Despite the potential 'bumping into colleagues' minefield of the gallery and Fashion Week closing party, it was with gusto that I threw myself into each event last night. Even my father had suggested I flush the illness out of my system with wine, and who am I to question the great man?
With my flatmate ensuring my wine glass never slipped beneath the halfway mark it wasn't long before I was readily spouting off-the-cuff art bullshit in the pursuit of feigning interest in the exhibition, as opposed to just the booze and laughs. "It reminds me of the time I spent in San Francisco. Time..motion..the portrayal of their relationship." Art idiots the lot of them but I may have got a foot (or at least a toe) into the door of a large broadcasting company.
Later, and I arrived at the Queen of Hoxton around 10pm (annoyingly close to the end of the free bar at the 'Ditch's most Shoreditch of Fashion Week parties). There's certainly something quite gratifying when you care little for Fashion Week but walk past the guestlist queue, and get ushered in via a friend despite your name not being down. It's like stealing fashionistas' thunder from right under their noses.
Things were going swimmingly as I downed the beers with a partner in crime and then I met Betsy; a delightful young kitten with tits as outrageously showy as her name. I'm sad to report that Betsy's name will be added to the long list of attractive women with whom all the ground work was laid and yet for some reason I have just wandered away from.
All in all the event had been enjoyable and suitably poncey; yet none of the faux-philosophical conversing earlier on at the gallery could have prepared me for the 'art' that was to follow. It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to Pandering & The Golddiggers:
