LFW: I Was A Model And It Was Hella Dull

Being a male model is totally cool, right? You have drugs, parties, girls on tap, people pay for you to take cabs everywhere and buy you whatever food you want, and, at the end of it all, you get paid a shit ton of money for walking up and down a bit. Sure, they're mostly vapid, egotistical clothes-horses, but my God, do they lead enchanting lives. Well, here's some hard-hitting news—it's all lies. A friend asked me if I could fill in at Paul Bench's menswear show and I was only too happy to oblige, anticipating four of the most thrilling hours of my life.

The show was being held in a gallery space in the middle of a residential area in Shepherds Bush. I was a bit upset that the show was in the suburbs and not at Somerset House with the other big fashion shows, but venturing outside and realizing we were right next door to the offices of Monsoon and Accessorize - i.e., the throbbing heart of London's fashion scene - made it all OK again.

I was aware that a bit of styling was going to be done, but I had no idea of the extent of it until I sat down and this guy just started CUTTING OFF MY FUCKING HAIR like it was no big deal.

After assaulting me with a razor and hairdressing scissors, pulling very serious faces, spraying something called 'fab spray' on me and debating for a couple of minutes whether my hair should be 'flat or gently askew', he put this sheer woman's sock on my head and I had to sit there for hours looking like a bored transvestite pre-wigging up. Apparently it was so that my hair stayed flat, but surely the exact same effect can be achieved with a pair of hands and some of that wax that you used to get your quiff rock-solid when you were 11?

This dude turned up and was hanging around looking vaguely fashion, which added a definite air of something. I don't know what, though, I was mega bored by this point.

This guy bringing over a stick of cheese was literally the highlight of my entire afternoon.

After two and a half hours of intense dullness, things started to pick up again—I got my make-up done, one dude started stripping off way before it was time to change, a guy wearing funny trousers came in and stood there taking photos of us, and Paul began maniacally ironing the shit out of every piece of clothing on the rail.

About 30 seconds before this photo was taken, I'd found out I have 'abnormally wide shoulders'. So, to compensate for that physical defect, I had to be sewn into my top to make sure it kept its shape. I was also the stumpiest model there by far, so by this point I was, like, super-embarrassed and stuff. You can see some of the clothes in the background, or here if you want a closer look. Most of it was really nice and reminded me a bit of Miu Miu's menswear if we were in 3011, but I was definitely dressed the most Tron-like, which seemed to be a bit of a craze at this year's fashion week.

Photo by thexoxokids.

Stupidly, I smoked a bit of weed before I went on and while apparently you should never go to fashion week not on acid, I wouldn't recommend taking any sort of mild paranoia-inducing drugs if you're actually taking part. It's the worst. Here's me trying to look anywhere other than at the thousands of piercing eyes staring directly at my face.

This is me post walking, looking about as far removed from your average male model as possible.

And the closest thing I got to what my perception of what modeling was all about—a couple of gulps of cava out of a Vitamin Water bottle.

There are two things I learned from my short stint as a runway model. Firstly, it's a total fucking bore - no coke, parties, or chicks - and secondly, apparently you should never call runway modeling, 'modeling'. It's called walking and, just to warn you, if you don't get that right, you're a complete fashion noob and will be subjected to sneering looks and teeth-kissing from those in the know. As if people feel a sense of accomplishment for knowing that when you move your legs it's called walking. I'm glad I did it, but I wouldn't recommend runway modeling to anyone, unless you're being paid or really enjoy being bored out of your mind for hours and intensely self-conscious for 30 seconds.

JAMIE CLIFTON