Bold as brass this lady. She’s one of the most respected fashion writers in the business and her opinion is sought on almost anything, but when a young fashion designer walked up to her and thanked her for her vote, something was clearly wrong. The writer, you see was on the board of influential people who had in their hands the ability to grant a stipendium, worth thousands of pounds to grant to a very lucky designer, funding their future shows. Only the young designer who came up and thanked her for voting for him, didn’t actually receive her vote. SHE VOTED FOR SOMEBODY ELSE! The fashion hack smiled and thanked him regardless. The cheek!
She’s a lovely lady by all accounts, but she’s going to have to curb her habit of making use of fashion samples. The very pretty fashion director in question, took it upon herself to ‘borrow’ next season’s, really-must-have, designer heels from her magazine’s fashion cupboard to wear to the shows – naughty naughty. Turns out she staggered and hobbled around and filled herself with Neurofen to cope with her pain threshold. Fashion karma wasn’t on her side when the silly cat fell arse over tit on the gigantic heels and ripped her very best trousers. Oh dear, fashion karma – the fashion Gods work in mysterious ways…
One of the biggest hi-lights of London Fashion Week last September, was the party thrown by Sarah Brown, wife of the Prime minister Gordon, (in case you weren’t aware), at 10 Downing Street. The great, the good and the should-have-known-betters all turned up in their best borrowed togs to sip champagne and hobnob with the big nobs. All went swimmingly according to spies, and Sarah Brown is said to be “a hoot”, but this is the fashion corps we’re dealing with here and something was bound to go awry. Towards the end of the evening some of the invited rabble decided they needed a momento -10 DOWNING STREET BOG ROLL to be precise. Tons of the stuff! Only thing is, it was normal everyday stuff, the kind you get in Tesco – no Royal Crest, no embossing, no nothing. But they nicked it anyway.
Gawd bless this fomer porky, now slimmish editorial director of a marvellous quarterly. It’s the Paris womenswear shows, the City of Lights is living up to it’s moniker and the fashion press are driving form one show to the next drinking in the unparalleled creativity. Suddenly, our aforementioned friend spots the next show, walks up and joins the black-clad happy throng. Well, he thought it was the happy throng, it turns out it’s not to be a happy throng at all, it’s in fact a sad throng, a sad mourning throng. Our hero had clocked everyone dressed in black and thought it was the queue for the show. WRONG! It was a funeral. Oh no. The daft get, backed off quietly from the grievers hoping nobody had noticed. Oops!
There’s one high-haired men’s Fashion Editor who after to bothering to catch a plane to New York for fashion week, didn’t bother going to any shows at all. The handsome chap’s novel approach to show week revolved around his TV, or rather the DVD setting on his TV. Our friend is a fan of fisting videos – lots of ‘em. The duodenum digited dabbler likes nothing more than choking his chicken whilst the filthy on-screen fisters get it well on. After shooting his streams of pleasure muck, the lube fan simply wipes down, raids the mini bar and starts again. It’s a dirrrrrty pass time if there ever was one and good fisting luck to him.
There’s one fabulous friend of Maison Ten, whose eyesight is not exactly what it should be. This high-haired fashion player has the enviable job of writing about the most beautiful frocks in the world, as she passes informed comment on le dernier cri. However, during one particular Milanese designer’s party, we witnessed her bitchy side first hand: “Look at the state of that dress, what a flacking munter! Did she get ready in the dark, I had no idea it was fancy dress!” And she laced into the poor girl, good and proper. It was only on closer inspection, that she realised she was, in fact, wearing EXACTLY THE SAME DRESS AS THE VICTIM! Off to Specsavers, lady.
Most people would never admit to being middle aged in fashion circles, indeed many members of the press do all they can to avoid it: lying about their age, wearing youthful clothes and even having surgery, but there’s one 36-year-old male Publisher of a youth oriented magazine, who went a little too heavy with the under eye hi-lighter pen at the recent womenswear shows. As he walked into one particular venue, lit by fluro lighting, everyone looked on in dismay. His under eyes were lit up like a couple of glow worms, much to the hilarity of everyone in the room. The vanity case knew nothing of his glowing skin and carried on looking cool and thin. Maybe rub it in next time, fella.
After investigating the depths of human sexual corruption, one gnarly toothed friend’s taste in porn has gone decidedly beige. Indeed his current sexual turn-on is about as pedestrian as a pavement. Rather than the usual dirt involving the vaginal insertion of eels, he’s now heavily into sports – no not water-sports or sports-clothing nights, SPORTS PAGES IN NEWSPAPERS? What’s all that about? Apparently there’s nothing this once fat-not-now-perv likes more. What gets us, is the extremity of the change: it’s not about the flaccid bouncing packets, it’s about the size of their arms and indeed their bums. Freak!
Ten Towers is on a health kick: fast food is banned, beer is limited and we’re all losing weight. Great news. One of us has a personal trainer, the other works out twice a day and another recently decided to get off his fat hairy arse and join them. So, when he took up the exceptionally kind offer of one London based PR agency to “pick some sportswear”, three lovely packed t-shirts arrived ready for his first trip to the gym. Off he went, ready for his first ever induction. He changed into shorts, pulled the new top from its Polythene bag and pulled it on. But hang on, what was that smell? A really rank smell? Like horses. Wet stinky horses. Ugh! It’s the top the PR sent. It STINKS! Oh dear, we won’t be calling them for free samples again.
He says he doesn’t fancy his straight mate and we kind of believe him, so why the storm out? One gay fashion features director of a fabulous glossy was sat in a posh restaurant with a top female department store PR, and his straight best mate. The three were laughing and joking, eating great food and generally getting on. But when the 30+ female PR started to flaunt her admittedly good knockers in a low cut flimsy dress, things started to go terribly sour. Suddenly, and without warning, the gay old features whiz went mad, screaming at the straight mate: “You’ve not stopped looking at her tits all fucking night”, then stood up, turned on his rather expensive heels, and stormed out. And thus the entirety of the restaurant looked on. Does he fancy his straight mate? You decide.
There’s one Fashion Features writer who freely admits to being mad as a fooking bicycle and the silly scribe’s mind has started to play some devilish tricks. The daft get was busy tapping away on some erudite tome, when suddenly he jumped up from his chair. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Said his rotund colleague. “Christ alive! We’ve got flacking fleas – there are fleas on my desk! I’ve just heard them…” After they checked every inch of his desk and, ermm, listened a bit, both parties realised there were no fleas at all, just a piece of paper. A piece of everyday paper, that normal people find on their desks, that was catching on his computer as he typed. Eh? Looks like the flacking flea freak needs electro shock therapy.
He must be pushing 50 if he’s a day, but this doesn’t stop one editor-in-chief of a glossy men’s monthly sticking things up his nose he really ought not. In public!
Picture it: a cool end of fashion week party – the room is filled with London’s fashion crème de la crème (sort of). Editors, stylists and models gassing, boozing and having a really good time. Suddenly the editor takes his young assistants hand and racks up an almighty line of naughty salt and sniffs it – IN THE MIDDLE OF A ROOM FULL OF GOSSIPING FASHION BITCHES. You silly silly man.
This newly appointed fashion scribe, with the innate ability to scrounge blood from a designer stone, found a little something in his pocket recently that he really wished he hadn’t found. After boarding a plane to fly to some far away destination, the writer in question dipped his hand into his jacket pocket, as one does and felt something very strange. What was this carefully folded piece of paper? An envelope, say an inch by half an inch in size? Oh sugar! It was, of course, a gram of nasal stimulant – coke, we believe it’s called. Apparently, his friend, an unnamed billionaire’s long-haired daughter, slipped the naughty substance into his pocket at a party the night before. But what to do? Flush it? Sniff it? Nooooooo, he just got off the plane and walked straight through nothing to declare. KRAZY!
Oh how some people love to spread a fashion rumour. There’s one balding big boned Editor of an unparalled fashion quarterly, who’s been the unfortunate victim of Chinese fashion whispers. After settling down to watch what can only be described as the filthiest porn film ever (picture a women inserting live eels into her well-stretched tuppence) our hero told a friend. Well, this is fashion dear, and said friend tells another friend, who then tells another and before we know it, the rumour is completely out of control and our porn fan is suddenly the one inserting eels up his own bum! Indeed one gap-toothed super stylist has taken it upon herself to spread it as far as she can. Bless, good job we like her.
She’s one of the nicest department store Marketing Directors you’ll ever meet: funny, down to earth, fabulous, but get her on the drink and Christ! Hold your horses, cowboy – this lady turns into a trixy little minx. At one particular Christmans party for her staff the generous gal was dishing out the booze in a rank old gay bar. Suddenly, the marvollous marketer got hold of a copy of Boyz (free fag mag found in gay joints) and started flicking through. “Wow!” she exclaimed, “who are all these naked men at the back?”
“Rent Boys!” said one of her faithful press department. Being the pissed mad fool she is after a drink, the Marketing Director in question started calling rent boys on her mobile phone. “Do you do women?” she asked.
“Depends how much you pay.” Came the reply – absolutely fabulous…
It’s a shop synonymous with glitz and glamour, high fashion and the cutting edge, but there’s one absolutely fabulous department store where they don’t just offer the latest fashionable jean. Walk round the neatly hung rails of clothes and the perfectly folded jumpers and see the handsome and well groomed staff, but we know of at least one of them operating as a male hooker! After typing “Hung Men” into Google, just for research purposes, Ten Towers came across a well-stacked fella who we sort of recognised. “Hang on. That bloke works – FILL IN THE GAPS – he served me the other day. He’s a rent boy too”. Talk about personal shopping.
So he’s got a degree – that doesn’t make him clever. Take, par example, when this vertically challenged fashion writer was collating news for a recent copy of one glossy. “There’s a great book about swingers in America – the images are fantastic,” said the pretty young girl doing the research.
“Ooh,” said he, “I love swings. How sweet.”
“No, not people on swings – SWINGERS! Couples who sleep with other couples. You know – sex.” Oh dear, the short one got a bit mixed up; it’s no wonder he never gets a shag.