I arrived at about seven and was met on the door by two blondes with smiles you can only buy from a dentist. I was ushered to the door graciously but managed to drop my bag and trip up over myself twice. I think that all of their model school posture training was wasted on me.
The show was staged in a new shopping center. The agency had hired the central open floor café area and closed off a parameter around it which was lined with new Russians grimacing at the prospect of not being allowed to participate no matter how expensively dressed they were.
I tend to stick out in a crowd. This is not due to my magnetic good looks and engaging charisma. It’s more downto the fact I am bold and wear weird clothes, which means that once I’m in a pool of pond life ponceing around trying to out important each other, I just can’t help but stick out, especially when all the people are suited up in Gucci, Boss and Armani.
I felt terrific though..
It was amusing to watch the snail trails from the expatriate fraternity as they slithered around competing for the glances of the ever so available cock quaffing femme fatales. “low key,” I thought, “just sit down and busy yourself with the camera – be nice.” There were also, surprisingly, some expat couples in their mid 50’s – husband and wives with that steady, but not really here kind of expressions. Probably client’s of the agency that seemed to be enjoying the event.
There were ash trays on the table, so I lit up. Suddenly Mr Ben appeared with a big walkie talkie and a badge that said his name ‘Jobs Worth’. “You can’t smoke here. It’s a shopping centre. Read the signs,” he barked gesticulating profoundly at the walls - all Brutus on speed and me quickly becoming Popeye. I got that little surge I usually get in these situations and smiled. “I don’t speak Russian, Brutus,” I answered and puffed away. “You….. can’t…… smoke….. here,” he said loudly and slowly drawing on his breathe and pointing a stubby finger at my cigarette. I thought it was only the British who spoke to foreigners like that. “So …why ….is …..there …..an ….ash….. tray….. on…. the…. table.” I pointed at the offending object in question and wiggled my finger at him. He stopped, looked at the ash tray, glared back at me and looked at the ash tray again. Leaned closer to it as though it was about to evaporate and wasn’t really an ash tray at all - took another intimidating look at me, then immediately turned and stomped off towards a small army of Brutus clones hovering around the walls nervously. “Great start,” I thought to myself, “be nice.”
I was soon joined by three model ladies who were eager to practice their English and I had no intention of hindering their progress. Masha, Dasha and Olga were absolutely captivating company and I quickly became the Hugh Hefner of the show, which was to the alarm of some lawyer type expat’s hovering at my shoulder. The girls were impressive to say the least so I’d gone into I’m gay mode. One expat approached and he was quickly shooed away as Dasha was engrossed with my business card and the possibility of a shoot in the future . Taking on a gay personae does come in useful when discussing business. I heard him grumble to his associate in an Oxbridge tone,” they’re with a poof,” as I camped it up gratifyingly appreciating the heaving cleavage hanging under my nose.
I was waiting for things to kick off and was becoming bored.
The show eventually began. I can’t say the event burst onto the stage, or even exploded, it was more of an ‘oh, it’s started,’ beginning. I went into camera mode and started making shapes at the back – discreet I thought… be professional. I was very professional, but the other camera men seemed to stop shooting when the girls turned around, so I seemed to be the only one firing off on their thonged behinds.. rude not to after all that effort.
I was impressed with the ‘price tags’ hanging off their clothes, which did add an endearing flavour to the whole thing.
The show lasted for about 90 minutes with the grande finale being the lingerie.
In true Russian style the lingerie show dropped the jaws of the foreigners around us, especially a couple of wives who I heard saying, “well,” in that disgruntled I can’t believe it tone. It wasn’t actually the lingerie which caused offence. It was the music.
The girls had waltzed onto the stage to the seducing sounds of, “fuck me, fuck me, I need you to love me and fuck me,” sung by whoever, but definitely worth the entrance fee alone as I watched several faces grin, drop jaws and generally look on wide eyed and helpless as they were pummelled by g.strings and profanity..
And so fashion week begins.