Tonight:
5°c
London Fashion Week kicks off tomorrow. Everything is nicely organised to the nth degree, apart from one significant thing. How best to honour the life of Alexander McQueen?
One idea mooted is to have a condolence wall, where fans can write or draw tributes. Meanwhile, over in a stadium in Earls Court, a more dramatic tribute has already taken place, in the lace-swathed form of Lady Gaga. “This is for Alexander McQueen,” she told the audience at the Brit Awards, having completely reworked her stage act as a tribute to her friend.
Obviously, one can never be sure how deep the friendship was between designer and singer, but with their mutual love of outrageousness and provocation, it is easy to imagine that it was genuine. McQueen may have been a dab hand at tailoring a jacket, but it takes a special kind of woman to wear his most outlandish creations — those in which his talent soared highest — and Gaga was that woman.
Watching the Brits, it was brilliant to see strong, batty-looking females like Gaga take centre stage after what seems like aeons of watching bland male indie bands dominate the music industry. How tragic Liam Gallagher looked in comparison, a thirtysomething dad throwing his microphone into the crowd. And how dated was Robbie Williams, trotting out his Rat Pack shtick with eyes like Kaa from The Jungle Book. Get off!
Five years ago, I remember being depressed by The Pussycat Dolls, whose video for Don't Cha was around while I was pregnant. Oh God, I'd wail, look at their stomachs. I'm ashamed to say they made me feel lacking in female beauty, but they did, momentarily, and then I had some crisps. True, the British music industry still has its fair share of women who have record deals by dint of their looks more than their voices, but it also has Lily Allen, Ellie Goulding, La Roux and Florence “The Machine” Welch. Whatever you think of their music (and I'll pass on most of them), they are strong, confident and quirky, and more positive role models than a bunch of singing Barbies. “Yes, I have a real woman's thighs but I love them and I will flaunt them in a leotard” was the message at the Brits, and how marvellous it was.
The fashion industry has always been full of twiglets, while the film industry's female stars are shrinking daily in front of our eyes. Even the quirky ones turn skinny and bland at the behest of Hollywood: can it be long before we see Carey Mulligan in Oscar de la Renta?
In the face of all this size six perfection, the music industry alone stands as a beacon of hope for women of all shapes, sizes and stylistic tics. No wonder fashion designers are queuing up to dress its brightest stars. Long may they shine.
A real winter warmer
Is it just me (probably) or are the Winter Olympics way, way more exciting than the summer ones?
Granted, things didn't start off too well — there was the small matter of the Georgian luger who died hours before the Games opened, plus we must gloss over the rioting Canadians and the fact that the UK has won zero medals — but the events themselves are thrilling. Ski jumping, snowboarding and speed skating are far more exciting than rowing, running and cycling, while any Games that counts sledging as an actual sport has to be considered pretty cool.
And if the sports themselves fail to excite, there is always the über-campness of the competitors. Check out the figure skaters' costumes: they make Brüno seem butch.
Encore! But without the coughs please
Midlife crisis moment No 25: spending Saturday night at an orchestra recital.
Dear lord, surely I am still too young to be listening to Poulenc's Stabat Mater at the Royal Festival Hall? Whatever happened to clubbing? And what's next: backgammon and scones at the Women's Institute?
If you have never been to a classical music concert, and ever find yourself, like me, married to someone who seems to have become prematurely middle-aged overnight, then here's a tip: don't go if you have a cough. So uptight is the classical music crowd that one is only permitted to cough between movements, or whatever the hell they're called.
Who knew? The consequence of all this repression is that, as soon as the last violin string fades, the entire audience breaks out in a loud, bronchial hack. It's very disconcerting but also really funny. In the sober world of classical music, you get your laughs where you can.
Romance the Simon Cowell way
I'm sure you will all join me in being giddy with delight at reports that Simon “Confirmed Bachelor” Cowell presented his new girlfriend, Mezhgan Hussainy, with a mammoth diamond ring on Valentine's night. For what could be more romantic? What, indeed.
Well, for starters, perhaps he could have done it in private, as opposed to during dinner with another couple, one half of whom was his ex-girlfriend, Jackie St Claire. On what planet is this normal? As every girl knows, there is nothing worse than having to display delight at a partner's gift in front of an audience: what should be a romantic gesture feels instead like showing off. Good luck, Mezhgan, you'll need it.
