A SPIN DOCTOR WRITES

OH dear. Nerves here are a little frayed now that my employees Martin Sixsmith and Jo Moore are back in the office full-time. As you know, I had loaned them out to Stephen Byers at the Department of Transport paying their salaries myself but there have been squabbles; there have been tears and torn jerseys in the playground. I have tried explaining to Stephen that with two such mercurial personalities as Martin and Jo, there are bound to be a few tussles. They are the Gilbert and George of image consultancy. It's all part of what we call "creative tension". But, oh no.

Stephen, the ungrateful little minx, won't have it. So now they're back here with me. Frankly, the A4 pads and yellow highlighters fly through the air whenever they are in the same office - along with some pretty ripe language - but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Watching them spark off each other is like witnessing a chemical reaction of awesome image-related potency.

So I have got them working on the biggest thing for me at the moment: London Fashion Week. And, frankly, it's a marvellous relief to be involved in something so positive. Something so good for Britain. I get so sick of the whingers, the sneerers and the nay- sayers groaning on about the Welsh steel industry and what have you. Honestly, it's Lakshmi Mittal this, and air-traffic-control privatisation that. For goodness' sake, will you please get it in perspective and see the big picture? Especially when there is something of real substance, like London Fashion Week, to celebrate.

AFEW days ago I was at the Sadie Frost collection. That was super. You will have seen me in the front row with my wife, Normandie, and our young child, yoo-hooing at Giorgio Armani.

Giorgio's great. He shielded his eyes from the strong klieg lights, looked at me, and said to someone: "Who the hell is that?" Honestly! Giorgio is so scatterbrained!

And then, of course, we had to organise the party at Lancaster House for the great and the good, including Patricia Hewitt and Cherie Blair, two people who have a refreshingly down-to-earth sense of what is important in 21st century British fashion. Again, you will have seen the photos in the papers the next morning of Patricia, Cherie, Zandra Rhodes and myself "sharing a joke".

Cherie had just grasped my tie, flipped it round to look at the label, and laughed her head off. So did everyone else. "Just what is so amusing about 'Blazer', ladies?" I asked waggishly, just as the photo was snapped.

But the biggest name I look after at London Fashion Week is my old friend Sir Paul Smith, a man utterly dedicated to British fashion and a man who appreciates my own particular profile in this area. As I was saying to him the other day, while thoughtfully running my fingers down his superbly stitched lapel: "Paul, it's not something you can put your finger on; it's not something you can put in a test tube; not something you can go to school to learn.

It's called style, my darling." Paul

just nodded. I could see that he was drinking in what I was saying.

accompanied him backstage after our lunch, where dozens of the most gorgeous models in the world were in their smalls, hunched around various mirrors and smoking Silk Cut.

"Loves!" I announced, "I want you know you're doing a bloody marvellous job for Britain!" They all smiled and nodded at me, utterly unembarrassed about the fact that they were almost stark naked. "Who is that very thin young woman over there?"

I murmured to Sir Paul. "Aren't they feeding you, my darling?"

called out. It turned out to be Sophie Dahl. Oh dear.

SO anyway, I agreed to be one of Sir Paul's "non-professional" models, along with Chris Tarrant, Jonathan Powell, Chris Moyles, Norman Cook and Ed Miliband. All of us sashayed down the catwalk - or, as we say the American style, "runway"!

modelling Sir Paul's new creations, including, in my case, an enormous Union Jack suit and a large Union Jack hat. I swaggered out to the end of the ramp, paused, posed, twirled and began to sashay back towards the curtain. A sigh of appreciation rose from the audience. But then, sensed disaster. The very tall Union Jack high- heeled shoes Sir Paul had given me began to wobble.

Before knew it, I had gone A-over-apex and was flat on my back on the catwalk.

There was the most tremendous shout of laughter, led by Sir Paul, I got up and good-naturedly flung both shoes in his direction!

It was a lovely moment.

Copyright 2002
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