‘I’m covered in vomit-smelling cocktail stains and have £30 in my bank’: Paris Fashion Week Diary

Written by: Billy Parker

Edited by: Penelope Bianchi

Photography: Billy Parker

19th Jan. 20:02

A young person wearing a black hoodie, white t-shirt, and gray pants takes a mirror selfie in what appears to be an airplane bathroom. They are holding a phone and looking slightly to the side. — Eurostar toilet selfie. Full-length mirror that exceeded expectations. A pensive space.

There’s nothing better than the influx of hot boys during a fashion week. It’s something I’ve experienced many times, in London and Paris, yet I’ve never been inside of one (a fashion show). Two days before the UCAS deadline, I almost decimated my art school applications to replace them with a secretly prepared fashion portfolio. But, as a creature ruled by imposter syndrome, I let that dream die, time and time again.

I am on my way to Paris to cover mens and couture shows for Diane Pernet, cited as the original fashion blogger. I flogged drawings on Instagram to buy my ticket, dreaming of free canapés as a dinner replacement.

20th Jan. 12:02

Balenciaga showroom wearing borrowed clothes. My ‘trusted’ Essex dry cleaner destroyed my only jackets. It was giving Mountain Warehouse x Forever 21 x Gym Bro x Liza Minelli. Hot boy making unlimited ceremonial matcha was a nice touch.

20th Jan. 15:47

A person wearing a furry jacket, pink knit hat, sunglasses, and jeans sits crouched on a red theater seat in an empty auditorium, looking down thoughtfully. — Jeanne Friot show.

There are three official ways to travel between shows at Paris Fashion Week: the metro (classic), the PFW shuttle (theme park-esque, efficient yet stuffy) and Lime(bike)ing (fastest, high armpit-soaking risk). I chose option three which resulted with the decimation of my coccyx across the cobbled streets.

My first taste of the paparazzi… Flashing lights are a drug and I’ll take it in injectable form, please. Blackout sunnies worn with confidence can exonerate anyone into a false celebrity, a shapeshifting octopus.

An A$AP Rocky ft. Grease Teen Angel wannabe took a series of the worst photos imaginable. I exited (very slowly) through his self-imposed shoot, refusing eye contact.

21st January 01:13

A glass filled with a reddish, frothy beverage is placed on a dark surface, with some black seasoning sprinkled on top.

I’m swaying from a never-ending treadmill of deliciously toxic, experimental bloody maries, made by my friend Rafael. Writing this whilst protecting a Lime bike with my thighs.

Our liquidated descent gave space for a full rundown (bitch) of the current social landscape of the Paris fashion world. A much needed education that could only be regurgitated full of redactions (Loose lips sink ships, so leave a sexy corpse behind).

21st January 11:45

A person is lying in bed mostly covered by a white comforter, with one leg and a foot in a gray sock sticking out. The bed has gray sheets and striped pillows. A collage of black-and-white photos hangs on the wall above.

A poster of the Mona Lisa holding a handbag filled with US dollar bills, with the text Travel PARIS at the bottom. The image is displayed next to dollar bill decorations on a wall.

Chainsmoking on a bench after the 3 Paradis show, held in the designer’s childhood park on the edge of Paris. Giant speakers poured screeching blues, then a full archive of booming bass Amy Winehouse. Full skeletal Winehouse massage. Not the worst hangover cure.

Clothes fine until the graffiti-coded Amy portrait leather jackets. Someone had clearly never been to Camden Market.

Home for nap.

21st Jan. 16:22

Woke up latw drom naap. Sprinting throiugh Montmartre tryign to fi nd a Lime. Walterr Van Beriendonk shoowe is schedueld to start in 8 minsd.

22nd Jan. 02:04

A person holds up a laptop displaying a live video of a crowded event, while people nearby use their phones to take photos or record. The scene appears busy, with attendees dressed in coats and hats.

Day debrief whilst watching The Traitors semi-finale on VPN (there’s always time).

Wore too much wool. Arrived at Walter late, sweating out of skin I didn’t know could get wet. (Shows are always 30 minutes late at the bare minimum – I’ve been in the wrong industry).

Unable to de-layer as my t-shirt was now 70% armpit sweat. Seat was taken. Watched the show balanced on the teetering frame of a giant light. Someone filmed on their Macbook webcam.

Guns and flowers. The entombment of violence. Everything vibrates between aggression and play, alarming and disarming. The disarmament of the roadman through pop-art flower balaclavas. Translucent plastic trousers protect legs like plastic sheeting over a crumbling building. A queer-coded video game rendition of war.

A person wearing sunglasses and a brown outfit stands on a street at night, facing bright camera flashes. Behind them, a black car is parked, and leafless trees and buildings are visible in the background.

Almost passed out on the sweltering PFW shuttle bus from lack of food and overheating. Not the sweat antidote I desperately needed.

Got papped with Diane entering EgonLab at Palais De Tokyo. Lots of feathers. Birdman-coded. A beautiful man under a denim veil stole my heart. Dried my armpits on a fan mid-show. Got papped exiting alone (addicted).

I think everyone thinks I’m The Dare. Where do you find those pics? Asking for a friend.

Diane took Rianna and I to an intimate Viktor and Rolf x Disney x Mattel (lol) party. We entered to a pianist playing the Toy Story song and a giant V+R tulle dress that read ‘I AM MY OWN MUSE’ (Emily in Paris is actually scarily accurate. Pierre Cadault eat your heart out).

I ate translucent cubes of jelly (not dinner). Met Viktor and Rolf: very anti-social.

“I have always loved your minimalist telephones!”

I had them confused with Bang and Olufsen. Kms.

Met Renzo Rosso, the founder of Diesel and owner of Maison Margiela, Marni, Viktor & Rolf. His face was… optimistically preserved. Nice man. Accidentally left with six gift bags full of the perfume I used to wear when I was 14 #spicebomb.

A person wearing sunglasses, a black blazer, and a white shirt stands indoors near a large speaker and equipment case, looking up at the camera in a hazy, dimly lit environment. — Mid show armpit dry.

A person wearing an oversized denim hoodie and matching long shorts stands indoors, surrounded by others in fashionable outfits, in what appears to be a fashion event or backstage area.

Le Progrès. Puma party. Magazine launch. Broke into a private event at Pigalle Country Club. Rianna demanded that our names were on the list AKA the three-day-old crumbled piece of paper from the bouncer’s back pocket (they weren’t, it wasn’t).

Chainsmoked in Paris’ favourite smoking area cum mens toilet queue (if you like being repeatedly smashed between a door and a wall). Man had fit on the street outside. Free bar at PCC is extraordinarily dangerous.

A hand holding a blue and white laundry detergent pod over a black and white checkered tile floor. — Dinner.

Two women stand on a rainy city street at night, smiling and holding white Viktor & Rolf shopping bags. The scene is illuminated by streetlights, and there is a misty glare in the foreground.

A group of people in a dimly lit, graffiti-covered bar, some holding drinks and cigarettes. One person is taking a selfie from above, others look up at the camera. The atmosphere is casual and crowded.

23rd Jan. 00:43.

A male model in a black double-breasted coat with white trim and a black top hat walks a runway, surrounded by seated spectators watching a fashion show in a dimly lit venue.

A male model walks a runway wearing a pinstripe suit with mismatched patchwork details, a white shirt, and a striped tie. The audience sits on either side, many holding phones and cameras, in a dimly lit fashion show setting.

My friends are slicing a dual-pronged cherry lollipop in half whilst it’s held between both of their teeth on the streets of Pigalle.

I spent the day chain-eating pastries in bed and catching up on writing. Only two shows and a couple of showrooms (I definitely didn’t intentionally miss anything!). More silly launches and parties. Cycled over the Seine at night.

Drop-dead models walking somberly in inflating coats and top hats to Miles Davis for the Junya Watanabe show. Drool.

A decorative plate with two small pastries, one topped with yellow icing and the other with chocolate, accompanied by two ornate silver spoons, all resting on a white blanket.

A person with platinum blonde hair wears a black sleep mask that says Heart Breaker, holds a red rose in their mouth, and carries a pink gift bag with black text, standing outdoors at night.

A crowd gathers on a wet street at night outside a building with pink neon lights. Police lights flash blue nearby, and the illuminated sign above the entrance reads La Perle.

A hand with long, manicured nails holds a smartphone displaying a chat with stickers of two green ogres and a pink pig. The background shows a pink shopping bag and some indistinct objects.

23rd Jan. 15:17

A group of people gather closely together outdoors, many wearing dark jackets. One man in the center looks down, while others around him face different directions, some with their backs to the camera.

Security outside the Willy Chavarria show form a human shield wall, aggressively shoving desperate people back. Trying to get into the show is like trying to get in a lifeboat on the Titanic.

I tried the red carpet entrance to no avail. Diane is trying to help from the inside. I begged the PR cuz I know they like it like that smh.

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do”.

The door girlie always reigns supreme…

A live-filmed musical reconstituted as a fashion show. Mon Laferte in a fur jacket, red heels and boofed blonde wig, singing a jazz ballad of un-requition on a pink silk bed.

A shooting on the streets of Paris. Walked by Romeo Beckham, Julia Fox and Goldie.

Fucking furious.

A mural on a white tiled wall shows a large black treble clef, musical staff, and a flat note, all painted in a bold, stylized design.

A dimly lit room with an open door glowing with warm orange light, contrasting with the cool blue daylight from a window in the kitchen area. Objects on the counter are in shadow.

23rd Jan. 20:41

Two people sit close together in a dim, smoky setting. The person on the left wears sunglasses and a black hoodie, while the person on the right wears a fluffy scarf and white gloves, looking down at something in their hands. Other people are in the background.

Front row at Louis Gabriel Nouchi. Crazy crowd outside. Felt amazing to be ushered through, sorry.

PR double-booked seats ( they do this apparently). Too many people crammed on a bench between concrete pillars in an underground carpark. I’m next to the pillar.

Free bottled tea?

Flashes from paparazzi inside make hallucinatory strobing shadows of bodies across the walls. Models appear as shadows from the darkness to pulsating electronic music.

24th Jan. 12:22

People in traditional attire, including a smiling woman in a yellow apron and white headscarf, stand on a busy Parisian sidewalk near outdoor café tables and a crêperie. Other pedestrians walk by.

A person holding a cup of coffee and a bagel.

Morning walk through Montmartre: baguette under arm, espresso in hand, pain au chocolat in mouth, Edith Piaf in ears. Surrounded by a large group of period-dressed mormons.

Morning thought: The rumours are true. There’s a secret social-sexual economy where hot, twenty-somethings creep around the city between lovers’ apartments in the early hours (don’t ask me where i’ve been). Also everyone is bi.

25th Jan. 16:24

A person with a short blonde bob haircut, wearing a red leather coat with a blue collar, sits on a white cube seat among a group of people dressed mostly in dark clothing. The scene appears to be indoors.

A hand holds a card reading PATOU HIVER MMXXVI Anna Wintour in front of a Parisian street with the Eiffel Tower visible in the foggy background.

Ran n along the Seine in the rain past the Eiffel Tower to get to the Patou show. Anna Wintour inside. Someone asks take a photo with her.

“I don’t do photos”.

I consider asking anyway. As I approached, my legs buckled under the pressure. I quickly waddled off, knees chattering . Never experienced that before.

After the show I stole her seat card. #AnnaWintourButtDNA #clone.

A person wearing a red leather jacket sits with their back to the camera, showing a short blonde bob hairstyle. Several people stand nearby. A message below asks, “wig?”.

A screenshot of a message reply featuring a photo of a person with short blond hair wearing a maroon leather jacket, sitting among others. The message below reads, Snatch the wig followed by a red heart emoji.

A person with a short, blonde bob haircut and a reddish-brown leather jacket sits on a bench, facing away from the camera. A message below the photo reads, Looks like a wig.

A screenshot of a message showing a photo of a person with short, blond hair in a red leather jacket sitting among others. The message below the photo reads, Wig?!. The background has an autumn leaf design.

27th Jan 16:11

Models in elegant gowns and suits stand in a grand hall with high arches and wooden floors, facing an audience. The audience captures the moment on phones, and warm lighting highlights the ornate architectural details.

Mens over. Now couture.

I met Pierre Cadault from Emily in Paris outside of Gaurav Gupta. A self-illuminated bust on a bouncing plume of structured fabric mimicking a vortex of dark matter opened the show. I have never seen clothes like this before. Jaw on floor.

Panic cycled through rain to Cirque d’Hiver for Stéphane Rolland (Cheryl Cole’s fav). Brigitte Macron was in the audience. Collection unveiled to Judy Garland’s Smile. Doves were released from a hole in the stage as an aerial performer slung fabric around the air. Doves had tiny spotlights attached to their feet. Some attacked audience members.

Super gauche but super fun. Finale to Louis Arstrong When You Wish Upon a Star. Thinking about Beyoncè: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxY3i-06xpc&list=RDUxY3i-06xpc&start_radio=1.

27th Jan. 18:01

A building with white shutters and several balconies is illuminated by green lights at dusk. A glowing green cross sign, indicating a pharmacy, is mounted on the facade.

A model with an elegant updo walks a runway wearing a strapless, silver, textured dress with geometric patterns. The audience in the background is seated and taking photos. The scene is lit by soft, warm lighting.

I joined a conversation bitching about Andy Warhol and Jerry Schatzberg outside of the Ronald van der Kemp show. Apparently Andy’s aura was vomit-coloured and he used to count pennies in his car.

A 1970s fever dream staged as a fake photoshoot. A futurist, metallic silver dress impersonated a studded lava lamp. The model walked almost drunk, clinging onto composure like Kate Moss returning to the Ritz after a party. Another, engulfed in a black spiralling coat, erratically jolted around the room like Cruella de Vil trying to scare children ft. a crack addict who just snorted something they found on the floor in the bathroom.

28th Jan. 00:27

A woman in a black dress sits on a brown chair in a dimly lit, ornate room with tall yellow curtains, black and gold decorated walls, and wooden parquet flooring. She is looking to the side and holding a small purse.

A grand, historic building is illuminated at night in a large, empty plaza. Street lamps glow warmly and the full moon shines in the dark sky above, adding to the tranquil atmosphere.

De Beers Party. Place Vendôme. On entering, someone says Lily Allen is singing upstairs. I sprint to the overpacked room and catch the end of an acoustic cover of Pussy Palace.

Unlimited dirty martinis and champagne. A VIP room hidden behind sliding French doors. A man skewering chunks of raw salmon, aioli and baked potato onto sticks and into mouths. Slabs of cold mushrooms on crackers (spat out into tissue).

Cocktails and canapés periodically taken through a door behind the DJ AKA Lily Allen’s dressing room. Plotted our break-in like a bank heist, then discovered it was just the AV control room.

I spilt an entire cocktail over my lap after reading a message from a hot boy “you look handsome,”. Accidentally bumped into a man, spilling a single droplet of champagne onto his wrist. Furious, he demanded napkins, but I had already taken the last one. He made me hand it over so he could dab the droplets from his Cartier wristband.

The pianist plays with one hand and holds wine in the other. First ever glambot. Staff Christmas party for rich fashion people?

28th Jan. 20.50

Two young adults sit closely together on a velvet bench in a dimly lit setting. One wears white sunglasses and a suit with messy hair; the other has long dark hair, a fluffy scarf, and red lipstick. Both have serious expressions.

Post Robert Wun show. Open-world RPG x musical theatre x the setting of a pixelated sun. Almost cool but slightly missed.

Lisa Rinna saunters past in a polka-dot rose-print Robert Wun dress. Earlier she was screaming from the front row of Viktor and Rolf, running round like a headless chicken. That show was a sickly aesthetic monstrosity (the barely seen period-costume leaning black dresses were nice though). Tomorrow she walks the Germanier show.

A star is (re?)born?.

29th Jan. 17:50

An elegant, gold-trimmed room with chandeliers and large windows, filled with well-dressed people standing, talking, and taking photos. The atmosphere appears lively with bright lights in the background.

A young person wearing sunglasses, a black jacket, and a hood takes a selfie in a well-lit bathroom with green walls, a plant, and a toilet visible in the background.

Writing this during the Miss Sohee show. Overwhelmed and need phone time.

I’ve run out of clothes. I’m covered in vomit-smelling cocktail stains and I have £30 in my bank account. Walking into the Shangri-La in such a state is eternally liberating and horrifically embarrassing. Sunglasses stay on.

The palatial rooms are dizzying. The dresses are every girl who watched The Princess Diaries’s dream. The models thrust their long trains across my soiled shoes. A plumped lip lady, wearing full leather couture, is sat next to me. She shows me dresses from the shows I missed earlier in the day due to my hangover.

The couture mummies love me. Apparently a grungy hungover London boy has legs. New demographic unlocked.

3rd Feb. 23:39

Three brown eggs are boiling in a pot of water, with some egg whites leaking out from one cracked egg. Pieces of cooked egg white float in the water. Steam rises from the pot.

Back in Romford. Boiling eggs rattle around a saucepan. My body feels bad and wrong.

PFW feels like a fucked up dream (cliché: hang, draw and quatre me). I fell in love with a few things, mainly fashion. At its core, the ability to cast a fictitious alternate reality as short and diaphanous as a breath. To live for a moment in a complete indulgent fantasy. I can see how people get imprisoned here. Highly addictive escapism in its highest form.

A Hunger Games-esque shopping spectacle. Celebrities at the Grammys, just days later, are wearing dresses I just saw walk down the runway. A commercial endeavour sandwiched inside creative liberation. Abstraction is rife and revered. The only industry that accommodates mass commerciality through cultural-aesthetic abstraction?

The art world sucks ass. I am a theatre boy at heart. I’ve spent years horrified at the aesthetic miscomings and cultural lag of British theatre (and art), desperately searching for a place where theatrical experimentation is encouraged. I’ve just been looking in the wrong direction.

Fashion is not perfect, of course, but at least there is room for ambition. A breeding ground for fame. Entering primary stages of metamorphosing into a fashion bitch.

I’m not sure how I will psychologically adjust from Taylor Momsen escaping the paparazzi-core to Greater London’s brutal, unending grimness. But, in the infamous words of Mariah Carey: Imma do the best I can widwhatti gAWT.