‘I’m not standing in this fucking queue’ I hear a raspy voice say. I turn around to a goth Draco Malfoy, followed by an opium Crabbe and Goyle, scoffing in agreement at his statement. All drenched in black and of course, joining the queue. 

If you want to stand out through dark aesthetics and oppressive intensity, the Dilara afterparty is probably not the place, I thought. I then realise they weren’t trying to stand out. They were trying to fit in. 

It was that very same method that got me into the elevator on the way to the 10th floor. I did already benefit from the dark aesthetics, in a black jersey ensemble complete with a black fur coat, black makeup and teased hair covered by a black headpiece. Some sort of macabre flapper girl, who is here on behalf of a John Doe. How silly of the security to have never heard of John Doe. She might be left with no choice but to call him, and the wrath of John is, as already suspected, unmatched. Causing irredeemable damage. Plus, she herself works for 10 Magazine. Although I’m pretty sure she was working for Wonderland earlier, but I must’ve gotten that wrong. Me personally, I believe her. As it conveniently turns out, I’m not the only one who does. 

I feel like a John Held Jr illustration, walking through the art deco halls of The Standard Hotel. I knew of the location from some girl at the Dilara show earlier, which I had found the location of from some other girl at the Richard Quinn Show right before that. And this is not the only location I know. There is a simultaneous 10 magazine party, which is my Plan B, that I’m sure I won’t have to resort to. Dilara’s hot right now, The Standard is beautiful, and their old-fashioned at the downstairs bar earlier was splendid. 

Red lights fill the top floor of The Standard, echoing the slightly demonic atmosphere of her show earlier, reflecting through the disco ball in the middle. Contrasting with the nightlights seen all throughout the giant glass window, a visual spectacle accompanied by ethereal electronic music. 

In less than a minute, however, it becomes a room with a bunch of red light, TikTok phonk, and so obviously one of those parties where dancing is awkward unless you’re really drunk. Which it was almost impossible to be, as the drinks menu exclusively consisted of 2 drinks - elderflower something and berry something, both turning out to be 90% water. ‘Wait, why is this low key mid?’ I ask the group, but it felt more like I was asking the universe. ‘It is’, they all chant in unison. 

The bathroom queue at the Dilara after-party is long. Too long. I’m only trying to fix my hair and makeup as that seems to be a reliably exciting activity right now. Realistically, that’s probably what everyone else is doing as well. Outfit-analysing in the bright lights of the Kubrick-esque blood-red hall, I realise the fashion phantoms of LFW are actually not even well dressed. Various imitations of Mcqueen, Rick and Westwood. Some of them might have been the real thing, but lost within questionable styling and questionable people. Most questionable of all was the individual standing right next to me. He’s followed me downstairs to the queue ‘to wait’ with me. I scan his bleached, low rise slim-fit jeans and ruffled ivory tank top. But the star of the show was his camo cap, worn sideways, over his shoulder-length brown hair, with an animal tail attached to it. He’s like if weed was a person. And he lingers just as persistently. 

‘How did you even get in here?’ I ask. I smile at the irony of my question. ‘I just gave them my name’ he says, with a lost glance. ‘Are you high?’ I ask. He smiles and denies it, asking if I do ‘have any drugs, though, actually’. I said I don’t do drugs because I am drugs. His dark brown eyes stare into space for a very long 5 seconds, and then he fixes his cap which had accidentally turned a bit to the front. ‘I believe you’, he says. 

Back upstairs, the party had somehow not miraculously improved much since 15 minutes ago. Except Dilara had arrived, which felt conceptually comforting. As one would imagine it would feel to spot Mickey Mouse at his clubhouse. She remembered me from when I interviewed her backstage earlier. It’s difficult to move much in her corseted dress, and she seems quite tired. ‘Sick of all this’, as she then tells me over a cigarette. ‘I believe you’ I say. 

As it turns out, Dilara is just a girl, dancing with her friends at a party, fixing her bangs every now and then. Burnt-out, and kind of wanting to go home. 

Out of the red crowd, a familiar animal tail suddenly emerges from the other corner of the room. I had since been informed of ‘who that is’ staring straight at me with a precision which was, for him, impressive. Some rock band lead singer grandma’s dog’s neighbour. So he wasn’t joking, he did just give his name. And he wasn’t high, I’d come to learn after a few more interactions. He’s just like that. ‘I got you an old-fashioned’ he says, handing me a glass. 

Yeah. Right. 

It is time for Plan B. The party is dead, and not in a poetic way. I would’ve asked human weed to drink from the drink himself, but if my suspicions were wrong, he would’ve been offended. And if they were right, he would’ve been offended.

On the way to the door, I run into something very interesting. A cool person. With a cool outfit. A black dress with intricate draping, covered by long black hair and a necklace made out of keys, which glistened in the red light. Dark lipstick and eye makeup, with the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen in my life staring directly into my soul. She grabs my hand, ‘You’re the coolest person I’ve seen all day!’ She screams over the top 100 hits mashup. So is she. ‘What’s your name?’, she asks. Noelle, what’s hers? ‘Julia!’ 

Julia, do I know a Julia? It certainly feels like I know her. As it turns out, if you have enough of the elderflower, somethings at the Dilara AW25 afterparty, they actually work. No matter, it will come to me later. She was just leaving herself, but she’s not going to the 10 Magazine party. 

‘There’s nothing to see there. I’m going home.’ she says. 

Fair enough. Although there must be at least a little more to see than here, surely. 

At the 10 Magazine party entrance, multicoloured light can be seen beaming through the windows, with the occasional fashion phantom whizzing by. I decided it might not be wise to claim I work for 10 Magazine at the 10 Magazine party. However, I do still have to report to John Doe, as he could not make it tonight. One of the security guards is quite nice. His name is Terry, which is fitting, as he is quite terrible at his job. I could be a serial killer. 

Once inside the party, I might actually become one. I walk through a primary school dance floor, as ‘Work’ by Rihanna is blasting. A girl with purple hair is making out with a furry, and there are London creatives standing in corners bobbing to the music, with one foot against the wall. Many a golden goose. Many a half-drunk beer from the sponsors. 

As I walk back down the spiral stairs I only just climbed, it’s only now that I randomly realise I do know a Julia. I know of a Julia. A one and only Princess Julia. 

I leave the 10 Magazine party in less than 10 minutes, catching myself staring back at the colourful lights, trying to see them the way I did before I went in. An attempt to re-mystify the demystified. It just won’t work through, because I have indeed gone in. 

There was nothing to see there. And I’m going home.