Archive for the ‘Opinion’ Category

Features, Opinion

Why we should think pink

By Andrea Petrou on December 10th, 2009
1 comment

Pink.jpg
Lauren Bravo writes: Ah, non-uniform days. However distant a memory those schooldays may be, it’s still a phrase that strikes terror into the heart of many a stylista. The pressure! The anxiety! The sweats! How to disguise the fact Mum bought it?

How to vamp it up enough for maximum school-gate exposure without actually risking expulsion? How to collect just the right amount of status-appropriate style kudos without taking it too far, upstaging the queen bully, and earning oneself a beating with a platform trainer in the hockey cupboard? As the first sartorial minefield we encounter in life, it’s also potentially the most crushing.

My own worst mufti memory dates from Year 7. Age: 12, social position: middling, nickname: ‘Boffin’. I’d already made some fairly risky non-uniform choices up to this point – fleece gilet, neon trainers, one cropped top too many. But this was a fashion error that earned me bullying like none before. The crime? I wore a pink top. It was Miss Selfridge, true, which was quite a credible statement in a room full of Tammy Girl and BHS. But it was pink. I may as well have embroidered “kick me hard and steal my gel pens” on the back of my PE kit.

Pink, to my middle school class, was strictly contraband. Pink was for girls, and not the kind of girls it was acceptable to be. It might sound alien to today’s generation of increasingly glam Topshop tweens, but in my day, real girls wore… um, khaki. Seriously. All Saints had a lot to answer for.

However, while I’ve resented those bullies for the last ten years, it seems now there may have been method in their meanness. Or at least, Emma and Abi Moore might think so. Backed by Justice Minister Bridget Prentice, their PinkStinks campaign has been hitting headlines with its backlash against the “pinkification” of marketing aimed at young girls. Campaigners are striving to promote positive role models in place of the sugar-coated gender stereotypes sold by advertisers, even calling for a Christmas boycott of the Early Learning Centre, one of the worst pink-peddling offenders.

But just how potent is pink? From Barbara Cartland to Barbie, it’s a colour with a lot to answer for (and not just my pre-teen bruises). Once out of Toys ‘R’ Us and into the adult realm, it may not be used to sell us princess paraphernalia anymore – but sometimes it isn’t so far off. Think of Marilyn in the rose-coloured satin, teaching us that a girl’s real best friends are Harry Winston and Tiffany. Molly Ringwald reinvented the colour with her ’80s DIY styling in Pretty in Pink (not to mention busting the myth that redheads should refrain), but there’s no escaping the Cinderella connotations when she snags her wealthy high school Prince Charming, Blaine.

And back in this decade, pink has been adopted by a parade of dubious female icons. Jordan. Paris Hilton. Paris Hilton’s dog. Kelly Brook in that Julien McDonald number. Even casting the patriarchy aside for a moment, pink still runs the risk of looking obvious. But however heavy the associations of princesses and Playboy, it finds its way onto the catwalk season after season – in 2008 it was neon splashes, this year we had dusky nudes, and next season looks set to be all about sugared almond shades. Designers love a challenge; maybe why they’re so keen to have a go at reclaiming a colour with such a bad rep. Pink is all over January’s Vogue, which teams pastel lace up with black leather and brothel creepers in an attempt to prove feminine strength doesn’t need to get lost among the frou-frou layers.

So perhaps, (for the sake of nifty alliteration), we should think of it as the pink paradox. The long established colour of all things feminine, pink has become both a banner and a curse – prescribed to us by advertisers, sold to us by celebs, reinvented for us by designers. As research, I put on my own favourite pink dress, an unashamedly girlie vintage lace mini-shift. “Why do I like this dress?” I asked myself. “Why why why? Is it because the colour, in mirroring my blushing, maidenly cheeks, projects an image of vulnerable femininity that might attract my fairytale match?” Possibly. But mainly, it’s because it was a fiver, and nobody has ever bullied me in the playground for wearing it.

While you ponder the issue, I’ll leave you with these words from Funny Face, summing up the paradox of pink – as 50s magazine editor Maggie Prescott dances round her rosy-hued office, she sings, “I wouldn’t presume to tell a woman what a woman oughtta think. But tell her if she’s gotta think: think pink…”



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Features, Opinion

Why classic clothes should remain at the back of the wardrobe

By Andrea Petrou on December 3rd, 2009
3 comments

classic.jpgLauren Bravo writes: There are few places I like to see the word ‘classic’. Classic cars, Penguin Classics, maybe a classic episode of Have I Got News For You. But generally, any place you find the word ‘classic’ is not a place I want to be. ‘Classic’ denotes dull. ‘Classic’ means “first thing we came up with, couldn’t be arsed to make it more exciting”. That’s how it is with crisps, that’s how it is with shower gel and that’s how it is with clothes. Yes, this week I would like to launch the backlash on ‘classic’ wardrobe items – or, as the phenomenon shall be known, The Curse of the Plain White Shirt.

It’s one of those oh-so-helpful nuggets of advice that we girls are raised on, along with rubbing half a lemon on your elbows and wearing Vaseline with socks to bed. Women’s magazines have been peddling this myth for decades. For some, at the Woman’s Weekly/Essentials/Good Housekeeping end of the scale, it’s their bread and butter, making an appearance on a pretty much monthly basis; but even the savvier glossies are guilty of dredging it up from time to time. The legend goes something like this: “Every woman should own a plain white shirt. That is the secret of happiness.”

“Furthermore,” the myth continues, “every well-dressed wardrobe should be built on a foundation of ‘classic’ items (or, if they’re really devout, they’ll use that other word, the one that’s worse than classic – ‘basic’. Yeuch). These classic items should ideally be as expensive as you can afford, and as boring as you can bear. In addition to the plain white shirt, you must have: a beige trench coat, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of straight-cut jeans, and a black shift dress. Then, and only then, will you be complete as a woman.”

So colossal is the wrongness of this theory that I’m not quite sure where to start, but the white shirt seems as good a place as any. There are 30 million women in the world, and of those 30 million, about 12 look good in a plain white shirt. For the rest of us, the results veer along an increasingly unflattering spectrum from School Prefect to Apprentice Contestant, via Checkout Assistant in BHS. White shirts present a minefield of staining risks, gaping issues and the eternal bra conundrum (the magazines say flesh coloured, but then the magazines HATE US. Who should we trust?).

Likewise the trench coat. A better suggestion, maybe, if we could have it in teal, or purple, or a nice cheery red. But no, ‘classic’ items tend to occupy a narrow colour palette. That is, beige. Beige and its deformed sisters, fawn, camel and stone. While we all have occasional mac fantasies (I favour Big Mac fantasies), of running through Parisian streets in pursuit of a lost balloon or something equally charming, we know the truth. The only time you’ll ever have fun in a trench coat is when you’re naked underneath it on someone’s doorstep. Or if you’re a spy.

Then there’s the black shift dress, an item we can thank Audrey Hepburn for bestowing on us and Princess Di for perpetuating. Shift dresses are a nice idea. So chic! So subtle yet sexy! What a shame then, that they appear not to have been designed to clothe the female figure but an Ikea flatpack shelving unit. Shift dresses hug the bits you want to forget, hang over the bits you want to hug, and squeeze that little pocket of underarm flab out to say hello when you thought you’d banished it forever.

There is also something unavoidably smug about wearing a shift dress. However much you try to Gok it up with jazzy accessories, it will always look uncomfortably corporate. It’s a look that says ‘I head up a successful sales team, do yoga in my lunch hour, bake nutritious dishes for my five pristine children and never chip a nail on my Blackberry’. And until I either accomplish all of those things, or become Audrey Hepburn, it’s a ‘classic’ I won’t be investing in one any time soon.

So the magazines can try as they might, I am not falling for it. Happiness takes many different forms, but I’m pretty sure I can live a long and fulfilling life without needing a plain white shirt in it. The day a ‘classic’ garment enters my wardrobe will be the day I forget how to have fun. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rub lemons on my elbows and have an early night. Pip pip.



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Features, Opinion

Disney brings us fantasy fashion

By Andrea Petrou on November 26th, 2009
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minnie_mouse_costume1.jpgLauren Bravo writes: There’s something about girls who like Disney.

I mean, those girls who REALLY like Disney. Sure, we can all succumb to the charms of Prince Eric when relationships with three-dimensional men become too much effort, and who hasn’t sought the wisdom of Timone and Pumba in a moment of crisis? But for some, it goes beyond mere nostalgia. Those girls are different.

You know the kind – novelty Barbie duvet cover, boyfriend who calls them “baby”, ‘tinkerbell24@hotmail.com’ as their email address. They’re the giggly girls. They skip through life down a yellow brick road made of sunshine and lined with fluffy pink cats. They’re the girls who get drunk on Bacardi Breezers and sing A Whole New World on the back of the N20 bus (instead of Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, like normal people). It’s as though all those hours of fawning over Ariel and Jasmine have left each one with the mistaken belief that they are, in their own special way, underneath the layers of denim and standard-issue Dorothy Perkins, actually a princess.

Yes, we all know those girls. And as the hierarchy of style mavericks goes, they’re usually bringing up the rear along with hen parties and Blue Peter presenters. But no longer. After years at the bottom of the Woolworths bargain bin, the cartoon heroines are leaping off the dvd shelf and onto the catwalk. That’s right, this season – if a bluebird hasn’t whispered it in your ear already – fashion is going a bit Disney.

Exhibit A: the Bold Shoulder. You’d have to have been asleep for 100 years (or four months) not to have noticed that shoulders are really big right now. It’s tradition, each season, for a different body area to get an extreme volume injection – last time it was platforms, the year before it was hips, and now all emphasis is on the shoulders. They’re embellished, they’re pointed, they’re padded and puffed into the realms of sheer fairytale. And where have we seen them before? Why, Disney of course! From Snow White’s colourful puffs to her wicked stepmother’s angular power padding, there’s a shoulder for everyone in the archives.

Exhibit B: Who’s the furriest of them all? Everyone knows that baddies have more fun. They also dress better, which is why the high street is currently a parade of wicked witch attire – sequins, velvet, jet black, petrol blue, leather, hoods and, best of all, fur. As Cruella DeVille knew, nothing says badass like draping yourself in something animalistic. But whether it’s a furry collar, jacket or full-length nod to Narnia, with so many fantastic fakes in the shops there’s no need to be skinning any Dalmatians this time round.

Exhibit C: Minnie to the max. This one has been sneaking up on us all year, as though the fashion council have been laying down an edam trail down Oxford Street (more likely than them eating it, a cynical soul might suggest). The oversized bows were hijacked by Lady Gaga for a while, but now that polka dots are back on the menu too, fashion is reclaiming the look of Walt’s original It Girl, Minnie Mouse. ShinyStyle brought you a Minnie-inspired collection last week, while German Vogue transformed Chanel Iman into a high fashion version of everyone’s favourite rodent. But here’s a challenge, Disney darlings – spots and bows are easy enough, but if you can carry off the white gloves and ears without straying into Gaga territory, I salute you.

So there we have it. For sumptuous styles and cartoonish proportions this winter, look no further than Disney for some inspiration. But before you let rip with the magic wand, I would like to add the following disclaimer: no matter how big your sleeves get, how full your petticoats or how perky your polka dots, please don’t become one of ‘those’ girls. Remember, it’s not real life. It’s just fashion.

(And draw the line at glass slippers.)



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Features, Opinion

Follicle fakery: Is Cheryl Cole’s hair for real?

By lotte on November 19th, 2009
6 comments

Cheryl Cole follicle fakery.jpg Lauren Bravo writes: Pray silence, for the eighth wonder of the world!

Ahem: Cheryl Cole’s hair.

(It’s ok, you can squeal now).

Go on! Let it out, sisters! The bounce, the swing, the waves! That texture, that shine! That vague idea that perhaps, if she shakes it at just the right angle, a family of baby bluebirds might fly out singing Love Machine… It’s been over a year now since the nation first took Chezza to our hearts, and the flame doesn’t seem to be dying any time soon. Sure, the combination of cartoon dimples, novelty accent and lilliputian proportions have got her so far, but we all know the true source of adoration lies in the hair.

For it is hair like no other. It is the hair of three women put together. It’s so colossally thick it can muffle out the words “didn’t she once punch that toilet attendant?” with a single almighty swish. Cole has set the bar at an impossible height for hair volume, like Jennifer Aniston did for straightness and Lady Godiva did for nipple coverage. Mere mortals can’t compete – all the backcombing in the world won’t produce her tresses, just a stiff wrist and the urge to go running along a mountain top crying “Mojo, where have you goooooone?”

And why is it so impossible? Come on, we all know. It’s there in teeny letters at the bottom of the screen, covering L’Oréal’s ass for when the lank-locked among us try to sue. “Styled with natural extensions”, says the disclaimer. “Fake!” says the triumphant voice in our heads.

Yes, extensions are everywhere. Once the preserve of Page 3 and Wetherspoons toilet queues (with the kind of brillo pad texture useful for mopping up spilt Malibu later in the evening), fake hair has finally gone legit. And with it has arrived an eternal guessing game – is it? Isn’t it? From Leighton Meester’s tumbling curls (yes) to Lindsay Lohan’s increasingly straggly mane (hell yes) to every America’s Next Top Model contestant (blame Tyra Banks, Queen of the Weave, for believing that a good model should be able to smile with her eyes and polish floors with her hair).

Last week, ShinyStyle revealed that one of Meester’s Gossip Girl colleagues has the most requested style of the year; but after a night of typing “Does Blake Lively wear extensions?? Does she doesshedoesshe?” into Google, the jury is still out. My question is this, though: are they cheating? Would knowing that Blake’s hair isn’t all hers make it less covetable?

The irony of Cheryl’s L’Oréal campaign, of course, is that it doesn’t make you want to buy shampoo at all. It makes you want to buy synthetic clip-ins. Now that even mascara ads tell you they’re using lash extensions, advertising has backfired somewhat. “Heck, we don’t think our product really works either”, they say. “Just cut out the middle man and buy a new face.”

But of all people, I cannot judge – to damn Cole and crew for their hair fakery would be like the pot calling the kettle peroxide. Instead I should sympathise. For however hard these little enhancements work to be accepted by fashion’s elite, there is always a stigma in the everyday world. If I had a pound for every time someone has eyed my bleached hair and said “Do you not think you’d look better with your natural colour? More, y’know, natural?”, I could afford extensions enough to build a border collie Girls Aloud tribute band. “Maybe,” I reply. “But then it wouldn’t look like custard. And where’s the fun in that?”

So I understand extensions. It’s ok Cheryl, I get it. We can’t all have hair that looks like a chestnut duvet, and we don’t all need to – but yours is a world of one-upmanship, and you need that extra boost to stay on top. Just promise me this: if you start getting neck ache, give them a rest for a while. Because you’re worth it.



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Designer collaborations, Features, Opinion

Jimmy Choo for H&M: My queuing experience

By Andrea Petrou on November 14th, 2009
15 comments

Jimmy choo.jpgThis morning, before the light had even come through and the birds hadn’t even sung their first song, I was up and about eagerly preparing for my day of Jimmy Choo heaven at H&M. I thought I was ready physically and mentally. I had my purse, donned my flattest most comfortable boots (I’m not ashamed to admit they were Uggs) and got my gloves.

I’m no stranger to queueing for such events, I’ve waited patiently for Karl Lagerfeld’s and Matthew Williamson’s collections for H&M and always try to be first in the Gucci queue at the Harrods sale. Therefore I had also prepared myself for the pushing and shoving that’s bound to happen when you put too many bargain hungry fashionistas in one cramped place and make them wait.

However I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like the scenes I saw this morning. My tube, which is at the end of a north London line and a good 45 minutes from London, was packed with squeeling 15 and 16 year olds who covered the carriages wearing the latest trends and talking loudly about what they were going to buy. Zebra print bags and sandals, being the most heard phrase. Others sat shouting about their queueing game plan.

By the time we neared the final stop I could barely move for the hoards of fashionistas raring to go. And as soon as those tube doors opened it was a rush to the escalators and to the great outdoors where we were one step closer to this years fashion must haves.

The queue was already winding around the corner and the first half was covered in sleeping bags, which eager girls had obviously pitched up the night before. I joined and waited patiently despite being pushed left, right and centre and being caught up amongst arguments started by the standard “you’ve pushed in.”

I even managed to talk to a few girls. One told me: “I would have come earlier, but I didn’t want to leave my baby on his own for too long.”
Another said she’d been saving up hard for months to “really make the trip worth it.”

It was then I really began to wonder why we’re so desperate to get our hands on such items. Was a Jimmy Choo shoe, handbag suede dress or sequined jacket really important enough to risk something happening to your baby for?

And as the girls, who had chosen to spend their night freezing on a cold pavement rather than enjoying a Friday night out with friends, walked past smugly holding their rewards (I spotted a good few boxes and handbag straps poking out of those bags) I realised that this mad frenzy wasn’t for me.

I was hours from the front, and although I would have previously killed for even a buckle of this collection, the crazy, and at times, downright desperate, atmosphere was too much.

So I did something I’d never done before. I chickened out.

Taking myself to the nearest internet cafe I logged onto Ebay and typed in the probably most popular search of the day: Jimmy Choo for H&M. Well, I may have lost the Jimmy Choo queue battle, but I’m certainly not going to lose the war.

I’ll let you know how I got on next week but if you were one of the lucky girls who got hold of some of the collection I’d love to hear from you. Leave your comment below and let me know.



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Features, Opinion

Why bikinis in public swimming pools should be banned

By Andrea Petrou on November 13th, 2009
14 comments

Barbie.jpgOur guest writer Lauren has done an outstanding job of bringing all our fashion faux pas into the spotlight. She’s cussed the cleavage and caused a mini fashion war with her article on Uggs. But she’s also got me thinking about all the little fashion things that really get my goat and I feel it’s time I spoke out. First on my hit list are those Bikini wearing Barbies in public swimming pools.

Last week I decided it was time to rid myself of the growing love handles (the joys of working from home) and hit the local pool.

Dressed in my no nonsense Speedo swimming cozzie and mentally congratulating myself at getting halfway through my first length I was rudely interrupted by the man in front of me stopping suddenly. So much so that if we’d been in cars there would have been a serious clash of metal and full blown arguments.

So what had made him stop? A heart attack? Or perhaps that pesky swimming stitch you get when you decide to go full throttle on a rather bloated stomach? Or maybe the poor man was having trouble breathing. Either one would have been equally acceptable, but looking up I realised the real reason for the collision, which involved far too much skin contact deemed acceptable for a leisurely weekday swim, was the itsy bitsy bikini wearing Baywatch barbie that had just stepped in from the grimy changing rooms.

Posing and preening in her glorious polka dot (I kid you not) bit of rag complete with little bows, she painted a farcical picture amongst the grey and 60s styling of the pool, but she seemed selfishly oblivious to her surroundings.

Like a mythical siren from Greek literature she had managed to stop every single man, each of whom were doing a very good impression of a gaping swimming pool drain, in their front crawl tracks. Not only were these men close to drowning (it’s never a good idea to open your mouth when you’re immersed in water) but their sudden swimming strike was inconveniencing us serious female fitness fanatics.

If it had not been an offence you can be sure we all would have lynched her. Maybe that’s going a bit too far. Considering where we were, drowning would have been a better option.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fuddy duddy granny who can’t bear bikinis and this isn’t a piece fuelled by jealousy. I’ll happily don one on the beach. Afterall we’ve fought to be able to wear them since they first crashed into French fashion in 1946.

French fashion historian Olivier Saillard got it spot on when he said: “The emancipation of swimwear has always been linked to the emancipation of women.”

Designed by French engineer Louis Réard, the beachwear, was named after Bikini Atoll in the Pacific, the site of the Operation Crossroads nuclear weapon tests in July that year. The reasoning behind the name was that the burst of excitement created by it would be like a nuclear device. However, I don’t think the genius designer could have known how much of an explosion it’s made, especially when it comes to my war against public pool bikini abusers.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if, after their grand entrance these bikini bunnies actually swam, but no, thats far too much to ask. Instead they incessantly pose, taking great delight in the attention they attract and stand giggling with their bikini buddies while blocking our safe shallow end haven.

But is there any pool rule against this. Amongst the signs of “no heaving petting” “no spitting” and “no diving” is there anything that says “no Barbies bearing bikinis blocking serious swimmers”? Like heck there is. That would ruin the male life guards fun.

I asked my local government run leisure centre what their take on this trend was. A spokesman for the organisation told me “We allow any type of swimwear as long as it’s deemed respectable, doesn’t offend and is safe for swimming in.”

And what exactly would the centre class as offensive? G-strings and “those new see-through creations.”

However, just because a leisure centre deems it acceptable it doesn’t make it right. In my eyes there’s a time and place for everything (take note Jordan) and wearing a bikini in a public swimming pool is as wrong as Cheryl Cole’s David Koma dress, or a pair of winter crocs complete with socks . With perfectly acceptable sensible swimwear out there no one needs to bare all at the local pool.



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Fashion News, Opinion

Government announces regulations to stop rogue modelling agencies

By Andrea Petrou on November 12th, 2009
1 comment

model.jpgIt’s finally happened. The Government has woken up and taken note that many of you are still being scammed by rogue modelling agencies.

It announced this week that it’s introducing new rules banning agencies from taking upfront fees from models, following concerns that some agencies are charging exorbitant amounts without any likelihood of securing people castings or work.

This isn’t the first time the Government has waded into this industry. Last year it introduced a seven day cooling off period for up front fees, similar to the ones you might find on an electricity contracts. However this has fallen on deaf ears with some unscrupulous scouts continuing regardlessly.

But the Government has now toughened up.

Under the new regulations that will come into force during 2010, agencies that break the law could face prosecution and courts can impose unlimited fines for the most serious offences. Owners of rogue agencies could also be banned from operating for up to ten years. As the Government will be going after the agency owners it means they will be prevented from opening up under a new name.

We spoke to the Department for Business Innovation and Skills, which told us the move was based on the ” recurring number of complaints from the public,” but the media also had a key part in “highlighting” the problem.

Of course we can’t take all the credit, as we know many mags and newspapers have been talking about this for a while. However, we think we deserve a small pat on the back after we once again bought this, so far, never ending problem back into the spotlight.

Last month I carried out some research (read the full story here) into the grimy world of faux modelling agencies, whose tactics include pouncing, sorry, “scouting” you in the street and enticing you into parting with your cash by offering you a range of too good to be true deals.

As I found out, nothing in life is as good as it looks, especially when it comes to being offered a modelling contract when your more the size of a rat than the traditional size zero mouse, and had I gone ahead with the deal I would have been left well over £500 out of pocket.

Following this weeks announcement I’ve tried to get in touch with the agency that scouted me to see what it had to say, quelle surprise, “no one [was] available for comment.”

We’re thrilled that something is finally being done about agencies like this , but we warn you not to let your guard down too quickly. We advise you to read contracts carefully and investigate the company as much as possible. Like with that pesky black sock that always gets in with the white wash, we can be sure some rogue agencies will sneak in and use as many tactics as possible to get your money.

Let us know if you’ve had a bad experience with a rogue modelling agency by leaving a comment below.



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Features, Opinion

Why won’t Ugg boots die?

By Andrea Petrou on November 12th, 2009
36 comments

ugg.jpg

/>Lauren Bravo writes:
Ah, winter. The nights are drawing in, the leaves are falling, there’s a chill in the air. We’re waking up to the kind of mornings where you want to get dressed under the covers. Suddenly layering stops being a style statement and becomes a survival tactic – in my house particularly, where we forgo central heating for the less expensive option of dressing like the Michelin Man.

But we can’t complain – this season, fashion has furnished us well. Designers have given us cocoon coats, chunky knits, even that mutant aberration of the dressing-up box, the snood, is back to give our chilly necks a hug. “If only”, you find yourself thinking, “there were some sort of fleece-lined bootie to complete the ensemble. If only I had a shoe so padded that it took my outfit beyond mere realms of clothing, into that of being an actual walking cushion.

“But wait… didn’t we once have footwear like that? If memory serves, it wasn’t so long ago. Indeed, there it is, calling from the back of the wardrobe… like an old, water-stained friend, just yearning to be tramped through the rocky terrain of the Hebrides… or Hampstead… or Jack Wills…” But no! Resist! In the name of all that is holey (sic), PUT THE UGGS DOWN.

Now, I hate to bring this up just when your toes are needing the most insulation, but it has to be said. If ever a clothing item has outstayed its welcome, it is the fated Ugg. Like the boring guest that lingers on long after the party is over, those sheepskin boots have been popping up on our streets year after year, oblivious to the fact they haven’t really been stylish since before Emma Watson hit puberty. I regard them as the flipflop’s winter counterpart – predictable, aesthetically unappealing and a total waste of a shoe opportunity. Why won’t they just lie down and die?

Their place in the hall of fashion fame was dubious from the start. Sienna Miller has a lot to answer for, we know, but even she couldn’t have predicted the gusto with which the women of Britain would take such an unlikely contender to their hearts. Maybe it’s because we all secretly want to wear slippers in the street. Perhaps it’s because we’ve all idly wondered what it would look like to chop off our own feet and replace them with those of Winnie the Pooh.

Or maybe, and here is my Big Theory of the Week, it’s because we’ve become so blinkered when it comes to shopping that we can no longer recognise the ridiculous when it’s sitting on the end of our own limbs. Ugg adversaries have been pointing out for years now that the clue is in the name, but that just isn’t reason enough.

Because fashion loves ugly. It thrives on ugly. Season after season, utility fashion returns to the catwalks and bizarre, bulky purchases return to our wardrobes. Parkas, waders, polo necks, peg-leg trousers. The kind of clothes that make even the most self-confident shopper wonder, quietly, in the corner of an Urban Outfitters changing room, whether it’s all been cooked up as a big joke just to see how far we will go.

Think of Cheryl Cole in that black metal fan affair a few Saturdays back. Think of Madonna at the Met Costume Institute gala. Think of Agnyess Deyn in pretty much anything. We can seek out flattering hemlines and complimentary colours all we like, but the quickest way to earn fashion kudos is always going to be to find something hideous and wear it with aplomb.

But there are two crucial keys to ugly style: firstly, limit it to one item per outfit, and balance it with something genuinely attractive. And secondly, know when to let it go. Uggs, your days are numbered. I know some biker ankle boots that could totally take you down.

Do you want Ugg boots banished? Leave your comments below and let us know.



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Opinion

Why cleavage is never cool

By Andrea Petrou on November 5th, 2009
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Lauren Bravo writes:
holly-willoughby.jpgFashion is fickle. We all know this. Styles flit in and out of favour on the merry-go-round, enjoying their moment of glory then laying low until they can work their way back into our wardrobes. But while most trends, however unlikely, will get dragged into the spotlight at some point or other (hello, jodhpurs), there are some things that will just never quite manage it. Fleeces. Double denim. Nude tights. And, my own particular burden – cleavage.

Cleavage will never be cool. Despite all of Vivienne Westwood’s sterling efforts, no matter how much burlesque devotees try to bring back corseting, however many times Scarlett Johansson bends over in a movie, cleavage will always be the embarrassing auntie of fashion.

Cleavage takes an LBD from a cocktail bar to the Rover’s Return. A couple of cup sizes can be the difference between sexy and slutty, between Carrie Bradshaw and Carry On.

Of course, cleavage has had its champions over the years. Think of Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can’t Help It, sashaying her way across that restaurant, her bullet bra leading the way like two guided missiles. But Jayne was about gaudy sex appeal, not style. In an era of elegant icons like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, Mansfield’s extreme proportions were a guilty pleasure.

Likewise, modern day breasts have their celebrity cheerleaders. Of course they’re a varied lot – at the good end of the scale we have Salma Hayek, Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks, and the aforementioned Scarlett.

Luscious women who make cleavage look as at home on the red carpet as it does in a Yates’ Wine Lodge. Then there’s the bad end of the spectrum, where we find Jordan, Chantelle Houghton, Victoria Beckham’s gravity-defying melons, and 98 per cent of everyone at the British Soap Awards.

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