My most controversial fashion take

The night I got London-pilled

I’m working on a theory that London is actually the world’s greatest fashion city. I know! I KNOW! You think it’s Paris… or maybe Tokyo… or maybe Shanghai… but I have to tell you that it’s actually London: the capital of propriety and perversion, of punk and of Brexit, of Burberry and baby fashion brands born in the halls of Central Saint Martins. In her acceptance speech for the “Vanguard Award” at The Fashion Awards (formerly the British Fashion Awards, but in an effort to globalize, they’ve dropped the “British” and aligned themselves as the only fashion ceremony that matters), Dilara Findikoglu said “London is a city to break the norms.”

Across the three hours I sat in Royal Albert Hall as a guest of Pandora, the presenting sponsor of the evening, I watched the British Fashion Council award Fashion East (the emerging designer platform that started the careers of Simone Rocha, KNWLS, and more), award Dover Street Market for championing indie brands and ideologies, award Delphine Arnault for the LVMH Prize (if she must be a billionaire, at least she vaults independent designers to the same level as Dior and Vuitton!), award Dilara and Grace Wales Bonner and Anok Yai, and celebrate figures like Melanie Ward and Pam Hogg, women who left an indelible mark on fashion by never following the rules. The diversity of talent and the celebration of potential struck me the most—being biggest or loudest or most “established” doesn’t really matter. The opportunity for creativity to shine does.

What makes The Fashion Awards presented by Pandora fun and worth boarding a transatlantic flight after engorging on Thanksgiving pie is that, unlike the CFDA Awards (which is more about the old guard vanguard), everyone goes. From Mick Jagger to Dimitra Petsa, from Cate Blanchett to Chopova Lowena, the hall is, like, 5 tiers high and from every rung spilleth cocktails, cocktail dresses, celebrities, students cheering and dancing.

In the designers and editors and photographers I crossed paths with was a happiness to see the weirdos succeed. Yes, everyone wants to be the best, be on that stage, get that hug from Michèle Lamy, but they also want to let their freak flag fly and celebrate all those who do the same.

You can go to a show in New York or Milan and find the world’s most random smattering of influencers, It Girls, and indifferent editors, slogging through a 12-minute spectacle because they’re paid to be there. At the Fashion Awards, the first people I ran into were Simone Rocha’s BFF stylist Celetstine Cooney and editor-turned-book-lord Isabella Burley. In head-to-toe Simone they’re the women who weren’t paid to be here, but showed up because they live that Simone lifestyle—they’re smart, sweet, sexy, stylish. Each fashion entourage has a believable identity: facepaint at Charles Jeffrey, slinky bumsters at KNWLS, futuristic drapery at Kiko Kostadinov. London is the only city where I go to a glitzy fashion shindig and actually believe that everyone in the rooms cares about fashion. They don’t just care, actually, they LIVE IT.

4:00 p.m: I’m on Substack live with Liana and Nicolaia and we’re waging a war with Liana’s social media-management app that shuts down her phone every 10 minutes. The door knocks and it’s Emma and Laura from Chopova Lowena. Time to get ready.

From 5 hotel rooms away, Lynette Nylander FaceTimes me and asks which of the dozen Simone Rocha dresses she’s been loaned for the evening she should wear. Instead of deciding, she comes over, unzips a garment bag of taffeta and faux fur, and we all try on frocks. This is the part of my life I love the most, being girly with my girlies.

Have you ever wondered how much hairspray is needed among four women getting ready for a night out? Getting the four of us out the door gives me a lowkey panic attack.

The traffic at 6:54 is sending the gang into a spiral about our allotted time on the red carpet and missing Chopova Lowena’s celeb guest, PinkPantheress. Because all our dresses are too tight and I can’t bend down, I have to ask Laura to help me fasten the buckles on my shoes. This feels like a good time to tell you I’m wearing my wedding dress. Designed by Chopova Lowena it’s a cascade of ruffles and flowers and charms. I love it so much I want to wear it everyday, along with my butterfly headband and the beaded shoes.

7:26: We have finally made it to the queue for the red carpet. The crowd is screaming Mia. MIIIIAAAA!No one named Mia is anywhere in the vicinity.

7:27: Alex Consani arrives and takes selfies with fans. The people’s princess!

7:30: Joe Alwyn is smushed in the center of the “non-famous” queue to get to the red carpet. Every other celeb, EmRata to Rita Ora has been escorted by the PRs to the VIP entrance. He seems fine, but please can someone get Joe Alwyn—and us—away from the thrashing wind and rain and closer to Getty Images?

7:38: PinkPantheress and Kai Isiah Jamal arrive. Kai looks fabulous in a tuxedo—“I wanted something simple!”—and Pink is wearing a Chopova Lowena bra and skirt, looking like the apex pop girl. She is freezing and her PR is trying to push us to the front. This is where things go haywire. We tell the PR guards that Pink is a celebrity and Emma and Laura are nominees for Womenswear Designer of the Year and the very smug man says “there are a lot of nominees” and turns away. (There aren’t.)

7:48: I give up and head for the auditorium. It’s just too cold to be standing in the rain, my hands are like ice. I run into Lyas on the steps (also freezing, also looking for his date). He’s wearing the JPG dick suit (no shrinkage!) and tells me his favorite British fashion person “has to be McQueen!” Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn, he’ll fly to NYC for the Chanel show and a La Watch Party he’s hosting. (A problem I don’t have because I am not invited to Chanel and when a stuffy British editor later tells me how “genius” it is that the show will be held on the subway and I laugh and tell them that’s so lame, like having a show on a London red bus. He seems disappointed in my ability to understand that to the upper 1% and their hangers-on, public transit is just so cute and cheeky. My opinion is that the 1%, and luxury conglomerates, should pay higher taxes so the subways they hold their fashion shows in can be more affordable to the citizens of the cities. But I digress!)

Back on the climb to the awards, the level of disorder and confusion of who is supposed to be where and doing what really illuminates how Britain could fumble an Empire on which the sun never set!

8:01: I am inside and immediately run into Isabella and Celestine by the bathroom. They are the two best dressed women in England. Today they’re wearing Simone Rocha.

8:04: Into the auditorium I run into three people I love dearly: Jake Burt, Stefan Cooke, and Nicholas Daley. They’re all nominated for menswear designer of the year, and have all been great party partners of mine at awards shows past. I spill my problems to Will Poulter, dressed by Nicholas Daley. He is very kind and looks at pictures of my dog on my phone.

8:13: I’m at my table with Pandora’s fabulous creative directors (If you are the CD of a jewelry brand you can make yourself a truly stunning gold coin necklace, which briefly makes me reconsider my career path. Someone told me the amount of jewelry Pandora sells in a year and I really begin to reconsider my choices. Before you call me a evil capitalist pig: The company is based in Copenhagen, didn’t furlough or lay off a single employee during COVID, and operates to Scandi sustainability standards.)

8:14: FKA twigs reveals a sculpture she is carrying as an accessory to the Pandora creative directors.

8:15: I’m sitting beside British Vogue’s Mahoro Seward (formerly of this parish!), who is one of my favorite writers and the kind of person who makes me wish I was smarter. I force Mahoro to take a sneaky pic of me and Cate Blanchett. I text the image to my husband with “GALADRIEL.”

8:16: Sharon Stone has arrived. Someone says “Mick Jagger” and I snap my head back to look at him. Sienna Miller sees this and chuckles. I can’t help it! I’m transfixed by the Stones and the lore, and I encourage you to watch the docu on Anita Pallenberg on Hulu and read Paul Gorman’s Granny Takes a Trip if you feel the same. It has an encyclopedia of Mick Jagger’s clothing at the back—generational swag.

8:27: The awards begin with the Isabella Blow Award that Craig Green, Simone Rocha, and Gwendoline Christie present to Dover Street Market. Dickon Bowden, who opened the first DSM store in London and is the shepherd of the DSM flock, says, “On the day we opened our doors Adrian and I were told by an industry stalwart this would never work … 8 stores later across the world, I guess you could argue we’ve done something right. … [Dover Street is about] the importance of creation and of a bigger story, something more than pure commerce … something with a soul.” I feel vindicated enough that LONDON ROCKS that I am ready to leave the awards because A-fucking-MEN, Dickon.

8:30: I have seen enough montages in 10 minutes to make this feel like a flashback to the year I went to 60 bat mitzvahs. Someone tells me “the last video editing job in London is editing montages for the BFC.”

8:41: Delphine Arnault is awarded a prize by Anna Wintour. I am transfixed by Delphine’s unplaceable and unemotional trans-continental accent. The way only a true honey-blond billionairess could speak. (See also: Lauren Santo Domingo, Tory Burch.) Anna Wintour says “creativity and imagination are at risk.”

9:01: There’s a long saxophone solo in the middle of Raye’s performance. It’s fascinating to see fashion’s cliques so out in the open. At the DSM table, Ronnie Cooke Newhouse (married to Condé Nast owner Jonathan Newhouse), Raf Pavarotti, Al McKimm (formerly of i-D), Simone, Gwendoline, Craig. The Givenchy table is fancy with Rooney Mara and Blanchett. Edward Enninful has all the celebrities: Mick, Sienna, Rita, Taika, Charlotte Tilbury. The McQueen table is the cutest: Beabadoobee, Celeste, Alex Consani, a man with glasses I assume is a famous director. Alex takes my phone and takes selfies in her McQueen scarf dress and then turns around to show me her butt. “It’s a bumster!” she cheers before glancing sadly at her crack and saying “it could be lower.” I love her.

During the dance break Myha’la gets up to dance with Marisa Abela and Sidney Toledano crosses the room to give Delphine a thumbs up. Delphine is definitely the favorite.

9:19: You’ll just have to try to YouTube Brunello Cuccinelli’s speech for the Outstanding Achievement Award. Spinoza mentioned. Ancient philosophy invoked. “We are the torchbearers of a new revolution.” He’s doing it all in Italian with a translator. If he started a cult, I would join. Every men’s fashion writer I know is texting me, riveted by Brunello. Boys love to get riled up.

9:24: I take an extended smoke break with the Simone Rocha gang. Private giggly time.

9:59: I go back inside to sit with Emma and Laura at their table (with Jake and Stefan too). Dilara wins the vanguard award and has to scoot around the entire table to make it to the stage.

10-ish: Jonathan Anderson wins Designer of the Year. He’s wearing jeans and a tuxedo jacket with two shamrocks on the lapel. “I’d never be on this stage without the British Fashion Council because they make space for people to be whoever they want to be, set up a business—and you can fail. Without the British Fashion Council I would not be where I am today,” he says. In his politeness and fury I’m reminded of why I like Jonathan and London so much. It’s a place for raging dreams that can actually come true.