We'll always have Paris, as Bogart said to Bergman. But while old boyfriends grow a gut, the City of Love remains its neo-classical self. It's always there for you when you want it or need it, thanks to Napoleon, who hired Baron Haussmann to reinvent its medieval streets as a stage for a procession of artists and models to show off on.
A city is defined by its atmosphere as well as its architecture, and Paris's past mingles with its present. Marie Antoinette and Oscar Wilde could be drinking champagne from the same cup as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Picasso. Add a little absinthe and turn it into a car crash.
New York City, Tokyo, Beijing have been art capitals more recently than Paris, but the streets of Le Marais still echo with the footsteps of surrealism. Alberto Giacometti, one of the artists associated with that dead-glam world that was Paris between the wars, is now showing at London's National Portrait Gallery (until January 10, 2016).
London Fashion Week, already the bastard child of the shows, has been upstaged by the Prime Minister. Designers and their dresses can't compete with allegations about the leader of the sexually repressed world receiving fellatio from a dead pig to gain entry into the secret aristocratic society of Piers Gaveston.
You couldn't make it up, and why would Lord Ashcroft want to? Porn revenge, perhaps? No pictures yet, but give it time. Dave is on record saying he had a "normal" student experience. My days as an undergraduate with farting wankers at drama school must have been abnormal. I never felt inclined towards either necrophilia or bestiality, though I did suffer students simulating sex with skeletons during my brief interlude at medical school.
The PM's wife Sam Cam may be an odd choice to lead Vanity Fair's best-dressed list, but you have to love a lady in red who sits front row at Roksanda on the day the world discovered her husband's pig love. But let's applaud Sam even if she does have a unisex name and poor taste in men.
I'm more into bracelets at Tiffany's than breakfasts. Holly Golightly can keep that croissant. Of course, in real life the Audrey Hepburn diet was a boiled egg, two bits of toast, and a martini a day to keep the fat police away. And don't go spoiling it by adding a 29-calorie olive when a citrus twist is easier on the eye as well as the waistline.
Hepburn, the face that launched a million haircuts, is immortalized in dead-glamorous stills by Angus McBean, Richard Avedon, and Irving Penn, among other iconic photographers, which can currently be seen in Audrey Hepburn: Portraits of an Icon at the National Portrait Gallery in London (through October 18, 2015).
Call me weird, but I love a detox-diet. And where better to shrink than the new medical hotel Viva Modern Mayr in Altaussee, Austria? You go in fat and come out flat. It doesn't get more idyllic than that.
No alcohol, sugar, or calls from my mom until next week is easy, but I was worried about withdrawing from high heels, espresso, and Mr. Lash. At least stressing that I might be the fattest one there made me puke up enough calories to go down a dress size before I'd even started the prep work of cleansing my colon. Retoxing with pig on pita at the airport, instead of my usual breakfast of watermelon juice, was my tiny act of diet evil before drinking the Kool-Aid.
Mr. Lash doesn't understand why I can't starve at home, while Enery, my driver, offered to lock me in his garden shed until I've misplaced a few kilos. Imagine my ecstasy when I arrived at Mayr to find a bloody filet steak waiting for me instead of the glass of milk that's on the menu at the hardcore rival clinic across the Alps.Read More
"There is no way back for me now," are the last words written on the wall at the exit of the Savage Beauty show at London's V&A. But the exhibit is a celebration, not a suicide note.
The show opens with McQueen talking exuberantly about his hometown of London, his dirty laugh echoing around the gallery. "You have to understand tradition to subvert it," he says, and the clothes on display show his talent for cutting. Scissors are sexy when they're slicing something like a dress made of hair.
The highlight of Savage Beauty is a hologram of Kate Moss, in a room of her own, dancing on air in a feathery white wedding dress from the Widows of Culloden collection of 2006. If I were locked in the V&A overnight, as McQueen fantasized, I'd steal this dress and do a Liz Taylor by marrying Mr. Lash again, for the sole purpose of being a McQueen bride.
There's nothing savage about the beauty of Kate's performance as she's transformed from a mesmerizing Miss Havisham into shooting stars, to the music of Schindler's List — possibly a perverse skeleton-chic reference, or just a haunting melody. And when it ends, Kate's glass cage turns into a mirror, so you can confirm you're still the thinnest of them all.Read More
Mr. Lash and I don't do Christmas, though I'm not above accepting gifts any time of the year. But don't you hate getting a mink scarf with a list of instructions as long as your leg about how not to wear it? At least Carnaby Street is only a few Manolos away from Lash Mansion when I need a break from the manservant. A good shoe, like a good wine, improves with age.
Mod central in the 1960s, Carnaby became uncool for a few decades with faux punks spraying their hair blue and fat ladies having their photographs taken. Now Carnaby is cool again. Its Christmas lights went up straight after Halloween and sinister Santa's followers are shopping till they drop.
What sort of people celebrate a mooby man who sneaks into homes with a sack of ho ho ho, then allow their bawling, snot-nosed elves to sit on his lap? Twisted people with eyes wide shut and mouths wide open, that's who. They're the same types who have nothing better to worry about than who Anna Wintour — in London this week for the British Fashion Awards — puts on the cover of Vogue. Kim Kardashian does look like a ho on holiday, but previous covergirl Lena Dunham is practically an ambassador for Alarming Burds Anonymous.Read More
As a Soho-Scottish expat, my heart shouts YES YES YES to the referendum vote. So I was ecstatic that the other Viv, Dame Westwood, dedicated her Red Label spring 2015 show, Democracy, to supporting Scotland's freedom. Even the queue was democratic, with Vivvy's son Ben Westwood — imagine Harvey Keitel in Taxi Driver, but with better boots — and his leather-clad Japanese wife waiting in line behind me.
England's other Queen has been with me at all the big moments. From my first day at school when I turned up in a punk pink Anarchy shirt worn with my midget granny's Chanel jacket and St. Trinian's-style trashed silk stockings, my place was secured as the class-fash leader.
John Waters, who describes his look as 'disaster at the dry cleaners' advises that to be a fashion leader you need to annoy your peers, not your parents. My school uniform annoyed everybody except my best accessory, Fat Cat, the flabster friend who would make even Lena Dunham look thinster if she were sitting next to her. So I sat in the front row with the cheek to wear an old — let's call it vintage — High Street red dress with, of all things, black stockings. Everyone knows it's flesh-colored tights this year. I'm so fucking rad!
The usual questions flashed through my mind the night before Queen Viv's show in Bloomsbury's Victoria House. Will I be the fattest one in the front row? Should I have taken the advice of the skeletor in Yves Saint Laurent, who suggested that I have my chest amputated to fit into a size-zero Le Smoking? Why is Westwood's youngest son called Joe Corre and not Joe McLaren? Is it because everyone shouts "Cor!" when they see his Agent Provocateur underwear? Will I be able to resist putting pins on the seats of those hacks who compete to look more bored than Victoria Beckham? And the big question, the one that haunts me every day: What will I wear?
When Virginia Woolf was fed up with the Bloomsbury world and everyone in it, she wrote two suicide notes — only a weirdo (or a writer!) leaves two drafts — and jumped into the river wearing her husband's raincoat weighted down with bricks. The notes, scrawled in sinister, spidery handwriting, are on display at the National Portrait Gallery in Virginia Woolf: Art, Life and Vision (July 10 - October 26, 2014).
Virginia had such a nice life. Why did she want to leave that room of her own for the damp riverbed and say goodbye to being sucked up to at parties by T. S. Eliot and Lady Ottoline Morrell, she of the famous 'bird's beak vagina.' The great thing about being a novelist is that you get to diss your ex's genitalia and call it fiction — but the lady is dead, let's not rake over old bags.
Woolf started as a blue-stocking but turned into a fashion junkie after her affair with Vita Sackville-West. Like Princess Diana after her, she was dressed by Vogue, whose editor sourced Matisse print dresses and mannish tailoring for her to wear with her big flat shoes.
To be fair, Mrs. Woolf had lost all her teeth by the time she ruined her hair jumping into the River Ouse. So many parties, so little sanity! She left the gossipy Bloomsbury world behind to be cruelly treated in death, being played by Nicole Kidman and a big prosthetic nose in The Hours. The exaggerated nose was supposed to make Kidman look intelligent, but instead it dominated the film, leaving the audience to wonder if Sam Taylor-Wood was her stand-in.
They try to make you go to rehab and if you're daft enough to agree, you meet a new dealer at the Priory and get a massive medical bill to go with your new habit. Or you die soon after detoxing, like Amy Winehouse, Peaches Geldof and my doctor, Dex, who had a sign on his wall saying: Drugs are only a problem when you stop taking them. They became a problem for Dr. Dex when his prescription pad was confiscated and he ended up in a straitjacket.
It's a toxic world and we're living in it. But being addicted to health is just as dangerous when the Whole Foods freaks have more will for war than the shooting gallery sloths. Hairy vegetarians who stink of hemp fight over the last carton of almond milk and fart all over you until you give them the beetroot from your basket. Their pupils are dilated from kale overdose and their teeth rotted from fruit fasts, and they're losing sleep over the lack of avocados — because the farmers are all growing weed.
Overdosing on bananas is totes smelly for people whose noses aren't blocked with coke, but those wacky-baccie weirdos who sit around talking rubbish and eating biscuits all day are even worse. But if men with hairy toes in sandals upset me, those barroom bores who boast about how much damage they're doing to their livers have me reaching for the roofies. If you can't shut them up, you may as well knock them out.
My father has given up kidney dialysis to spend more time in the bar. Instead of being taken to hospital three times a week with "a bunch of old guys in an ambulance," he's downing vodka shots with a gang of potbellied alkies. It's his life and he can kill himself if he wants to, but crystal is kinder to the waistline than carby Cristal. If Daddy gets any fatter, he won't fit in his coffin.
Alcohol's for uncool crumblies and women who work at Vogue. But heroin addiction's never been a career option for me either, having been surrounded from an early age by chunky junkies who defied smack's rep as an excellent slimming aid. Behind every fat druggie there's an enabler — some big burd feeding them fry-ups, keeping them alive for the next shot of woe. As Irene the Slut said while knocking back a valium with her martini, "You can drink and you can take drugs, but not at the same time."
Sugar and fat are just the saddo drugs of the masses who used to get high on God and Santa Claus. Thank father fuck for my fat friend who reminds me every time I see her that people who eat too many cream cakes start to look like one.
Everyone has a poison and water's mine. Blindfold me if you want to, I can tell Highland Spring from Volvic without even swallowing. Vodka may be God's tranquilizer, but I'm addicted to Evian. It's zero calories and odor-free. Next time I get fed up with the world and everyone in it, I'm taking a bottle of Fiji water to bed with me, to drink while I laugh at the sinister selfies of my Facebook friends.
I can't stand people who put coconut in their water or diet coke in their whisky. To be fair, I'm a shallow not stupid sociopath who doesn't really like people unless they're dead, glamorous, or a combination of the two. Dead glamorous novelist Anna Kavan, who died with a hundred lipsticks the same shade of pink and enough heroin to kill the street, had an emergency shot of morphine from her silver syringe while guests were over for dinner. Why bother inviting them?
Whether your poison drips from your pen or your syringe, if they want you to detox, just say no. Don't spoil your tiny acts of evil by feeling guilty about them.
Listen to Vivien Lash read from her evil twin's book, Spying on Strange Men