It’s only November. 2,008 years ago, on this day, Jesus’ lungs wouldn’t have even been properly developed. And yet, the capital is already inundated with yuletide decorations, Frank Sinatra and vendors in red felt hats. Welcome to Southbank’s Christmas market!

Although almost everyone complains about how Christmas is ‘too commercial’ and ‘starts too early’, there’s something about the smell of pine needles that puts people in a good mood. Strolling down Belvedere Road (just off Waterloo bridge and in plain sight of the London Eye), people look cold and in a hurry, but happy and smiling. It could just be the mulled wine though.

The market itself is a half-and-half mix of German food and unisex gifts at reasonable prices. Here you can buy ‘traditional German Christstollen’ (sugar-dusted fruit cakes decorated with ribbons), hot roasted chestnuts (worth every penny) and cookies decorated with seasonal sentiments such as ‘Merry Christmas’, ‘Best Grandmother’ and ‘Chelsea’. If anyone knows why Germany seems to take over the meridian around this time of year, answers on a postcard please.

The gift-themed merchandise, contrary to the food, is so diverse and bizarre that it could be a Christmas special of a Dragon’s Den episode. Here you’ll find little owl statues and decorations. Another stall contains wooden ties (I sure bet your uncle Geoffrey would love one!), another – leather-bound books, or kitsch personalised bedroom door signs. There are toys from Russia and Asia, should that be your Christmas theme du jour.

In a way, it’s nice: everything looks traditional and organic. It’s the kind of thing well-meaning grandmothers buy for your little brother because they thought it was cute. These markets have probably looked the same since the middle ages. Sure, the signs got a bit flashier, and the hand-crafted toys are no longer hand-crafted, but the basic assortment of food and gifts probably hasn’t changed much.

It’s easy to be cynical and dismissive of the Christmas market phenomenon; after all, London offers so much more than just an offshoot of commercialised German tradition. Still, it’s worth going just to feel a bit of metaphorical warmth (or literal, if you get into the aforementioned mulled wine).

The people working behind those kitsch, not-hand-made stalls, they’re all wearing those red felt hats, and they all smile at you. The peanut vendor has old wrinkled hands that are covered in soot from the burnt sugar. The cookie vendors, they probably made some six-year-old kid genuinely happy to see ‘Chelsea’ written in buttercream frosting.

We have 11 months to be grumpy. Why not use the remainder to buy an oversized woollen hat for a tenner and wear it on the tube home, just to make life feel a bit less serious, for everyone?

The Cologne Christmas Market is open from 10am to 10pm, and will be on until December 23
Southbank Centre
SE1 8XX

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When I rocked up to the Natural History Museum for the last day of London Fashion Week yesterday I knew I was fully indoctrinated into the fashion massive when I was caught bitching in the queue for Ashish.

But to be fair to me it wasn’t exactly bitching. I was merely remarking on a ‘look at me and comment’ outfit that had just strolled past. Somebody with a head tattooed like a garden conceived on acid - complete with little decorative butterflies glued to it - simply holds no desire to blend in (unless they were supposed to be wallflowers on his head). 

Inspired by this ‘trendsetter’ panache I tried enticing a grey squirrel to spend the day sitting on my comparatively bland and unadorned cranium, but alas it ate the bait-nuts and fucked off, leaving me with nothing but crumby dandruff and the overwhelming desire to get a tetanus jab. 

Since my first fashion blog, in which I wasn’t entirely complimentary about the supposed ’stylist’ I met on day one, I have been dreading bumping into her in case she had gotten wind of my venomous bile. But as if to bookend the fashion week experience I saw her on the first and last days. This time she was wearing an ill-fitting purple bowler hat, held high with tight blonde ringlets entwined with orange wire cleaners, Johnny Depp circa Pirates of the Caribbean eye makeup, and a floral suit jacket. She was like a Batman baddy on a severe budget. 

Ashish’s work kicked off with some pretty agreeable urban glitz and army glamour: military bomber and trench jackets cut from bold camouflage print and emblazoned with thousands of shiny sequins. This was pretty cool and some trendy forthright individual could certainly pull it off in the outside world. 

Baggy pants were the order of the day (and the week) and each piece was topped off with a big accessory made from the branded ‘A’ (for Ashish): gold medallions, baseball caps, medals, broaches etc. Whatever happened to sleeping with models to leave your mark, or pissing on them even, heaven knows they could do with even those discarded nutrients? 

The military wear stepped back to adolescence with one poncho/overcoat that looked as if it belonged to a particularly diligent Girl Guide. There were dozens of patches sewed on but heaven knows what that frizzy-haired, pouting, five stone model did to achieve them, she certainly didn’t look very outdoorsy. Perhaps fashion week gave out alternative awards like the ‘scowling’ patch and ‘commitment to the binge/purge cycle’ patch.
 
A piece that got my attention was a black two-piece covered in white handprints. The model looked like a businesswoman who’d been molested by decorators on her way to work, which I assume is a bad look for anyone.   

Achieving maximum points in the ‘what the fuck’ category were sequined square dresses designed as playing cards. Whilst they would make amazing stage costumes for a glitzy production of Alice in Wonderland I‘m not sure you wouldn‘t attract odd looks in Pizza Express. I know it must be boring waiting backstage but finding an excuse to use the models as playing cards is just plain cruel. Yes they are flat and light enough to be used as cards. Yes they’re subservient to the point that they will accept being shuffled as part of a deck, but really, shiny playing cards? What a piss take. 

The pernicious side of fashion was most apparent at the Modernist show at the Mango clothing store on Oxford Street. The VIPs with their ‘stickered’ tickets were unapologetically late; fully exploiting the weight of their ‘coloured sticker status’ to hold-up the show and turn a blind eye to their tardy rudeness.  

The aspiration cattle were left to graze (or as the holding area was the first floor of the shop I guess ‘browse’) in the heat whilst a tiny voice occasionally whimpered ‘those with green and orange stickers please move forward’. It was like a 21st century form of social segregation; where certain colours hold greater rights than others. Fashion has created its own hemisphere in which to sift out the less worthy with a colander of pretension. 

Will Young, having been with the herd for some time, had managed to sidle up to someone who could whisk him through; giving a plumy ‘well done’ to his new found meal ticket as he sauntered past me. The insanity of the fashion hierarchy was already getting on my nerves, and I wasn’t even inside. 

Once the ‘coloured’ people had finally taken their preferential seats and the rest of us had been nonchalantly ushered to ‘stand anywhere at the back’ the show finally kicked-off. 

The bulk of the first lot of outfits were white futuristic dresses perfect for getting married in the matrix. There were some incredibly striking designs using ruffles that looked as though they had been beautifully stenciled from a pile of fluffy napkins using the sharpest knife possible; 3-D design at its most beautiful.
 
Unfortunately there seemed to be a lot of last minute hemming.  Some of the skirts looked like my mum’s curtains: huge lazy stitching by non-fussed aesthetically challenged persons. Overall it was a touch too purple and white for my tastes. Perhaps Silk Cut was trying to advertise under the radar since tobacco is no longer viable for legal promotion. 

Half way through the collection I decided I couldn’t take anymore and left. Fashion week has been like holding my breath underwater for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally coming up for air was incomparably relieving.

Despite spending a week swimming alongside the current best and rubbing fins with the catch of tomorrow I feel that my fashion gills will never set in. I will never survive in these waters. I am destined to fulfill my needs with low-cost clothing from the cheapest outlets, ignorant to the ‘hottest’ trends and ten steps behind the cognoscenti; and after seeing the vile industry people this week I’m grateful for my shortcomings. 

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Taking place in the salubrious setting of the Paul Hamlyn Hall at The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, this show was the most auspicious of my London Fashion Week outings thus far. I was off to see the coveted collection of Nicole Farhi. My eyes were peeled for celebs and my chest accessible for autographs. 

Though I consider myself one of London’s many cosmopolites, one place I still feel lost in is fashion circles and this show definitely upped the ante; I was unhealthily concerned about ‘what to wear’. 

After careful consideration and a perusal of my less-than-adequate wardrobe choices I opted for my traditional jeans and T-shirt, though courageously (for me) I tried out a little scarfy number; but even that left me feeling like a young child in a story who’s strayed from the path, and I fiddled with it annoyingly throughout.      

If the men who attend these things are the supposed fashion cognoscenti then I now live in fear of a future filled with large black shiny corsages and the return of the undercut. It is cases like these, and the resurgence of the skinny jean, where I’m thankful for the evanescent nature of fashion. 

Where I tend not to appreciate the ever-evolving catwalk is when it comes to my wallet. I have a million plus cardigans that I rarely wear now, so they better not go out of fashion just yet. 

Is it just me or does crazy high-fashion look worse on boys than girls? Men like Gok Wan seem to have gotten dressed whilst half cut, in the dark, and with one arm tied behind their backs; but the women they style continue to look great. 

Whilst the setting was pretty amazing it didn’t feel as authentically ‘fashion’ as the previous shows at the Natural History Museum. The glass atrium provided too much natural light, there were wooden chairs instead of cool black stools and the catwalk was on seat level and arranged in an S shape. The whole thing seemed a little twee. It was like taking afternoon tea in an upper class conservatory and the attendees seemed to mirror this with their twin-sets and understated clothing. 

This whole quintessentially British tea party feel was enhanced by the collection. An abundance of similarly-cut conservative dresses in varying gross floral designs; teamed with over-the-top wicker hats and giant bows.

The models themselves looked like emaciated grandmas in their aged dresses, it jarred. It was like the upper class children at high tea had dressed up in their mother’s (and grandmother’s) dresses and pearls and were playing at catwalks. I half expected the models to be wearing shoes that were four sizes too big. Long sleeves worn under the dresses further enhanced the anachronistic look of the clothes and the difficult to look at wire-cleaner-arms of the models. 

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Caroline Charles knows how to put on a good show. Opting for a live band instead of a banging soundtrack was a great way to enhance the quality of her collection at London Fashion Week. Though, when the band was announced it wasn’t clear if we were told ‘to clap’ or if the band were called The Clap. Either way I thought it best to avoid my usual behavior and try not to get backstage to bone the cellist.

Kitted-out in some nice swimsuits the models grouped at the opening end of the catwalk feigning conversation like a cluster of attractive ‘50s housewives at a pool party. The live jazzy music fitted the scene perfectly and it was probably the best conversation those models had ever had; even though they were most likely just mouthing ‘rhubarb’ and smiling. 

The playful interaction continued throughout the show as the models acknowledged each other along the catwalk, crossing paths mid-walk. One particularly gorgeous specimen filmed the paparazzi on a handheld camera whilst she walked, turning the camera on the press and putting a rare smile on the concrete camera monolith. This playfulness definitely did more for the clothes than the traditional sour-faced stalking. 

The bikinis themselves were like safari disco-wear: lots of bright orange, pink and yellow animal print. Unfortunately they were a bit cheap looking. If I was a fashion mogul my coin toss would always land on the side of real fur; spray painting the animal, making it dance for money and then skinning it in the name of fashion. That would definitely have looked better. 

After the big flesh and colour parade it all went a bit Working 9 to 5 on acid. More bright colours but this time it was ‘look at me’ officewear, mini-shorts and suit jackets worn unbuttoned over bras; office attire for horny anorexics basically. Can’t wait to see Evans pull off their own version for size 18+ women. 

My fashion companion particularly liked Charles’ line of dresses, and I must admit they were pretty; the kind of stuff you could see making an easy transition from robotic model to ordinary girl. 

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Sunday morning I arrived bright and early at the Natural History Museum to peruse the opening collection of London Fashion Week spring/summer 2009. It was like a scene from The Wizard of Oz (if the yellow brick road had a tedious queue). There was an abundance of backcombed lion’s manes, a lot of brainless chatter and the obligatory heartlessness; despite the rare sunshine you could still feel the chill of vacuous eyes dressing you down (and then up again in different outfits). Also, much like Dorothy, when I finally reached the end of the road I felt a little fucked over; there were no goody bags.   

Whilst queuing patiently to have my satiable thirst for fashion quenched I was set upon by some overdressed relic with more self-worth than a lion ruling a jungle consisting entirely of earthworms. She force-fed me her companion’s business card like an angry gaoler would a suffragette and then insisted on telling me a tedious story about her collection of £40,000 worth of vintage clothing and her lavish LA parties. Being unemployed I received these tales of grandeur as well as the most adamant of suffragettes; it stuck in my throat and was hard to swallow.   

I don’t think she could decide which piece of her expensive collection she should wear so she removed all the zips and wore them instead. Her young ‘stylist’ friend’s (I think daughter) fake tan was so alarmingly patchy she looked like a jersey cow with impetigo. Not fully content with that eyesore she had scraped a year’s worth of crusty old eyeliner from Russell Brand’s unwashed linen and shovelled it around her own eyes (‘trowelled on’ isn’t the appropriate analogy here as that would have suggested some semblance of aim). A piece of red rag that was once perhaps a make-do curtain tie-back was oddly fastened around her forehead to complete the budget pirate look. You would trust her to be your stylist as much as you would hire a racing car driver who turned up drunk in a rusty mini-metro.  

Once I had endured the queue I felt fully deserving of the six mini bagels I unhinged my jaw to consume, and headed to the catwalk for London Fashion Week’s opening show of Paul Costelloe’s spring/summer 2009 collection…   

I was slightly distracted throughout by a lady with a ‘Sarah Jessica Parker does robotic alien-contacting headgear’ (see SJP SATC premiere hat). It was so much like a tinfoil antenna that the plasma screen started beaming in images of little green men. Still, good for her if she can get a signal on the tube.   

Costelloe’s collection consisted mainly of casual wear. Some of it was pretty cool. The overuse of rope made it a little bondagey but I liked the general cut and the excess buttons, though I think this stuff looks better on men (see Rex’s exit outfit Big Brother ‘08). 

I wasn’t sure about some of the drab khaki materials and baggy bottoms; he left room in the bum area of lots of his pieces, inflating them to look like a baby who’s been dipped in the swimming pool wearing its nappy.    

My other head-scratcher was the misuse of black feathers and beads. It was as if he was an accomplice in a mass raven murder and was gradually siphoning off the evidence. The feathers were so out of place and ruined what would have been otherwise nice, amicable outfits.    

Also, I am aware that high fashion and comfort can’t always holiday together but one outfit looked particularly itchy, and so not worth it. It was like a short grey mini-robe with a hood, and made out of this gauzey see-through cheap stuff. The only appropriate person and occasion for this piece would be a slutty lesbian brown owl on camp trying to be down with the kids and pork one of the other leaders. 

A neat little design trick he played with a lot of his stuff was that he designed it to create an hour glass female figure. On the models it looked a bit like a plastic bag tied to a pole and inflated by the wind but at least it gave them a nicer, less sub-human shape. So that falls on the side of good say I. 

So it was a military, puffy, feathery, urban mix which had some high points and some 60,000 thousand leagues beneath the sea points; there was definitely a sense of incoherence but perhaps that was the point. Whatever the case he sort of pulled it off.   

When he walked out at the end to take his bow he looked so much like a mad old professor that I think he may have created his collection with the use of the periodic table and a couple of test tubes. I was expecting a funny little camp fella in ridiculous garb: black rimmed specs with a strategically placed measuring tape worn as a scarf.    

Given the queue, the air-kissing and the odd robot woman it would be easy to dismiss it all as pretentious bull, to denigrate it completely on the grounds of its air-kissing and the rest of its shiny polyester veneer of social self-importance.   

But, this stuff will eventually filter down through the various levels of malnourished foreign kiddies to H&M and then to its final stop on my poor ass and no-other-choice back. Much like the annoying woman I encountered in the queue, fashion is difficult to avoid completely. I’m not exactly sans fashion myself. I do have style of some sort, and just because I’ve fallen flatter than the model’s chests, my life as empty as their plates and my cashflow as powerful as the penile blood flow of a sugar daddy pre-Viagra, does not give me the right to throw stones.

Also ever tried aiming a stone at a lampost?  I’d have very little chance of hitting one of the models then.

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My choice of chocolate is about as sophisticated as my taste in wine. Give me a bottle of 1974 Chateau L’Espensive Blanc and a Tesco no frills home brand in a brown paper bag and I doubt I’d be able to tell the difference. In fact, if I’m paying I’d probably choose the cheaper option, because when it comes to my wallet and wine, ignorance is definitely bliss.

Likewise I’ll happily stuff my face with a slab of cut-price, trans-fat-saturated processed chocolate as I will an extravagant cream truffle ganache made from French Valrhona and pure Italian truffle oil. That is until I tasted the summer collection from La Maison du Chocolat. Now instead of mingling with the Malteser mob I’m elegantly rubbing shoulders with the exclusive Swiss-loving lot.

La Maison du Chocolat is about as A-list as you get in the confectionary world. The upmarket London branch of the world-renowned Parisian chocolatiers is located on Piccadilly, and you can gawp for hours at its delicate cocoa creations laid out counter upon counter.

Their summer collection is inspired by the colours and tastes of Seville in Spain, and includes five fruit chocolate cubes presented in contemporary fan shaped boxes. There’s the ganache lait melon whose soft and butterey centre tingles with a subtle zest of melon. The ganache noire ananas boasts a rich pineapple filling delightfully complimented by a dark chocolate coating, and the ganache noire à l’infusion de thé four fruits rouges (infused with tea and four red fruits – my personal favourite) is a sweet, gooey, almost jam-like sensation with strong essence of strawberry. As well as these there’s the praline noir anis with a crunchy aniseed core, and pâte d’amande aux two citrons (almond paste with lemon and lime) for hardcore citrus fruit lovers.

Every box from this collection comes with its own cool bag (not that there’s much chance of them melting this summer) where you can also stuff some summer tarts, macaroons, luxury ice creams and sorbets. At £39.00 for 40 chocolates they’re not Tesco prices, but thankfully they don’t taste like it either. Even I can tell the difference.

Le Maison Du Chocolat
45-46 Piccadilly
Piccadilly W1J 0DS

Tel: 020 7287 8500
www.lamaisonduchocolat.co.uk

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The average adult mouth is home to 32 teeth, and for some people these are all sweet. So if your gob is full of sugar-lovin’ pearly whites, and you have exhausted all that London has to offer, go around the world in eighty treats - minus the carbon-guilt - at CyberCandy in Covent Garden.

CyberCandy’s concept is dual-action: sweets from around the globe and yesteryear. And boy does it deliver.

There are plenty of American treats like Hershey and Twinkies, Japanese Yan Yan Stick Choco Cream, and Australian Milko. This is almost a specialist apothecary that caters for homesickness; with a plethora of global treats to satisfy any native tongue.
 
Britain is in a reflective mindset; the Spice Girls recently sold out and Take That made a triumphant return. We’d even merrily invite the Chuckle Brothers back to our screens. CyberCandy is the latest to capitalise on the current trend of nostalgia. Though it’s not a case of ‘a pound of bonbons please gov’, more last generation sweets such as Nerds and the like.

Nibbling on the sweets of your youth assures you that you haven’t been salivating through rose-tinted taste buds all those years. This store is much like a lucky leprechaun: it’s not very big but has a lot to offer; gifts, big-brands-on-acid such as Wildly Cherry M&M’s and Chocolate Mix Skittles, bizarre flavours of Coke and other obscurities.

CyberCandy
3 Garrick Street
Covent Garden
LONDON
WC2E 9BF

Tel: 0845 838 0958
www.cybercandy.co.uk

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Cadenhead’s Covent Garden Whisky Shop is so much like a naturalistic set piece that you would expect the bottles to be filled with brown water and the Scottie dog chained to the front desk to be stuffed. It is so effortlessly authentic inside and out, from the painted sign to the threadbare tartan rug, and the musky aroma that replaces the generic wind tunnels you find in the glossy department stores. 

But you’ve got to really like whisky, otherwise it’ll be as wasted a trip as Amy Winehouse visiting a nunnery. They have hundreds of different varieties and vintages, with over 170 malt whiskies currently in stock. They also have a good selection of cigars if you really want to play the part. 

Covent Garden Whisky Shop handles its whiskies with the affection of a parent cradling its newborn baby; they never add artificial colouring to their whiskies or subject them to chill filtering, which plays havoc with the true flavour and colour of the spirit.

Like any decent speciality stockist they lay particular emphasis on the individuality of each bottling, and it is uncommon for more than one whisky to be bottled at a time. This means that not only do individual malts from particular distilleries offer different flavours, but each bottling from each cask will also carry its own distinct flavour. 

Renowned for the art of keeping pure single malts in their most natural form this really is a four-leaf-clover for every discerning whisky lover. 

The Covent Garden Whisky Shop
3 Russell Street
Covent Garden WC2B 5JD
Tel: 020 7379 4640
www.coventgardenwhiskyshop.co.uk

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The retro clothing market is becoming increasingly cluttered, hence the epidemic of lacklustre stock sweeping London. One time exemplar traders are now attempting to pass off last season’s retro pastiches from the ubiquitous Gap and H&M as original vintage wear; a somewhat radical interpretation of original stockists.

Enter stage West: Beyond Retro has long been supplying the East End with top-end vintage threads, but it is not widely known that the finger-on-the-pulse Canadians, who import from warehouses in their home country, have opened a store in Soho.

This is not an uninspiring regurgitation station, but a plethora of high quality gems. Creaming off only the best-handpicked items from all over the globe, you can expect to find hundreds of one-of-a-kind garments.

Beyond Retro clearly has an eye for the current trends (employing trend analyists to maintain the quality for which it is known) with its highly selective stock tipping its hat to the High Street. Prices are what you would expect: reasonable but not extortionate for the market.

Whilst there’s the familiar foraging specific to second-hand retail, finding something great is more penguins-in-a-zoo than needle-in-a-haystack; the best garments will always favour those prepared to rummage.

The store has an amazing collection of 1930s Bakelite, an endless supply of vintage boots, and of course the old favourites: Western shirts, college sweatshirts, chunky knits, printed Tees and accessories.

Also, whilst I’m sure it may not be the intention, some of the more flamboyant garments will make for excellent fancy dress if you need to get kitted out for any of this summer’s music festivals.

Beyond Retro
58-59 Great Marlborough Street
Soho
London
www.beyondretro.com

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The place is Brewers Street. The year is 2007. Though not for long. At Vintage Magazine you’ll find an authentic retro palace that’s more welcome than a cool breeze on the Northern line.

Whilst some things are better forgotten in favour of their superior modern counterparts, others will have a place in hearts and lives forever. And while it is unimaginable that Dyson will revert to a ‘less suction’ Hoover, or McDonalds will create an ‘increased fat’ menu, classic entertainment retains its value as a provider of emotional bookmarks for times in your life.

The potential for disaster with regard to vintage stockists reads scarily high on the ‘miss-the-mark-o-metre’, with many vapid and bland attempts at vintage trading. On entry to this Aladdin’s Cave one can be forgiven for impulsive histrionics when catching their first glimpse of a Top Gun movie poster or an original Beano comic from the ‘60s.

Never has a trip down Nostalgia Avenue been so gratifying. If you need any help the staff, all graduates from the school of ‘could we be more informed’, are veritable métiers in their occupation.

Vintage Mag offers a unique mixture of magazine back issues and entertainment memorabilia. Here you will find over 250,000 original publications from throughout the twentieth century, movie posters, vintage advertising prints, retro toys, celebrity photos, vintage T-shirt designs and more.

Essentially the shop has more classic feel-goodies than you can shake a bellbottom at, making it a plenary example of a vintage trader in its field. Vintage Magazine also hosts regular celebrity autograph signings, which has included Dave Prowse of Darth Vader fame. Charmingly, if you are not able to go to the shop in person, they can have the celeb personally sign a photograph and post it to you.

Vintage Magazine
39/43 Brewer Street
London W1R 3SD

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