A week is a long time in fashion, one day your in the next your out, well thats what Frau Klum says. But whether you’re in or your out the six days of London Fashion Week are long. I genuinely don’t know how the editors and buyers manage a whole month. Once the fatigue sets it, it’s nearly impossible to shake no matter how amazing the time is you are praying for it to end. There is only so much Prosecco you can take. It is beyond doubt a hard life indeed. So when we got to 4pm on Menswear day my bed was calling. But I had two more shows to see and a party to go to. Seriously it’s a hard hard life. So I, several Japanese buyers, a handful of celebs I didn’t really know, and the good lady herself Vivienne Westwood trekked out to Wiltons Music Hall in East London to see the A Child of Jago show. 

Having seen previous collections and having spoken to the show producer I knew this was going to be worth it. I could make lazy comments about how the talent apple rarely falls far from the tree, but let’s be honest there are countless celeb offspring that prove it can regularly be flung to a different county. Though more importantly to do so does Joe Corré a grave injustice. He and co-designer Sam (Barnzley) Armitage ooze talent of their own. Their tailoring skills are fantastic and the desire to entertain during the show and through the collection made this probably my favourite show of the season. 

For the aspirant Dick Whittington the streets of London were said to be paved with gold, and this was to be his story. Arriving in London, admiring all that lay before becoming a bon viveur living the high life. I could not have been more excited. Then the wait began. And continued. Then we waited a little more. A little more. I mean I’m used to waiting at fashion week. Nothing starts on time. Ever! The term fashionably late exists for a reason. If a show starts 15 minutes late it’s almost early. But having been brought to our seats just after the run through and ahead of many other guests, after over an hour of waiting even my patience was wearing thin. Not thin enough to leave though, I’m not a madman. The show eventually started right as my hopes of making Asger Juel Larsen evaporated. But that’s another story and frankly you’d need to borrow the skills of Dr Who to make every show you wanted to. 

A mixture of sharp tailoring, interesting details, brilliant use of stripes and new shapes was sent down the gold sparkling catwalk. But more than this the models were alive. Full of attitude and life. They laughed, they swaggered, they owned the clothes and the room. These may have been strongly tailored guys but they were still rude boys made you both hope and fear running into in dark alley.

The girls of the show were classy London harlots if such a thing exists. 

It’s shows like this that make Fashion Show worth it all. Inspiring dynamic and fun. For all the beauty and splendour of it all, it’s this raw edge that London is famous for. Long may it last!