Me own a Grey Suit?- when fashion hell freezes over!

Cute- but still no on the suits- Jean-Paul Gautier, Fall 2008

Whenever I am on the circle line on my into work , I am always stealing looks from behind my venti starbucks latte at the women in grey, black and navy blue. With their hair scrapped back, wearing a boxy outfit a la Annie Lennox, and sensible court shoes I find myself feeling sorry for them and thinking that I could not be dressed in such a monochrome outfit for all the money in the world.

I am lucky that I work in a job that allows me to wear impossibly high heels (loving my gladiator sky scraper heels), quirky out there hair accessories (like the big bows- yummy) and my beloved mini dresses that would make bosses in all those corporate companies blush because they probably think it is an outfit that should be restricted only to nightclubs, I mean come on “middle manager” I wear my mini with opaque tights making it an acceptable day time ensemble- dah!

Any who to continue, I am aware that the women citybots also find me quite the anomaly and also give me the once over. I am fully aware that I do not fit in with the rest of the city bound travellers, as I am always wearing notice me dresses ( I have sworn off jeans- 6 months and going strong) or impossible to wear heels whilst always reading the latest issue of Vogue, among a sea of Financial Times.

So it is on this note that I am happy to shout out loud and proud that I do not have to wear a suit to work everyday with some white shirt and 2 inch shoes-yay. The fashion industry affords me the luxury to wear what tickles my fancy and personality everyday. Imagine the fact that if my parents had had their way I would have been a lawyer at some city firm, forced to wear some grey pant suit, with ugly hair and even uglier shoes standing among a sea of look-alikes in greys, blacks and navy blues staring enviable at the girl who is wearing Choos, Chanel and reading the latest Vogue- ewwww what a thought- please pinch me and tell me it is never going to be so.

Champagnista M

Since when was it acceptable for Style Icons to still be in nappies

Remember when style icons where the likes of Coco Chanel, Audrey Hepburn, Jackie Onassis, Carolyn Kennedy, Bianca Jagger and Blondie’s Debbie Harry, and now we have “celebrities” barely out of nappies being crowned ‘fashion icons’. They know who they are- Hannah Montana (ewwww), Nicole Ritchie (eat much!), Paris Hilton (since when was trash fashionable), and any reality/pop starlet who has graced the cover of Heat magazine.

Being a style icon is a privilege that should be earned and not an automatic right because you are a celebrity. Also to be a fashion style icon, one must at least have an eye for fashion, not the eye of their overpaid stylist- I am talking to the ‘Zoebots’ of the world.

How am I, a 20 something on the other side of my 20’s seriously look at that High school musical actress whose name evades me as a style icon that I should admire, I mean I started school the day she came screaming into the world. Okay I can begrudgingly admit that age is not a factor when it comes to style, you either have it or you don’t, but being a celebrity should not be an automatic carte blanche into the Style Icon world.

I mean to be a style icon that many fashion minions will follow and admire you must at least be able to demand attention through your clothes. Think Audrey Hepburn working that little black dress, Carolyn Kennedy oozing “I didn’t even try to look this good” look, Debbie Harry’s way of embracing fashion oddity and of cause Coco Chanel the mother of all fashion chic-ness.

So my advice is ignore the conveyor belt of “style icons” who seem to unfortunately change every month, and instead use your good judgement when it comes to figuring out who truly is the style icon of our generation and I am not talking Sienna Miller.

By Champagnista M

A Vision in colourful tights

There is a trend that has me spell bound at the moment. I am absolutely loving the colourful tights trend that is taking London by storm at the moment. Granted, I still haven’t abandoned my black 70 denier opaque tights but Lord knows I am tempted to invest in a pair of forest green woollen ones courtesy of John Lewis- they do fabulous range of tights don’t you know.

Any who, my passion for this trend was made stronger when I was recently in Paris- the fashion capital of the world- where many Parisian gazelles adorned colourful tights some brighter than other depending on their age but they all made them look absolutely fabulous with a well cut skirt, ballet pumps and polo neck.

There was one woman near Pritemps where I nearly had convulsions at the sight of a fashionably dressed woman in fantastic bright orange tights walking by me- I know, I know bright orange sounds atrocious- but she made it work. When I turned to Champagnista V who I was accompanying on a hunt for the perfect boots- which according to her are knee length, black, real leather complimented with thin killer heel (with some lace ups- maybe) – I quickly shared with her my need for colourful tights “like that lady in the bright orange ones”, spotting at the woman she gave a quick once over with her eyes then she turned her nose at exactly 45 degrees and said “I don’t think so” and strolled off.

To others that comment could have killed their desire but for me it ignited it even more. So be forewarned Champagnista V you will be dragged to John Lewis some time soon to search for the perfect colour tights- forest green, woollen and just right!

Champagnista M

House of Nassat knit boots -YAHOUCH!!!

I am pretty open-minded when it comes to fashion, and young designers coming up with new ideas are always a pleasure to check out... It must take courage to try to break into this exciting, closed and harsh industry. I appreciate that, and am willing to support new talents.

However, sometimes fashion can get ugly, and however young and bristling with energy a young fashion company can be, inventivity for inventivity only does not necessarily work out. A good example with these boots, from House of Nassat, which proposes hand-made pieces in limited edition... I guess at least they'll keep you warm, but if that's not called a fashion faux-pas, I'm not sure what is...

By Champagnista V

Paris Beauty

No no, this time I promise I will not bore you with my 'Paris is so beautiful' mantra... As misleading as this title might be, my post is about to get into much more technical details... and I pray to God the guys I know really don't read the blog!

Every time I go back to Paris I stack on hair for about a month before hand to make sure the beauty stop in the French capital will be really full-on and totally worth it. Parisian beauty salons are renowned for their perfectionist work and I swear you can recognise Parisian women in any city of the world at their top notch manucures.

So on the day of my arrival I headed to Montparnasse all jungly, and feeling slightly ashamed as always. I don't mind the full leg-waxing, it is always quite vivifying and after 10 years of practise I don't have that much hair left anyway, so no pre-appointment fright there. However, bikini waxes are another story.

You know what I mean, it is not such a pleasant experience, but even if Style recently declared the latest trend was 'all about big and bushy' in the matter, I don't buy it, I want to keep myself tidy... Tsss... sometimes I feel like I am giving you way too much insight in my life on that blog...

So in the beauty salon I go, all psychologically prepared to the next half hour torture, and ask for a full leg and 'semi-integral' bikini wax. Semi-integral is never an option in London so for once I quite enjoy not to have to explain about the cut I want. (Think neat seek square, no hair where it might cling... ohlala I am quite glad I am addressing a computer screen, because I am red to my hair roots -HEAD hair!!!)

If you ask for the same combination in London, the aesthetician will first usher you in the room, provide you with a rose-smelling tiny square of towel and one of these slightly translucent elastic paper thongs, close the door for you to change comfortably on your own, and knock before being authorized to walk in. Then they will unconditionally start with your calfs, casting a pudic and pudicker eye as they move up to the unspeakable. At that point, they hardly look at you, while you chat away about your holidays to come or the latest Obama campaign move (I tend to talk a lot in this kind of circumstances: it releases the stress).

Nothing of that sort in Paris: the waxer comes in with you, you undress under her critical eye, hoping that your cellulite won't show too much under the crude bright light, and you are not offered anything to cover your most intimate of secrets. Even if you have a skirt, they will take it upon themselves to lift it to breast level, baring all up the best part of your stomach. Then they go right to work, beginning with the bikini, in a very stern and professional manner... Don't mind the colleague who enters the room without knocking, while you are all butterfly leg-spreaded towards the door. It just adds to the charm of this truly French experience. When it comes to the most sensitive part, they ask you to pull your knee to your chin and open your legs towards the outside, which I find is a bit of an unlikely position if there is no boy involved... But come to think of it, I quite prefer that to the alternative, AKA standing on all fours ass headed to the waxer's face. Shiver!... Contrary to London, while they just get it done quickly in a nearly missionary position and don't look at things twice, the French asthetician will go out of her way to check every single millimeter of skin to leave it perfectly hairless, and will reshape the tracé until the lines are defined to perfection. It's a work of Art.

Slightly uncomfortable, but boy do boys enjoy the layout afterwards... Not to mention it is a piece of cake when the waxer finally moves to the legs: waxing holidays!



By Champagnista V

Paris Fashion Week Part 3 - Paris Nightlife

Cha Cha Club, rue Berger, Paris

Le Sens, rue de Ponthieu, Paris


I have left Paris 4 years ago, so whenever I go back to the city of Lights I feel like I am rediscovering it, reappraising it as if I were a stranger, falling in love again as I wonder at the detailed craft of a Haussmanian door, the elegant architecture of an interior court or the quaint charm of a back street all wrapped in wisteria flowers. Walk anywhere in the center, you will find yourself enamoured and aspiring for love within minutes.

However, staying in touch with the tout Paris and its turbulent nightlife takes having good friends, which fortunately for me I have kept across years (16 years to be exact).

On Thursday night I met with Mr Facebook, whom I used to go to school with until I was 8 years old. He contacted me on facebook about a year ago and we've been facebook-flirting ever since (I love facebook!). In spite of all the years, when I left the Hotel Costes and made my way to Le Fumoir which is one of the trendy cafe-bars next to the Cour Carree du Louvre where the fashion crowd often stops for a drink and a ciggarette or a line of coke, I recognized him instantly. When I told my mother I had met with him, she told me that I went to his 9th birthday when I was a kid, and after having been tortured and rolled in the mud by him and his boy gang I declared I would never ever go to a boy's birthday ever again... Well I am quite glad I got over the trauma.

Mr Facebook has this kind of sexual magnetism and social ease that will instantly appeal to any girl in their right mind, and he knows his way around the closed circle of trendy Paris. We first headed to L'Eclaireur behind the Hotel Crillon where fashion people party in a wide wide dimensioned 19th century bar where you have to get into through a hallway hemmed in colonnades. The ceiling is so loud if it hadn't been that crowded I bet you could have listened to the echo of your own voice singing to the latest French and international songs. After half an hour of screaming about 16 years of wild youth experiences we decided to leave the premises and go to a comfier place in Le Marais, Cha Cha, where all the young artistic Paris en vogue head to around 11pm.

A little harder to get in unless you know the right people, it is all wallpapered in crimson covering and has this cozy and select feeling you only find in Londonese members' clubs, only a lot more decadent in a sweet and friendly way. The courtyard is the best meeting place with glamorous smokers evolving in a cloud of smoke curls and plunging in and out of in-depth Frenchy French intellectual conversations. The first floor has a jacuzzi for a wild end of the night, but the staff will chuck you back to the ground floor as soon as a celebrity arrives, so as to let them enjoy wild life behind the screen of heavy velvet curtains. The image of the night that I wish I had captured is the vision of Champagnista M sitting on the back of an armchair, laughing behind her left hand, head framed by the very close and adament faces of three handsome French dandies.

As you can imagine, we left her here in good company when it was time to migrate to Le Sens behind Les Champs-Elysees. It is the 'in' club in Paris where you can queue up for half the night under the intransigeant look of the door girl who, escorted by an army of costumed transvestites, behind her mask and call-girl clothes, must the be the most powerful woman in Paris at the moment. You go there to see and be seen, and dance with Celine de Rotschild and 17-year-old soon to be supermodels while a projector displays images of LA style Saint-Tropez bimbos partying in pools in teeny-tiny bikinis. London meets LA meets Paris in there and it is a bit hectic and very post-modern.

Not sure how we managed it but at dawn we mustered the energy to go and fool around for another hour in Mr Facebook's trendy retail clothes shop on the Champs-Elysees... A night in Style!


By Champagnista V

Paris in Wonderland

As the fashion world finally reached the last week of Fashion Week(s) I was all champagned up and terribly exhausted. Boarding the Eurostar to Paris with my fellow champagnista I soon found myself surrounded by puffs of expensive perfume worn by the fashion assistants on their way to the shows.

As their chatter of excitement continued as the train left the station I put on my oversized square black sunglasses, started my newly charged ipod and sipped my still hot café au lait whilst pondering why Paris continues to be the city one must always go too during fashion week.
It has been said by many big named fashion editors that if you are going to attend any fashion week, Paris should be the one. Why you might wonder. Well New York has been seen as being more glitz celebrity rather than new raw talent, London although well known for its edge continues to be luke warm even with the BFC continued efforts and as for Milan well everyone knows that it is all fur coats and sunglasses.

So Paris, is the place one should make a effort to go to and to be seen. So with this in mind I knew that I will be immersing myself into the scene and making an effort to show support for our home-grown designers whilst across the pond.

On arrival I waited the evening to make my first stop which was the soiree at Anne Fountaine. Anne Fountaine is a well known shirt designer who makes beautifully made pieces that I ohh and ahhh too loud enough for the PR girls to hear whilst sipping my champagne. The thing that struck me was that her fantastically crafted white shirts where so delicate that one would be afraid to wear them. I mean one of them was so fragile that it would not survive a day of wear and for nearly 200 euros it seemed to be the kind of shirt made to be admired by your dinner guests as you take them on a tour of your house.

After my fifth glass of champagne my fellow fashionista and I left in a cloud of air kisses and “yes darling I will see you at so and so’s party”. Because the next day was to be a busy one, off I went to bed early for the first time in weeks- 1am.

As I mentioned earlier I wanted to show support of British home-grown talent whilst in Paris and it was on this note that I found my self at the BFC show room. This was the first season that they have ever hired a space to showcase British designer’s wears and talents I n Paris. It was in the 2nd arrisomondent that I met the toast of British fashion- Henry Holland. He was such a friendly chap that the nervousness of meeting the guy who has been in every glossy and weekly I read for the past 6 months melted away. I went into journalist mode as I quizzed him on his collection.

A mixture of menswear and womenswear his collection was all about the fusion of the 1980’s Miami vice married with Beverly hills 90210. Henry embraced three colour groups- sweet pea, roses and spots. When I asked him why these bold selections he responded cheekily, “why not”, the grin won me over. As I looked through his wears made of jersey, cotton, organza, and stretch materials like lycra I was impressed to discover that his collection also boasted accessories that he collaborated with Katie Hillier and sunglasses that he created with Linda farrow. Wearing a Louise t-shirt covered in trinkets, complimented with a tea green jacket, and adorning black and white shoes, the man certainly was the style that he preached. Who knows maybe I might become a House of Holland fan and throw away my more preppy Ralph Lauren style- with that thought I moved on to Todd Lynn.

My first thought when meeting the fiery designer was, now here was a designer who lived and breathed his brand. Showing his 5th collection he was all about embracing the futuristic 30’s and 40’s which he said was inspired from the movie “the day of the locusts”- (I drew a blank- what movie is that?). Smiling and acting like I knew where he was coming from I continued to quiz him on his collection which concentrated al lot on small detailing like the stitches and the logo’s used in the designs. Some where subtle like small chain details others were brazen like feathers, but one thing was evident Todd Lynn’s mark was all over his collection. Fusing materials of cotton and chiffon, some pieces looked rather delicate but like him they were far from being so.

Other designers to show at the BFC showroom (about 15 all in all) in Paris included Christopher Broich and Emilio. As I left a couple of hours later I thought “bravo” to the BFC for showing their support in this way. I know that many British designers breathed a sigh of relief when this new plan came into work- no more expensive hotel fees so they can show their collection in a nice hotel, instead there was solidarity and security as buyers and press came, saw and the designers conquered- with definite Paris in Wonderland moments.

Gros bisous from a tired and exhausted Champagnista M- until next season!

Paris Fashion Week Part 2

Mario Schwab party at l'Eclaireur

Mario Schwab party at l'Eclaireur

DJs at the Paule Ka after party

Party girl at the Paule Ka after-party

... and we're back!

Sorry for not having been in touch for the past few days: we stayed at my mother's and we used to have broadband at home, but since my little sister moved out to start university, my mother disconnected everything because she is persuaded broadband waves give you cancer (and mobile phones brain tumors and depression). Seeing what a little computer genius I am, I was completely incapable of reconnecting it, so we have been stuck in no blogger's land until London.

Every time I come back to Paris I realize how much I miss it. With New York, it is the real city of my heart. I love how the day light on the white stones makes the city so clear even when it's cloudy, and how the sky looks a purply brown at night, I love sitting at a cafe-terrasse and watching people pass by, and meeting girlfriends in a trendy brasserie around (blessfully cheap a) dinner and a glass of wine, it all feels wonderful. And no hungover the next day like when you meet friends at a pub in London, that's a benefit!

This trip was quite eventful, beginning with the 7am meeting to catch the eurostar at King's Cross on Tuesday morning: 7:10 and Champagnista M is not here, she has the tickets, I start to worry, give her a call, and hear her sleepy voice 'hello?'... Then upon hearing me: 'OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD! I've slept through my alarm clock!' and click... She almost made it though, arrived two minutes after the check-in closed, I was amazed at her diligence.

In the end we did make it to Paris, after some delay also due to the the tunnel fire, and at 7pm we were on our way to rediscover the tout Paris in all its fashion grandeur. As Champagnista M told you, the first event we attended was the opening of Anne Fontaine's new spa on the rue Saint-Honore in the first district. The ground floor hosted an exhibition of her new shirt collection; they are not usually my thing as I feel they are addressed to mid-thirties working women with generous bosoms. Her new Spring 09 collection featured very interesting pieces though, with an accent on fitted shirts with oversize sleeves and frilly collars, modernized by the use of crispy gauze or (my favourite) this translucid fibrous cotton-plastic fabric used to wrap expensive buys. Her spa in the basement has the perfect lighting and Champagnista M and I spent an hour sipping Ruinart champagne in the jacuzzi room, where a square bath tube set in brut granite felt like an alcove of warm water between walls draped in running waterfalls. The idea of going to a spa and spending half a day doing nothing has always frightened me out of trying, but this night I felt right at home: I could have gone to sleep there.

The rue Saint-Honore was bristling with life this night, and after making a brief appearance at the Custo Barcelona party we crashed the Paule Ka after-party where models, designers, stylists and actors danced together at the music of two DJ girls in high heels and vamp dresses. Men were ... oh my... it had been a long time since I could rest my eyes like that, hmmm!... However, it was strange to notice the difference between Paris and London Fashion industries: maybe it is just an impression because I made a lot of friends since I started working in fashion in London, but the fashion scene in Paris is not as friendly: if you don't impress, you're nothing, so you feel under pressure to maintain a standard of high-browness that I felt a bit uncomfortable about. Everybody wears black as well: sleek black suits, fitted black jackets, big black belts, black heels and scruffy blond hair. We were very colourful in the middle of this crowd, and not unnoticed (in a good way as you can imagine: good colours and nice to be noticed by stylish French men).

The next day we went to the bar at Hotel Costes, rue Saint-Honore again (I feel like I spent the week there). The bar is the place where all 'it' fashion people go during fashion week: lots of slender and tall fashion girls in black, and squat old men with money. When you get the bill you know why, fortunately the bartender was sweet (against all Hotel Costes cliches) and sweet-looking enough to make us forget our financial sorrows. And I really cannot do the old man who pays your drink for conversation and more thing... urgh!

Fashion disappointment the next day with the Mario Schwab party at l'Eclaireur behind the Crillon (living in London where fashion is so East centered at the moment, you tend to forget how elitist fashion can be but its strong geographical situation in Paris reminds you all). Then new fashion highlights with very very incredible encounters at the London Fashion week showroom (I am still aghast and you shall soon know why), and fashion revelations at the New York Fashion week showroom in Bastille (how edgy).

I will have to update you on these and the shows later though because I promised myself to be good this week: no late-drinking, late fooling around or late sleeping, unfortunately I have too much work on. (You want to bet how long I stick to this good resolution?)

To be continued...

By Champagnista V

Coucou from Paris Fashion Week

J'adore Paris! We are both in the city of lights taking in the delights of Paris Fashion Week.

Last night we attended Anne Fountaine's soiree at a spa in the centre of Paris. We found ourselves mingling with Parisian fashion gurus and muses as we sipped expensive champagne and adored (or pretended too) the clothes on show. After ohhhing and ahhhing in all the right places we met two fabulously dresses Swedes who now live in Paris and after the general polite chit chat about the fashion world and the jobs we all did we headed to the next party which luckily was down the road beacuse everyone knows that Paris pavements are not kind to thin heels. Any who that was when the night really began.....to be continued!

Champagnista M

Ps: we have very limited access to email so will have to update you in length when we come back.

Outfits that work

Or 'What to wear to work'

A lot of women have two different wardrobes: the working one and the off-the-hook one. Finding the right outfit to wear to work can be a hassle, especially if you're a fashion (possibly party) girl and work in a professional environment where you have to be taken seriously.

When I first started freelancing for magazines, the second title I found myself working for was an all-male one: pretty much the Alpha male glossy, full of 6 + feet tall trendy guys who roll their biceps and their eyeballs at any short skirt that passes by. The Art director's office was a glass cubicle in a corner of the editorial, and every inch of the two proper walls (well, the one really because the third one was a window) was covered in the hugest breasts you could imagine... He was so pretty and sweet though, the Art director himself, had he not been that obviously into Pamela Anderson type cups (and dating Noemie Lenoir and Cameron Diaz on his days off), I might have blushed when he proposed to and did carry my boxes full of press clothes to the mail room. I comfort myself by thinking my 32 BB breasts will long be firm, pirky and classy under a crisp shirt, nothing hanging around lavishly or vulgarly come the late 30's.

Anyway, usually I have no hesitation in terms of what to put on in the morning: the inspiration comes from a combination of weather appraisal, morning mood and weight on the scales (if I don't shove it back under the laundry bag to not know the damage). But in this kind of entourage, all flirty that I can be, I must confess I was not feeling all together confident about wearing 4 inches heel boots and body-con mini dresses.

Next thing I know (after a few more missions within the magazine industry, a lot simpler to dress for as mostly women's papers), I find myself working for an almost all girls' team with the most horrific schoolgirl-going-pink crush for the guy in the next office, to the point that I will actually look at his shirt's cuffs rather than at his eyes in case he casts an oh-so-dangerous smile at me. Aha!

All in all, I believe the same basic rules apply to all professional environments, at least if you are keen on making things happen career-wise: no matter how harsh the hungover, never show up looking dishevelled at work (actually, the worst the hungover, the classiest the outfit). Never wear plunging decolletes: if you're working with girls, they will always say you look sweet face-to-face but might well call you a slut in your back. If you like short skirts, make sure it doesn't show a bit of your back underwear every time you take a step; leather should remain on one single garment (no leather boot, leather trouser and leather jacket but or, or, or), and whatever happens, don't ever ever get into a relationship at work (believe me, it's never good news on the long term! unless you get married maybe...).

Alternatively, avoid girly outfits: big flowers and big bows will nourish the idea of a cheesy corny sweet girl that should not get away too far from the PA job. Headbands, kilts and dots will just make you look uptight if not accessorized right, but if you read us regularly, you already know that.

Think. The first person you don't want to be working with (or for) is the one who stays at work until 10pm every night and doesn't give a damn about their look, because no personal life means frustration means easy-snapping or down right screaming-at-you in front of the whole team... not cool. The second person you don't want to be, yourself, at work, is the sweet girl in a boring outfit in the corner who will never get anywhere.

The image you want to cultivate is 'understatedly sexy': social (sexy) life after-hours, but work means work. Think pencil skirts, high-waisted pants, think tight tops, voluminous but not too-low-under-the-knee dresses, think suggestive decolletes that 'just give a hint and loosely sensual wraparound silky skirts, think embellished rather than oversize accessories, think cinched jackets and quirky high (high because flat is so incredibly boring and do not give a good posture) heels, and think heels a lots, because you wear them in a place where you might need to keep your profile low -or rather elegant- and statement heels can give out a lot about your personality. Plus they are such a pick-up because they always fit and the thing you need at work is to look confident.

The point is: if you want to get somewhere in your job, on top of being good at it, your outfit shouldn't scream 'I am dressing short for a promotion', or 'I don't have a life therefore I don't care about what I look like', but it should not in any case be boring, especially considering you might not have the time to change clothes in the second floor's bathroom at 7pm.

And never ever ever should it help you seduce someone at work because work should be dating terra plana... Too messy could it become otherwise!

By Champagnista V

Milan Fashion Week Spring Summer 09

Fabrics and patterns mix and matching at Marni

Mix and matching colours at Moschino

Marni

Mix and match of patterns at Missoni

Auras of gauze made strong fabrics ethereal at Marni

Soft and strong fabrics at Moschino

Kimono inspired silhouettes and soft and strong fabric patchworking at Missoni

Missoni

Origami shapes at Pollini

Pollini

You will go to Milan for strong house looks: Versace, Fendi, Gucci, these are just as many names you know what to expect from, recognizable silhouettes and tailored looks, great couture, no disappointment, even when a few catwalk models make fashion faux-pas for one of these labels like at Prada.

Milan, like other Spring Summer 09 Fashion weeks, was all in whites and floral. You want a good idea of the SS09 key seasonal look, check out the new Luisa Beccaria collection: it is white, flowery, frilly, feminine, shapely, pretty pretty pretty and borderline sickeningly sweet... but very pretty.

It was all that jazz at Alberta Ferretti with sleek 30's low-waisted dresses in silvery silks, and Bottega Veneta came up with an interesting kind of tuxedo dress, but what made things truly interesting in Milan was the way designers played with fabrics and patterns, patchworking muslins with taffetas, making heavy shantung silks ethereal by combining them with an aura of gauze, mix and matching patterns and colours into part-retro, part-futuristic mind-blowing creations. Mix-and-match was the magic tool that made things happen on runways.

Oversize took a new meaning at Moschino with statement flowers and bows, while Missoni and Pollini gave a new sense to Japanese influences with kimono and origami shapes. Pollini was the definite pick-me-up collection, cheeky, girly, and funny in an all psychedelic mise-en-scene. Heart crush on Marni: these three were the most inventive, interesting and accomplished collections in Milan this year, and should give our fashionista readers plenty of ideas come wardrobe-making time for the new season.

By Champagnista V

Images from Style.com

Eva Erzigova for Dom Perignon

I just came home from a girls' night out to pick up a friend who is having some serious boyfriend trouble (where I still want to hire a 6-pack-boy to beat the hell out of him), and the girls being English, Australian and Irish, they outdo my drinking capacity like you wouldn't believe: I wish I could just crash in bed, so I am going to keep this post short...

Apart from Milan, on which we are going to give you a thorough update at the end of the week, the latest big fashion news is the Lagerfeld-Erzigova collaboration for Dom Perignon. Starring in the new Dom Perignon 1996 cuvee campaign shot by Lagerfeld, Eva's 34 DD perky curves in playfully minimalistic lingerie. That's the last part of the campaign story, but I'm guessing that's what everybody is going to be most interested in, right boys? A sex kitten purring for champagne in a luxury hotel suite kingsize bed? No turn-off here...

Nothing too surprising about the Perignon-Erzigova pairing, fashion has always gone hand in hand with champagne, and high class one, not Brut de Blancs mousseux: Dom Perignon's choice is well-studied. Eva is classily elegant and bubbly like their product, and her hair is all in blonds, beiges and pinks like the tones you see when looking through a glass of Dom Perignon champagne in the twilight.

Having said that, maybe the whole story with its checking into Le Meridien, going shopping and meeting the perfect guy for the night (who would turn out to be the perfect boyfriend in a Hollywood movie) might make you just a little sick (like after a few glasses of champagne, were they not Dom Perignon)... But the campaign does work well, and the imagery is nicely framed and filtered, so thumbs ups on Eva's curl(ve)s! She is the perfect beauty to fill the ambassadress' part for such a glamorous name. Dress or undressed, the robe of a Dom Perignon bottle will remain the same elegantl image under her parentage.

By Champagnista V

Lucky Voice opened in Islington

They are playing 'Walk the Line' tonight on TV and I love that movie: whenever I'm on my own I sing along to it with all my heart and picture myself with Kansas riding boots and a cowboy hat. All because I am on my own though: I have such a voice, I actually dread singing in the shower, I am too afraid the ceiling would crack and fall over, or a flatmate might overhear me (especially the cutie with the blue eyes... if you've seen the pictures of our Champagnista night... bad bad delightfully bad boy!)

So it will come to reason that when my good friend Miss Conde Nasty invited me to the opening of Lucky Voice in Islington, I should jump on the occasion: I love a karaoke, I dread a karaoke, I hate a karaoke, I love a karaoke! It's always a wonderful time to dress up and play the character you want to sing: this might be the moment when I tell you that I fell in love with fashion when I was a (very young considering I am not that old) struggling actress (/struggling model, /quite successul waitress, /time to drop back in university because I missed it!...) and used to dress the part I wanted to play on the night: fashion offers you such a multitude of opportunities to create the character you want to play on the occasion you want to play it, it is the most wonderful role game.

So tonight, I dressed as a rock chick with slim dark jeans and a pair of lace-up ankle boot platform shoes with a big buckle on the instep, and I prepared myself psychologically to sing Amy Winehouse's 'Rehab'. Miss Conde Nasty and I met up at Highbury & Islington tube station, and I cannot begin to tell you how happy I was to learn that all her other friends had bailed out: thank GOD, nobody was going to witness the fiasco!

Lucky Voice is on Upper Street, opposite the Town Hall, and I must say they did a pretty good job with the decoration: the wooden bar is sleek and square, and the dark leather sofas spouse the same kind of efficient shapes, urging you to do something dynamic under the concert-ambient lighting, meaning, moving to one of their private boots and singing the tunes you've kept mumbling to yourself for the past few weeks... In my case for the past few months since my 5-year-relationship breakup (no no I am not that old) so namely Marley's 'every l'lle thing 's' gonna be all right' (title please?!), U2's 'Bloody Bloody Sunday' and the Rolling Stones' 'Painted Black'...

After the few obligatory drinks (which were obviously not enough), we went in one of the private rooms that was provided with all the accessories we could wish for: colourful wigs, fake fluff guitars, and even an unlikely tambourine... and vodka. And REVELATION: Miss Conde Nasty has such a beautiful voice, she now has to switch careers! I am not joking, I had no idea, but she has the strongest and most original voice I had heard in a while! So if you have heard her from outside and are a music promoter, do contact me and I'll put you in touch.

Yes, because whatever the staff tell you when you get in the boot, you can hear everything from outside, and it is a lot of fun.

It was quite a good training, because on 14 October, my boss is taking the whole team on a bonding day, beginning with kart and ending at the Oxford Circus Lucky Voice. Now I know I shouldn't try to sing Candy Man... or Valerie... or a lot of other songs... I would stick to French songs because I could pull out the husky voice and pretend, but dammit they don't have any!

Lucky Voice is on 173-174 Upper High street, 2 minutes away from Highbury & Islington Tube station, and it has 7 private boots which can welcome about 8 people+ to spend an evening at large. http://www.luckyvoice.com/venues/islington

Ps: By the way, I did bail out of Fash Off and the BFC Candy Man... I was in bed by 9pm, shame on me, and then I got my first ever booty text around 11:30pm, saying 'I had forgotten my phone in my hotel room, I am back, where are you?'... More 'drinking with the mates and didn't want to call before', but I kind of deserved it.

Pps: I totally agree with Champagnista M's last post, a T-bar should always be seen on your foot or remain hidden, unwarned slutty underwear is always so much more efficient!

By Champagnista V

Fashionistas- say no to crack!

Misleading

Reality

Everyone knows that fashion is an opportunity for everyone to embrace the trends with gusto and brilliance but then there are the small few that take that passion a tad to far. What am I babbling about? Well I am talking about the “mind the crack” gang.

They are the females who still think it is cute to walk around adorning a pair of jeans that makes everyone get close and personal with the bum crack. I do not understand that even when they compliment their latest 7’s jeans with a trendy belt, why do they insist that their beloved the crack is still visible. Why, oh why, should we have be privy to some strangers privates.
Case and point, I was on the bus this morning heading to work and in comes a size 14 with skinny jeans that are hung a tad too low giving me and the suited and booted city folk a glimpse of her red g string (I mean red, come on) that barely covered the crack. I mean forget the muffin top on show we were all instead mesmerised with what the fact that we were being exposed to that much bottom at 8am, I mean I had not even had my morning latte yet!

So as I glanced at the fashion car crash that was the size 14 in low rise skinny jeans I wondered whether if I was ever given the opportunity to go back in time an convince Kate Moss not to have left her house with skinny low rise jeans and start a trend that refuses to quit would I? Most definitely, and whilst I am there I will be sure to enjoy a cup of tea and a digestive with Miss Kate.

Any who to continue, this is a trend that has long since gone, so why have some fashionistas refused to let it go. It was never an attractive trend in the first place, even the forever frisky men found themselves being turned off the forever there bum crack, so why not grab pair of wide legged high rised peg trousers that are all the rage this season and please say no to crack because this is truly a trend exclusive only to builders working on the building site!

Champagnista M, Gros Bisous

Peter Jones, Shopping for fabrics, September 08

His boyfriend made me laugh... I know it was to be expected at some point, but he did ask 'why her and not me'? a question I couldn't quite answer because he had a good style, just (well, I guess that's where the answer goes) not quite edgy or quirky enough for the blog... I am just a bit anal about it, amn't I? I LOOOved the frilly flowery dress accessorized with a big waisty belt.

By Champagnista V