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It was never going to be anything but fabulous… From the pink-illuminated facade of Old Billingsgate market to the rose petal champagne cocktails; from the red carpet gowns to the backstage tassels, it was a supercharged slink-athon from start to finish.

I managed to avoid the paps by slipping in through the back door; hot as I felt in my faithful Zelma dress, it wasn’t my night to shine on the red carpet.

Instead I grabbed a glass of champagne and went to check out the backstage talent. If ever there was a dressing room to be a groupie in, this was it. Bouncing boobs, pert bums, glowing skin and slivers of lace; dripping chains and sequinned pasties, girls being whipped into teeny tiny corsets and girls pulling sexy faces as they posed for each others’ Intagram accounts.

There was a huge section just for the shoes: towering Charlotte Olympia creations designed especially for the show by the vixen-like Charlotte Dellal, who had come with her husband as a guest to the show (and who, I later discovered, had based her entire outfit for the night around a pair of Agent Provocateur pasties. What a woman.)

The Fudge hair team were doing a sterling job of back combing, fluffing and pinning the models’ hair into the kind of style that a fallen woman of the Victorian age would have: big, bold and vigorously  shagged in.

Oh, it was a sight. I had to drag myself away to go out front for the Seven Bar Foundation presentation, where founder Renata Black delivered a stirring speech imploring people to support her charity, which focuses on the empowerment of women worldwide. The glamazonian fundraiser had half the room on its feet by the end – so they were primed and ready for the piece de resistance: yours truly.

The moment the dancers came out, in butt-revealing khaki shorts, stomping soldiers’ boots and aviators, things in the ballroom began to get rowdy. Men in dinner jackets were whooping, ladies were tripping over their ballgowns to get up to the catwalk for a photo.  The riot reached another level when Sarah Harding stormed out in army aviators and thigh high boots, and Peaches Geldof raised a booming applause in the ‘Wilhelmina’ white lace gown.

To be honest I found it a bit hard to concentrate on the catwalk as every footstep was punctuated with an aggressive chorus of ‘oh SHIT!’and ‘Help me!’ from some banker-types  behind me. Yes, I know Zara Martin is wearing a white lace corset, yes I can see for my own eyes that model slinking down the catwalk in a few straps of Christabelle nothingness, and of course I can’t miss Abbey Clancy’s epic body wearing only a few strategically placed flower petals. But please, men, try to control yourselves and not behave like a pack of primordial apes.

Although, reducing men to uncoordinated howling simians is, I suppose the preserve of women. And that is a rather empowering thing.

 

Till next time,

Miss AP xx

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