I'm not fashionable. Never have been, never will be, never want to be. Being stylish would be nice, but that's not likely to happen. So the idea of attending a fashion show full of wannabes and beautiful people is about as far from fun as I can imagine. However, Alex and I were persuaded to attend the Aberdeen Students Charity Fashion Show last night to see Laura modelling the biggest Victorian ball dress in the universe.
Upon arrival, it was just as I feared. Everyone was young, overdressed (or underdressed) and loving the vibe of the night. I was in tatty trainers, glasses and a heavy coat, carrying a bag full of work and junk, surrounded by hair gel and bare flesh. A teacher at the school disco. Downstairs in the show room, vantage points were at a premium, so I peered over heads whilst Alex tried to peer between them. It wasn't very satisfactory, but there wasn't much alternative.
The first set of outfits consisted of blokes dressed as members of failed 80s bands and girls as 1970s grannies. This was undoubtedly fashion and undoubtedly awful. Over-sized glasses look simply preposterous, and the hairstyles on show would be ridiculed by most people with even an ounce of sense. What disturbed me was the lack of adventure, of imagination. Everything was so conservative, Conservative even, harking back as they did to the glory days of Thatcherism. These are her children, and what a fitting tribute to her they are. Vacuous, shallow, stupid. Where was the passion and power of punk, or the crazy experimentation of flower power?
Anyway, after a drag queen interlude and some jolly hockey sticks and jodhpurs from the country set, the big dresses appeared. Laura was the last to go on stage, sashaying down the catwalk in a simply enormous deep blue gown with two suited twerps behind her. After fluttering her fan, she turned and departed, and Alex and I did the same.
Upon arrival, it was just as I feared. Everyone was young, overdressed (or underdressed) and loving the vibe of the night. I was in tatty trainers, glasses and a heavy coat, carrying a bag full of work and junk, surrounded by hair gel and bare flesh. A teacher at the school disco. Downstairs in the show room, vantage points were at a premium, so I peered over heads whilst Alex tried to peer between them. It wasn't very satisfactory, but there wasn't much alternative.
The first set of outfits consisted of blokes dressed as members of failed 80s bands and girls as 1970s grannies. This was undoubtedly fashion and undoubtedly awful. Over-sized glasses look simply preposterous, and the hairstyles on show would be ridiculed by most people with even an ounce of sense. What disturbed me was the lack of adventure, of imagination. Everything was so conservative, Conservative even, harking back as they did to the glory days of Thatcherism. These are her children, and what a fitting tribute to her they are. Vacuous, shallow, stupid. Where was the passion and power of punk, or the crazy experimentation of flower power?
Anyway, after a drag queen interlude and some jolly hockey sticks and jodhpurs from the country set, the big dresses appeared. Laura was the last to go on stage, sashaying down the catwalk in a simply enormous deep blue gown with two suited twerps behind her. After fluttering her fan, she turned and departed, and Alex and I did the same.
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