Back from the Clothes Show

Yesterday Gerry and I woke up at five in the morning in an Ibis hotel next to the M1 motworway and a giant Tesco freezer warehouse. It felt very grown up. In my mind staying in motorway hotels is what grown-up people do. As is driving on the motorway. It was my 29th birthday. But that wasn’t the reason we’d stayed in a motorway hotel, eating a very strange over-cooked dinner and falling asleep to news about Mandela’s funeral. The previous night we’d driven away from the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham with a much emptier van than the one we drove out in about a week earlier.

We’ve been at the Clothes Show in Birmingham. An annual clothing extravaganza and such a bizarre experience I at first thought the only way to deal with it would be to write slightly pretentious poetry about the whole event. Unfortunately I’m too tired to even come up with anything, so instead you’ll be getting a list of the things I’ve seen over the last six days:

– Lots of reality celebrities. Gerry and I had no idea who they were, but did realise they had to be famous because teenage girls kept running after these people with their mouths open or taking self portraits with them.

– More fakery than I’ve ever seen before. Fake tans, nails, boobs, hair, lips, you name it.

– People walking around with strange UV light-things in their mouths, supposedly getting whiter teeth. It looked like something out of a bad sci-fi movie.

– Strange glitter lipstick that you glue on to your lips.

– And plenty more strange things that I must have suppressed or forgotten. Perhaps it will show up in some slightly pretentious poetry later in the year.

Tonight Gerry is doing a market on Rivington Street and I’m back in the Barbican. It doesn’t stop until the 23d when we’re flying to the land of snow and saunas.