Will models form trade union? Kershaw, Poly & Pivovarova refuse killer shoes

From Naomi Campbell to Naomi Klein?


Abbey Lee Kersher in sensible shoes


Natasha Poly


"Can't you wait?" Sasha Pivovarova helps Kate Moss with her infirmity. It's what Gucci's for.

It was once sabots chucked into looms, now it's ankle-breaking high heels that's galvanised fashion's top catwalk models into rebelling against their exploiting oppressor and maybe forming the industry's first trade union.

I love Alexander McQueen's designs but embarrassing OTT clobber is one thing. It's surely an act of war to make fashion models take to the catwalk in 12 inch killer heels, what with teetering on sparrow legs and banks of cameras recording your humiliation for posterity.

Three top models — Abbey Lee Kersher, Natasha Poly and Sasha Pivovarova — went into a huddle and refused to risk their twiggy limbs on stilts several inches higher than the Westwoods that did for Naomi Campbell so spectacularly in 1994. Finding strength in unity, they stayed away from McQueen's October show leaving him without his favourite muses. Not surprising as Kershaw had already fainted at an earlier McQueen show when she was trussed up too tightly in one of his creations, and suffered a knee-injury.

Models of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your pain.

Will models form trade union? Kershaw, Poly & Pivovarova refuse killer shoes

From Naomi Campbell to Naomi Klein?


Abbey Lee Kersher in sensible shoes


Natasha Poly


"Can't you wait?" Sasha Pivovarova helps Kate Moss with her infirmity. It's what Gucci's for.

It was once sabots chucked into looms, now it's ankle-breaking high heels that's galvanised fashion's top catwalk models into rebelling against their exploiting oppressor and maybe forming the industry's first trade union.

I love Alexander McQueen's designs but embarrassing OTT clobber is one thing. It's surely an act of war to make fashion models take to the catwalk in 12 inch killer heels, what with teetering on sparrow legs and banks of cameras recording your humiliation for posterity.

Three top models — Abbey Lee Kersher, Natasha Poly and Sasha Pivovarova — went into a huddle and refused to risk their twiggy limbs on stilts several inches higher than the Westwoods that did for Naomi Campbell so spectacularly in 1994. Finding strength in unity, they stayed away from McQueen's October show leaving him without his favourite muses. Not surprising as Kershaw had already fainted at an earlier McQueen show when she was trussed up too tightly in one of his creations, and suffered a knee-injury.

Models of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your pain.

Maclaren buggy amputations acceptable say middle-class Brits

Maclaren buggies in the wars

A finger of fudge may be just enough to give your kid the digit they're missing after helping Mummy fold away their pushchair.

Is it me or are the middle classes getting madder?

The Telegraph asks if parents are overreacting because Maclaren buggies are amputating their children's fingers. One of their resident Mr Angries blames hysteria and "pressure groups" for anxiety over a device presumably designed for comfort and safe conveyence of your Precious Ones which turns out to have a wicked safety flaw resulting in children being maimed for life when their fingers are caught in the hinges.

Reminiscent of Tyler Durden's sleazy day job in Fight Club, working out the motor trade percentages involved in crashes and deciding when lawsuits hit critical mass making it more economic to issue a recall, Maclaren has only just now offered British parents the same safety cover they had to offer US consumers.

The Telegraph's columnist is joined by a chorus of commenters overflowing with the milk of human kindness when it comes to the poor corporation yet could pinch-hit for any number of Dickensian villains when it comes to child safety.

It's an acceptable percentage kinda thang. If children have the temerity to help Mummy fold the buggy then they deserve everything they get. Good for you Maclaren — chop off those interfering little fingers and teach them a lesson they'll never forget.

And then the parents have the cheek to complain. Overreaction and hysteria and not greedy irresponsible corporations are the plague of the modern age.

That Jonathan Swift had a nice recipe for babies ...

UPDATE: British parents to sue Maclaren — report in The Guardian

Maclaren buggy amputations acceptable say middle-class Brits

Maclaren buggies in the wars

A finger of fudge may be just enough to give your kid the digit they're missing after helping Mummy fold away their pushchair.

Is it me or are the middle classes getting madder?

The Telegraph asks if parents are overreacting because Maclaren buggies are amputating their children's fingers. One of their resident Mr Angries blames hysteria and "pressure groups" for anxiety over a device presumably designed for comfort and safe conveyence of your Precious Ones which turns out to have a wicked safety flaw resulting in children being maimed for life when their fingers are caught in the hinges.

Reminiscent of Tyler Durden's sleazy day job in Fight Club, working out the motor trade percentages involved in crashes and deciding when lawsuits hit critical mass making it more economic to issue a recall, Maclaren has only just now offered British parents the same safety cover they had to offer US consumers.

The Telegraph's columnist is joined by a chorus of commenters overflowing with the milk of human kindness when it comes to the poor corporation yet could pinch-hit for any number of Dickensian villains when it comes to child safety.

It's an acceptable percentage kinda thang. If children have the temerity to help Mummy fold the buggy then they deserve everything they get. Good for you Maclaren — chop off those interfering little fingers and teach them a lesson they'll never forget.

And then the parents have the cheek to complain. Overreaction and hysteria and not greedy irresponsible corporations are the plague of the modern age.

That Jonathan Swift had a nice recipe for babies ...

UPDATE: British parents to sue Maclaren — report in The Guardian

Yo! What happened to health and safety?

My mate, punk-rock blues guitarist Gary Lammin, witnessed a fine bit of irony at the public launch of the "Yo! What Happened to Peace" exhibition at The Foundry in trendy Shoreditch on Tuesday.

Some bright spark had decided that mood of the cafe upstairs from the collection of anti-war posters would be enhanced by the use of naked candles stuck into the necks of wine bottles.

This being the opening of the UK leg of the international tour, it drew a heaving crowd.

You know what happens next.

One young black woman in a long scarf and permed hair passes too close to a candle and the next thing her scarf's alight, her coat's alight and her hair's on fire. Everyone's gawping while she's screaming. Gary has the presence of mind to leap across the room and smother the flames, singeing his own fingers in the process, not an ideal situation for a guitarist about to head off to America and record with Pierre De Beauport, the Rolling Stones' guitar specialist.

She's in shock. Gary's in shock. No-one calls an ambulance and now the venue managers are apparently telling her it's her fault because she was wearing a long flammable scarf.

The cherry on the icing on the cake is the reaction from the yuppie at the bar. Before dashing over to save the distressed damsel, Gary had plunged his hands into the nearest liquid in the room: a pint sitting on the bar.

He returns to the bar and the disgruntled yuppie who says,

"Excuse me, that was my drink."

"Frightfully sorry. Would you like me to buy you another one?"

"Yes, that would be the thing to do."

Gary, his blood up, racing with adrenalin, and still with the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils, is commendably restrained for a diamond geezer. He says,

"I will buy you one, mate. But before I do, consider this. You won't be drinking it, you'll be wearing it."

Gary and his mate Mark leave the yuppie scum to their deathtrap jollities and head off to find one of the few remaining working-class pubs in the area where the clientele act like human beings and not Fellini grotesques.

Yo! What happened to health and safety?

My mate, punk-rock blues guitarist Gary Lammin, witnessed a fine bit of irony at the public launch of the "Yo! What Happened to Peace" exhibition at The Foundry in trendy Shoreditch on Tuesday.

Some bright spark had decided that mood of the cafe upstairs from the collection of anti-war posters would be enhanced by the use of naked candles stuck into the necks of wine bottles.

This being the opening of the UK leg of the international tour, it drew a heaving crowd.

You know what happens next.

One young black woman in a long scarf and permed hair passes too close to a candle and the next thing her scarf's alight, her coat's alight and her hair's on fire. Everyone's gawping while she's screaming. Gary has the presence of mind to leap across the room and smother the flames, singeing his own fingers in the process, not an ideal situation for a guitarist about to head off to America and record with Pierre De Beauport, the Rolling Stones' guitar specialist.

She's in shock. Gary's in shock. No-one calls an ambulance and now the venue managers are apparently telling her it's her fault because she was wearing a long flammable scarf.

The cherry on the icing on the cake is the reaction from the yuppie at the bar. Before dashing over to save the distressed damsel, Gary had plunged his hands into the nearest liquid in the room: a pint sitting on the bar.

He returns to the bar and the disgruntled yuppie who says,

"Excuse me, that was my drink."

"Frightfully sorry. Would you like me to buy you another one?"

"Yes, that would be the thing to do."

Gary, his blood up, racing with adrenalin, and still with the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils, is commendably restrained for a diamond geezer. He says,

"I will buy you one, mate. But before I do, consider this. You won't be drinking it, you'll be wearing it."

Gary and his mate Mark leave the yuppie scum to their deathtrap jollities and head off to find one of the few remaining working-class pubs in the area where the clientele act like human beings and not Fellini grotesques.