young and Beyonce-less Gareth Pugh. He is told by a crazy French girl called Fanny that he likes to show his nipples too much, is told by Valentino he needs to re-think his direction, tells his parents his clothes cost pittance to make but he's going to rinse rich people who can afford to pay what he wants and is unbelievably the first to be voted off. This show is like a mental version of early days Big Brother with all the crazies Italy, France and Sweden have to offer, along with copious amounts of GCSE standard 'design creations' being made from half a meter of maribu and some camouflage and lame tulle. Standout performance definitely comes from UK team leader and Head of Fashion something at Central Saint Martins, David Kappo. I really, really, really want to be his friend or at least stand next to him for five minutes before I die. Surprisingly there's oodles of big names involved, from Naomi to Donatella all paying a visit to the psychotic design house based in Milan. All in all, what's not to love?


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