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LIZ JONES DIARY: In which I realize what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan…

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LIZ JONES DIARY: In which I realize what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan...

I’m outside the Burberry show, held inside a tent in Victoria Park in Hackney*, for the brand’s autumn/winter 2024 collection. I’m already disappointed because I just got back from a screening of John Galliano’s new movie.

None of the speakers were at his trial. I was there, in the same room where Marie Antoinette was sentenced to the guillotine. Which pretty much sums up fashion. Zero loyalty.

I’m shivering in my fine clothes. My lace Prada skirt does nothing to stop the wind howling in my nether regions. Louboutins hurt me. No one has taken my street style photo to post on Instagram.

Oh no, wait, someone just took a photo of my shoes. ‘Oh Lord!’ —screams a young woman who, I discover, is an American fashion student. ‘Vintage Loub shoe boots!’ They are not vintage. I’ve had them since new. They are, like me, simply old.

I arrived early, as always, and made friends – or so I thought! – with the burly goalkeeper. They made me stand in line. As the night wore on, several non-award-winning fashion editors were kicked out of Ubers to flounder around unattended.

LIZ JONES DIARY In which I realize what it must

They didn’t even look in my direction. Finally, two young women appeared wielding iPads. I staggered toward them, Dick Emery style, as the grass had turned to mud. (You can read Anna Wintour’s mind: ‘Hackney? Really?’)

‘Hello! I sent an email in December. I’m a big fan of Burberry. I arrived a little early.’

‘What publication do you work for?’

I know I look a little different with shorter hair, but still. ‘The Daily Mail and Magazine you.’

The young woman pretends to scroll and then says, “You’re not on the list.” Can you please step aside?

I tell him I made a 500-mile trip, plus hotel**, to be here. So far I have only reached Roksanda, where I had to stay behind. Trying to get into Fashion Week is like trying to book a holiday home in Cornwall in mid-August. ‘You can stream the show by visiting our website. Please step aside.’

I’m officially a fashion freak. There are hundreds of nobodies here. I think about former Burberry face Stella Tennant, who took her own life. I start to cry and, because I’m so tired, my knees buckle. I don’t want to create a scene, but I regret my old life as a glossy magazine editor: the cars, the omnipresent public address system to pave my way as if I were a player in a curling match. The front row seat. The Amex business card.

I’m officially a fashion roadkill… But, my God, I want to belong.

My ex gay best friend warned me this would happen when I told him I was leaving him. London Night Standard to join the Mail – the invitations would be sold out. Why does this NFI situation occur? It is because he MailWriters are not beholden to anyone: not to advertisers, not to sales commissions. We are not sycophants. We are aware of the hard-earned money readers earn. But my goodness, I want to belong!

I’m starting to realize what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan. One day, you are the biggest stars on the planet. Everyone is delighted with his presence, deferential.

The next, Michael Bublé ignores you. Did you see that clip on social media? Oh! Well, that was me 24 hours earlier, in the Bafta fashion corral. They didn’t bring me a single star, not even Cuba Gooding Jr (one year they took him instead of Kate Winslet, who refuses to talk to me; they all

It occurred to me to ask him: “How long did it take you to prepare?”).

I greatly sympathize with Harry in what is written, as I too am estranged from a brother. We grew up together, we fought, we shared a house (in Brixton, next to David, with whom I fell in love instantly). Harry flew to see his father in an attempt to heal his wounds.

On Monday night, rejected by my super-busy, all-consuming career, reduced to being less than anyone, told to step aside, I make a decision.

I’m driving to Somerset to try and reconcile with my sister, who I haven’t heard from since October 2017. After all, she’s the only one I have left…

*I once had sex in Vicky Park.

**Not in expenses.

***I still miss him. We used to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the fashion world, especially at a Puff Daddy party by the Thames.

Jones moans… What Liz hates this week

  • The frequent text messages from my GP saying I qualify for a flu, shingles and Covid vaccine. Don’t they know I’ve had a facelift?
  • Hotels. Why dolly-sized products? And why are departure times getting earlier and earlier? Where I stay, it’s 10 in the morning!
  • Why do taxi drivers (I’m 65) still tilt their rearview mirror to look at my legs? Because?

Contact Liz at lizjonesgoddess.com and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess

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