The Jungle of Rhinestone; The Clothes Show Live

The world of fashion is one that not many people can afford to enter. A world of divine models, £10,000 handbags, celebrities, and a lifestyle that many cannot even imagine. Once a year this world appears one step closer when a handful of designers open the gates to the jungle of rhinestones and reasonably priced fashion.

 

It was 1pm in the afternoon and we’d travelled for hours for the chance to witness fashion at its most barbaric. The bus had come to a halt in a large parking lot, and many of the girls peered out of the windows with frightened yet curious eyes. One by one, we peeled ourselves off our seats and exited the bus to await further instructions from our guides. After a short briefing we marched towards the dangers that only a few of us knew lay ahead. We arrived at the entrance to the fluorescent jungle and strategically divided ourselves into smaller troops according to our needs; food, water, clothing, face paint and shiny artefacts. I joined the troop on the search for vintage goods. The swarm of girls slowly spread as each troop carefully ventured into the jungle of glitter, sparkles, and ferocious neon-clad predators.

 

I stepped through the entrance into a field of pink and was immediately ambushed by two girls with a bunch of glossy leaflets. I escaped their wrath with only one flyer advertising something cheap and shiny which I quickly discarded. Once I had safely cleared the entrance I spun around in search for the others. My troop had vanished into a blur of pink carrier bags and I immediately knew I had little hope of seeing them again. My quiet moment in memory of my fallen troop was cut short by two girls shooting past me and another five pushing me deeper into the heart of the jungle.

Everywhere around me delicate dresses and sequinned tops were being torn from the rails and tossed between frenetic teenagers ready to lose a limb for a good offer. Amid the flock hovered two salesmen who preyed on the desperation of the girls and were happily yelling “Two for one! Buy one get one free!” to encourage more savage behaviour within the flock. I made an agile escape and watched the territorial fight unveil behind me as I continued down the purple path. In front of me, another flock of teenagers were making a foray on a jewellery stall. The more tranquil girls were lining up like geese outside two caves, waiting to get their hands on the Holy Grail and Sankara Stone of fashion; Allsaints and Juicy Couture.

 

The sound of wolf whistles and high pitched giggles was deafening and continued getting louder as I made my way down the blue trail. I had reached an elevated platform on which half naked men pranced up and down like gazelles, much to the delight of the young girls who gawked at the beautiful creatures through their camera phones. Girls walking past the show marched on in their best imitation of a catwalk strut on their impractical heels. Although the jungle was hazardous, most of the girls seemed too preoccupied with their looks to take notice of the many threats that lurked around the corners of each stall. The extremes that some of these girls went to, hoping to get mistaken for a model, were astonishing. With complete disregard to the hot and humid climate, a short and slender girl tottered down the black passage wearing her mom’s thick fur coat.

As I reached the end of the blue trail I had found our two guides. During the hour that we had all trekked through the wilderness, they had built a barricade far from the riotous wildebeests. After a quick rest, I continued my journey to the nearest waterhole for a much needed cocktail.

While I queued for a gin and tonic, my strayed troop had appeared bearing numerous bags of the hard-earned goods they managed to snag from the clutches of the young beasts. They all looked incredibly proud and worn out, and seemed ready to throw in the towel and surrender the fight for fashion. Everywhere around us defeated girls sat with their faces melting onto their glittery tops and their heels tossed aside. Everywhere people were getting battered and bruised. This is the reality of the Clothes Show Live.

 

Foolishly, I had come to the event expecting beautifully draped Prada gowns and sculptural Louboutin heels awaiting the wrath of frenzied women and their caddies. Instead, I was met by fluorescent carpeting, hundreds of overly enthusiastic teenagers and an atmosphere that I had last experienced at a knockoff Thai market in Prague. For hours I felt as though I was walking in circles, passing the same sparkly tube top dress at least 20 times in different stalls. When the girls proudly showed off their purchases, two more pulled out identical or similar pieces which they had picked up at the stall next door.  The Clothes Show Live was far from the glamorous image that I had conjured up. The place was overrun with young girls with their parent’s credit cards, clothes which looked cheap, and never-ending queues to the few booths that sold items worth purchasing. The girls seemed possessed and all civilities had been temporarily erased from their minds as they tried to get their hands on the sparkly clothes by any means necessary. I fled the Clothes Show Live with minor bruises, a crushed spirit, and the impression that I would have been far safer in the heart of the amazons.

 

Justin Hawkins

 

 

 

When people die, their next move is usually determined by their faith and beliefs. Christians go to heaven, Atheists get buried, and Buddhists, depending on their karma, either get reborn or enter Nirvana. But what happens to those who worship sex, drugs and rock n roll? Rock stars lead loud, vivacious and promiscuous lives, filled with girls, liquor, coke addictions and the occasional lovechild. When the rock star lives, he lives it big, but what happens when he stops shining?  We’ve seen pop artists disintegrate and rock stars die before their reputation. When it comes to death, their reputations rarely have them beat, but if by an evil twist of fate it does, the star falls into a state of limbo awaiting rebirth. I was here for that exact reason, to witness the reincarnation of a rock star.

As the lights dim, the murmur loudens, and hopeful faces of pierced youth begin bobbing up and down trying to get a glimpse of the stage. The lights center, and with a deafening bang, the bobbing stops and all eyes fixate on the spotlight. A thin blanket of smoke begins to rise and deepen, carefully hiding the silhouette which emerged within the cloud. Two flames shoot up, the lights explode, and the phoenix began to rise from its ashes.  Justin Hawkins had been re-born. 

After an hour of what Justin himself describes as “very fine man rock”, I pushed my way through the herd of fans and headed backstage to meet the former frontman of The Darkness. When I entered the room, Justin had just flung himself onto a couch with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. It was hard to believe that the iridescently clothed character spread out on a couch in front of me really was Justin. His dynamic transformation still had me questioning whether or not he was the real deal as he looked nothing like the cadaverous drug addict that I remembered him as. His pallid complexion had returned to a healthy hue and his greasy locks had been washed and bleached into a presentable blonde style which still suited his rock star image. The tattoo on his bicep had also advanced and now engulfed the whole of his right arm which he enthusiastically stuck out to greet me.

Justin’s big break into the world of music came when his brother Dan suggested he be the frontman of The Darkness after having seen Justin’s recreation of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” at a New Years Eve party in 1999. He had the look and personality to get the band noticed, and soon after having released their debut album, Permission to Land, they were topping the UK charts. Unfortunately, with fame came money, with money came drugs, and with drugs came an expensive cocaine habit that led to Justin’s departure three years later. Having checked himself into the Priory rehabilitation clinic, The Darkness temporarily put their bassist on vocals while they waited for Justin to better his lifestyle and re-join the band. Since he left the clinic a year later, Justin went on to sing backing vocals on Def Leppard’s cover of “Hell Raiser” and also competed to represent the UK at the 2007 Eurovision song contest, however he never returned to The Darkness. The star had survived the rollercoaster that is the life of rock and roll, and after a year’s break jumped right back on it for a second ride. Although his new band Hot Leg is doing well, they are far from the fame and success that The Darkness held.

“Obviously the money was better but that’s really the only thing that was an improvement,” Justin grunted when I asked about his old band, “the act of writing songs with The Darkness was really unappealing and it was all a major labelely kind of thing, trying to cling onto our status. We never really had a chance to develop as a band. The only thing that was getting better was my costumery and my coke habit.”

As well as fronting the new and rising band, Justin plays a vital part in the management of it and even keeps a well updated YouTube diary in which he takes us through the life of Hot Leg. The videos include everything from band sessions to clips of scenic views from his hotel window and of the backside of his maid. In the diary, he left many of us wondering what exactly he had meant when he described his music as “very fine man rock”.

“It’s like rock; it’s a lot like rock. Perhaps a little bit more manly.” Justin explained as he plumped his feet on the table and made himself even more comfortable. “It’s a musical distillation of all that is man. Not male chauvinistic or exclusive in that respect, just the qualities in man that we can all appreciate. It’s not the same as cock rock, which is a very different thing altogether; that’s mans penis rock.”

When I asked about the name Hot Leg, Justin revealed a toothy boyish grin much like a child who had done something cheeky. “It’s easily the worst name for a band ever. It’s a logo thing. The logo gave us the opportunity to have a leg with some flames around it. It’s the sort of thing you can tippex unto your pencil cases.”

As I looked at the giggling Justin, I saw the same fun loving and spirited character that I remembered seeing on MTV many years ago. He had definitely changed, but not too much. The essence of Justin Hawkins remained the same underneath his shiny new exterior. Was it really possible to change someone with such a strong character, someone who messed things up the first time around? In the words of Justin and I, “you can’t polish a turd” but you can sure as hell try.

 

 [All the quotes are real and were said by Justin Hawkins during an interview at Southampton Solent University. The setting however is made up for the benefit of my assignment.]

The Copenhagen Manifest Fetish Fashion Party

Throughout years women have achieved great things. We have piloted space shuttles, walked the North Pole, won Olympic marathons, but most remarkably, we have mastered even the most ridiculous high heels that designers have thrown our way.

I myself have steadily built up the skill of walking in heels since I was a 4 year-old strapping Lego blocks to my feet, until today as I teeter in 5inch stilettos, all a little too small, a bit too high and far too expensive. Being confident that I have now mastered the art, I was dumbfounded when I tumbled off my most recent splurge and flew straight into the arms of an innocent by-passer on my way to the bus stop.

I had Burberry to blame for that little blunder, with a pair of heels so baleful that if they weren’t meant for fetish parties, I wouldn’t know what to wear them too. Luckily, or rather unluckily for me, that was exactly where I was heading. My friend had recently discovered her inner pinup girl and as well as talking me into a rather kinky photo shoot, she liquored me up, leant me her corset and set me on my way to a party that would make even  the most callous sadomasochist blush.

Arriving at the misleading red carpet, we were pointed in the direction of a unisex dressing room, where men transformed into women and women morphed into an assortment of animals.  As I frantically searched for a private area to change, I realized that in a place as small as this, there was no room to be coy. Having eventually found a somewhat secluded spot near a friendly drag queen, my friend and I began our metamorphosis. Once dressed, or rather undressed, we made our way back down the red carpet wrapped in blankets, and entered stealthily through a dimly lit doorway.

“Tickets!” snapped a women dressed head to toe in a green PVC military outfit straight out of 007’s Golden Eye, as she cracked the booth she stood behind with a horsewhip. An ecstasy of fumbling broke out among everyone in the queue afraid to hesitate a moment too long in front of the creepy whip lady.  As we proceeded, tickets in hand, our obviously distraught faces drew attention to us, and the friendly drag queen whom with we had a brief yet personal encounter, smiled and whispered : “Relax, don’t be shy. Trust me, people here are friendly. Besides, the more open you are, the more you get.”

What he meant by that I was not too sure, but decided that I probably did not want to question the matter further.

Fetish etiquette was something we were clearly unsure of, so we decided to indulge ourselves in overpriced champagne and hide behind a clouded judgment. The journey to the bar however, proved harder than initially thought. Carefully, we slalomed down the corridors between gimps and French maids while avoiding what appeared to be medieval torture devices. Somewhere between the vacuum-chamber and the stocks, I lost my friend and was left to fend for myself. As I slid through the crowd I felt as though I had hit my head on one of the dildos suspended from the ceiling, knocking me down an ominous rabbit hole into a perverse Alice in Wonderland sort of parallel universe.  A woman trudging past me wearing luminous horse gear and a pair of hooves interrupted my thoughts.

The Manifest Fetish Fashion party was according to many the place to be that Saturday night, and I have to admit that they really did offer the crowd everything from latex to lashings. Encapsuled in a surreal bubble of the bizarre, the six menacing ballrooms had been carefully decorated in a way only appropriate for such an occasion, with stirrup seats much like the ones you would find at your gynecologists office, replacing the potted plants that normally perched in the windowsills at more subtle events.

As I grew accustomed to my odd surroundings, I looked down and found a girl kneeling in front of where I was sitting. Immediately, 20 bad thoughts ran through my mind as I was waiting to find out what she was doing. Her face lit up in a grin.

“I know you!” I was terrified.

“You dated my ex!”

By then I was mortified. I let out a squeal disguised as a laugh and hesitantly agreed that that might very well be possible.  At that point like a knight in shiny latex, my friend came galloping through the hall alongside the now befriended horse woman, and came to my rescue.

With all my senses on overload, I had not stopped to realize the small but very scary possibility of running into someone familiar. The ex of an ex smiled again and wobbled off on heels that put mine to shame.

Warily I screened the remaining crowd for any more familiar faces. Suddenly, the kinky uniforms aside, they all looked like my old high school teachers, neighbors, doctors, and even grandparents. The horse woman, who now suddenly looked like my librarian, trotted off and my friend and I decided to call it a night.

As we got dressed and staggered down to the bus stop, I began to think about whom the people may revert to as the sun began to rise. The drag queen may suit up to be a stockbroker, the horse woman may have acquired her skill of impersonation as an actress, and as for the girl kneeling in front of me, she was just an average student with my similar bad taste in men.  As for the rest of the women, when they are not prancing around in ridiculously high heels and fetish outfits , they may be piloting space shuttles, walking the North Pole, or may even be winning Olympic marathons.