Magpie

Holy crap.

Balmain's gleaming glam-rock-glitter-fest has me fearing blindness, or maybe hoping for it. i'm not quite sure.

With a repetitive stream of glistening goods, the bedazzled crowd turned to magpies, craving more of the iridescent pageantry, leaving it hard to imagine that it didnt quite start out this way.



 It actually began with a skin tight, plunging, lurex jumpsuit, dramatically tapered with volcanically vampy, crow-like shoulder pads. A dark dirtiness combed through the introduction,  leaving only the slightest pause between the unleashing of a tinselling seizure.

Then  fell an avalanche of shimmering tailored suits; jumping straight out of the business meeting and into the bedroom. A surge of sexual energy pounded with glam-rock metallics, punctuated with bedazzling pieces, encrusted with star quality. Blazers, body-con skirts and party dresses were flavoured with ornamental embroidery, brocaded with sequins and sparkling adornment in palatable jewel tones. Each stage-worthy look negotiated with balancing shimmered sportswear shirts, awkwardly cut away at the hip exposing vulnerable flesh.

Amongst a feast of crystallised, work-wear inspired delicacies, were a pair of slick, oil spill trousers with a twirl of murky colours painted on the model's legs. I may have been partially blinded but was drooling nonetheless.

Admitedly, it wasn't amazing. It seems that the powerful wolf-like howl has weakened since last year, to breed only a diluted, mongrel version of the past's punchy Balmain godess of punk. Even Decarnin himself was a no-show, allegedly being treated in a mental hospital since january. Let's hope he gets well soon, awakening his mojo on the way.

And before i forget,  MY GOD, those tacky white boots HAVE to go. eugh boke.