There was a knitted beanie with what looked like haemorrhoids on top. Pants like nicotine patches with a piece of dental floss. The girls modelled these tiny items on the streets of Soho. Men were too intimidated by the tall perfect flesh to approach them, but all drunks and crazy people approached me, swearing undying love. Such is my luck in life.
Most people stick to a label of an identity to find their own species in the world.
The Pradas, the Valentinos, the Marks and Spencers, can sniff each other out at the watering holes and know they are with their ilk. The designer hates his life, his job, so he takes it out on his clothes. And people who crave to be different believe this will raise them above the hordes. Like originality has anything to do with the outside. Learn from this Galliano and next time invite me back.