They cometh twice a year, the visitors from planet Fashatron 22b. They travel from a galaxy far, far away to reach their sacred destination, Fashion Week, Mecca of the Space Peacocks, a microcosm on earth exempt from reality.
I had been called upon to disarm the Rulers of Fashatron, the most worshiped of the Space Peacocks. As part of a small clique of ‘fascientists’ (not to be confused with fascists) I am able to distinguish a Space Peacocks humanoid façade from a true earthlings. Their thin suit of epidermis covering all matter of horrors beneath.
I’m a really brave girl so I can totally handle it.
My mission was to make contact with them face to “face” and try to find out why they traveled here, and more specifically to an area named “the front row”, so mere mortals could analyze this data and celebrate their arrival.
The majority of the first day was spent observing colourful Orc-like creatures milling about Area 51 ½ taking pictures of themselves, for the aliens trapped in cyber space one assumed. I took this opportunity to refresh tactics learned in previous years.
The rulers of Fashatron have two force fields, the first being an immaculate gleam, a flawless shield of skin, an outer membrane that is truly otherworldly. You must have an innate immunity to this magnificent shield in order to penetrate the next. The second shield is a harder one to penetrate. A force field of superiority. From years of practice I have learned the key … self-deprecation; it does not compute, it confounds and bemuses the rulers in to anxious giggles and a willingness to divulge.
I had not realised this when I attempted an interview with cyberbot ‘Kanye Westabot’ last year. I had noticed the small cyberbot wearing tasteless faded denim and a bejeweled t-shirt from a far. He looked a little lost, submerged in a sea of flash bulbs. I decided to go over and welcome him to earth, while also asking if he fancied a fashion orientated chat. I had not realised that no other mortal had attempted an interview with him for a reason, and that reason proved terrifying. As I submerged myself in the sea of flashes I cheerfully said …
“Hey Kanye, I work for a Big Cheese, would you like to do a very quick interview for us?”
This was when one of the most remarkable things I have ever witnessed occurred. As he strolled, his lizard eyes shielded by enormous black goggles, he slit his mouth in to an enormous grin. Presumptuous as ever I thought, ‘oh great, he’s smiling, this must be a good sign’.
His mouth still slit, frozen in a giant grin, he said, without moving his lips ….
“I don’t do fucking interviews man”.
So surprised by the cyberbots reaction, I burst into hysterics. All that remains of this moment are a few pap snap shots where we appear to be having the most fantastic time. Kanye Westabot smiling inanely and me laughing raucously. Flawed records on the human’s part.
I was not going to make the same mistakes this year.
Commencing in the Royal Courts of Justice, the second day heralded the arrival of the most fascinating of the front row, a space peacock named ‘Anna Wintron’, think Helena Bonham Carter in Planet of the Apes. She is the most fantastic of the Fashatron Rulers, because she does not walk, anywhere. One minute there will be an empty space on the front row, the space itself emanating importance, a split second later and she has materialized in her only position of legs crossed, glasses on. An apparition of fashion. Her apparition remains throughout the show, the show finishes, you look back, and she is gone. Beamed up by higher powers to a comet called ‘Voguey Bopp’, to orbit other stylish microcosms.
You do not attempt an interview with this Space Peacock as an enormous Space Bodyguard materializes out of nowhere and stops you in your tracks (also learned last year). This Anna Wintron has us Earthlings down.
One breed of Space Peacock is something called an ‘Editron’; these have many different nuances such as ‘Editron in Chief’ and in sum, they write about clothes, some are so important they don’t even write about clothes anymore, they just wear them. These are the most formidable breed of the Space Peacocks, as they are gigantic egos from another planet. These editrons should only approached if the Big Cheese one is working for demands it, as they can react with snarling menace. Self-deprecation in these cases is obsolete and a combination of smiley groveling is necessary, as they’ve already deprecated you in to the ground before you’ve even opened your mouth.
This is what happened when I asked an infamous male editron to talk to me …
“Hi, I work for a Big Cheese”
A familiar snarling smile pierces his little cat bottom mouth.
“How nice for you …”
‘Oh dear’, I think ‘I’ve started, I have to finish’ ..
“Um, yes, you’re right, it is. Should I make the assumption you don’t have time to do a quick interview”?
“Yes, you should”.
The smile vanishes and the little arsehole on his face closes.
“Lovely. Fair enough”.
When you do manage to get these ‘editrons’ to talk to a mortal like you what happens is, words come out of their mouths and mortals pay great attention to them.
Having been given the wrong co-ordinates twice, for one show, day four was proving a rather disappointing one. Further disappointment nearly ensued when we arrived at the Burberry show, a show solely for Space Peacocks and a race of mortal literally made of money; golden faces, platinum hair, coats padded with the intangible IBAN codes to everyone’s bank accounts; you know the type.
Working for a big cheese doesn’t necessarily mean you’re on the list for a show like this, as we found out. Fortunately a fabulous mortal friend of mine who knew the importance of the data I was collecting ignored this fact and slipped us in. Once in the enormous, reinforced cling film tent set up in Hyde Park I continued my mission; chatted with beautybot ‘Rosie Huntington-Whiteleytor’ who told me she remembered me from last year, the charming little mortal delegated to organise her life added …
“Rosie never forgets a face”.
A statement I found rather alarming, as there were at least 1,000 faces in the tent alone. Obviously a seriously intelligent lifeform.
A few more Space Peacocks proceeded, one of them being ‘Kate Boseworthbone’ who had marvelous lizard eyes, one a browney green, the other blue. But when I looked in to them and asked what I thought was a pretty basic question …
“Who do you think the most stylish person of all time is?”
Her space brain imploded in front of me, terror draped her marvelous eyes …
“Oh Gosh, you can’t just put me on the spot like that! I need time to think!”
I left, allowing her another year to think about it.
We moved on to the next show, Alexander McQueens new label. All seemed normal, as little earthlings strutted up and down the catwalk in immaculate lace, then suddenly, right in the middle of the show a simulated alien abduction took place. Had it not been pitch black I imagine I would have seen terror wash over the Space Peacocks as they feared they were being beamed up and sent home early. When it became clear they weren’t and it was just a simulation (phew) we all agreed it was the coolest fashion related thing in a long time.
At the end we all walked through the man made woods in the Old Sorting Office together, Space Peacocks and earthlings alike, it was almost beautiful, as if our worlds could collide and the sound of the explosion be a beautiful fashion symphony. I kept trying to hold their hands and sing ‘We Are The Champions’ but apparently the Rulers had better places to be.
Having had a pretty successful week in terms of collecting data from the Rulers of Fashatron, Day 5 proceeded to be a bit of down time. A couple of Space Peacocks here and there, including one presumably half mortal, a man called Tim Blanksoidabot, who I think may have been one of the coolest there, as when asked his views on London Fashion he talked me though a Dickensian themed thesis. But the majority of my time was spent collating the data received, analyzing footage, filing testimonies and flashing my Big Cheese card at anyone who would look at it.
By the end of Day 5, we felt confident our research was heading towards a breakthrough.
The last day of Fashion Week always brings a tear to my eye, I just hate to see those Space Peacocks go, and this week was no different. I awoke, wiped the saline floods from my cheeks and headed to the Royal Opera House, where Mens Day would initiate.
For Mens Day I devised a new tactic to make the front row smile, a tactic I named “crabbing” this involved me shuffling sideways on my knees (like a crab – see what I did there) from one Male Space Peacock to the next.
Having crabbed my way over to a rather alarmed David Gandybot who is apparently some sort of Space Adonis, I made my way over to a shriveled looking little alien, who, if crows were made out of raisins, that’s what they’d look like. This alien was called Ronnie Woodmorph and though the alien was very smiley and amiable, I have no idea what he said. It was actual jargon that came out of his mouth and had to be taken back to experts at Area 51 ½ to be translated.
This jargon was interrupted by an enormous, fat, grey, sweating, Jabba the Hutt creature who is apparently of great import and does not need to apologise for his rudeness. I gave him a killer look of disdain but he was too busy vomiting vile courtesies to Ronnie Woodmorph to notice. He did this as his peeping shark-like eyes edged around him, coaxing the imminent paparazzi swarm to immerse him so he could see his Jabba-self in the papers the next day. I imagine he hoped these photos would help replace the memories of recent faux pas. I say no more.
During the week I came to the conclusion that some Space Peacocks were definitely half earthling, like Spock, and were charming; letting down their force fields as you approached, and though not amusing to mention, I feel they deserve one, as I’ve bitched about everyone else:
* Pixi Geldobot.
* Gemma Artertron
* Alexa Chungastromeadea
* Poppy Delivegneroid
* Olivia Palermobone
* The Guy from In The Loop-a-tron.
There were more but I’m bored of mentioning now …
As the week came to a close they all hurried off to their spaceships before their faces melted, needing reconstitution before the humidity of Milan – Area 52.7.
I handed in my badge (in to my … pocket) and left, heading to a night of wonderful earthlings where we asked the handsome barman for his “finest, cheapest white wine” and celebrated getting out of there alive.
While still alive we completed the task of organizing the filmed data collected and the testimonies from myself and other fascientists, and came to a ground-breaking conclusion ……..
Fashion Week is certified evidence of cosmic pluralism! Take that NASA!
Complex equations state that there is no other explanation for the creatures that inhabit Area 51 ½ during this week. If you don’t think it’s true, just bare in mind we have scientific evidence that proves that, that is exactly what they want you to think.
Duh de duh duh duh de duh duh …..