This fashion week I failed to get passes to any of the shows I wanted to go to, but hey, that’s fine; there are loads of trendy parties during fashion week, right? I can just spend my evenings farting in a corner, eating low-cal fruit bars and nursing sticky cocktail after sticky cocktail, then go home to write about architectural pleating, or, more likely, Archchuitexytk oleeting. Hmm, turns out the reality of these parties was actually far more depressing than I predicted.

Friday was the FASH BASH SOUND CLASH!! - Cool! I love parties where they play better music in the toilets than they do on the dance-floor, which at Bungalow 8 is comprised of a meter square between some sofas and the bar, where there are people who look like this:

Reppin’ Dubai

I would rather photograph glassware badly, than the middle aged wags at your party.

Shine on.  Are you as proud to be here as I am?

I wonder if Kimberly Stewart has pissed here before? I’ve made it.

Sunday was the Met Pink Drinks party. You’re not allowed to do fun stuff at parties like this, so the organizers hired dancers and candyfloss girls so people could at least imagine how they’d exploit the free drinks if they didn’t have a rep to maintain.

Watching people do fun stuff = OK.
Doing fun stuff = Not OK / Imossible.
Got it?

Not pulling a face here BTW. This expression is just a result of misery.

The Select Models/ Jaeger party was supposed to be a big deal, but it was just a tacky room where Erin O’Connor and Chris Eubank shared a booth behind this chick, who was about 60, and danced on her own all night:

I got extensive plastic surgery so I could get an invite to this.

This pose blocks out the sound of the DJ as well as demonstrating the open-bar for this photo. Practical.

In conclusion: the parties SUCKED.

BILLIE JD PORTER