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My glam, gorj, slightly insecure night at the Fashion Awards

Tom Rasmussen details their night on fashion’s red carpet – before they were asked to get off it

Dazed contributor, author, and drag queen extraordinaire Tom (sometimes Crystal) Rasmussen is a very busy, glamorous person. When they’re not running races with the Cock Destroyers or signing their memoir (with love from ‘Rebekah Vardy’s account xxxx’), they have a moment to spare for other VIP engagements. Case in point: the Fashion Awards. Here’s their recap of the night. 

I’m a homosexual, so it’s in my DNA to love fashion and parties. And it’s true, I do. But when you remove the and from fashion and parties (ergo Fashion Parties), a different kind of genetically predetermined response sets in: deep emotional turmoil, insecurity, glamour.

The whole night started with a red carpet. Everybody was on it: from the women who probably pay £10,000 for the pleasure, to legends like Amanda Holden, to Rihanna. Of course, after scamming my way past a lovely man with an iPad who every single person except me seemed to be on double kiss terms with, I was stopped from setting foot on the rouge rug because the Daily Mail doesn’t want a pic of me.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, as I slowly creep up the steps towards the Oscars of fashion, the Olympics of style, the Golden Globes of garms: the British Fashion Awards. For a moment I was lost in the feeling of pure glamour, until a lady in front of me whose assistant was shooing everyone away from her so he could get the instaglam pic she came for tells me to “get out of shot”. Of course I did, but in the frantic moment of sheer panic I stepped on my train (that’s right) and un-popped the popper keeping my entire outfit together, thus exposing my Very High Simon Cowell trousers and bare naked lady torso to the entire onlooking red carpet. “She’s fashion roadkill!” said Stanford Blatch. 

I pegged it inside, and there was only one thing for it: a bottle of fizzio-therapy. I made my way to my allocated box, or Leggia as they like to call them at the BFAs (or is it Pizza Express), and found myself sat with some very cool gals from the fash scene. Janina Pedan the set designer had made a headdress which said ‘VOTE’, and a dress which said ‘LABOUR’, ‘NHS’, ‘CLIMATE’. 

“I pegged it inside, and there was only one thing for it: a bottle of fizzio-therapy”

I stanned her for a minute but then I needed a cigarette so I swept out of the box and swiftly to the smoking area. On the way I saw everyone: Jenkin Van Zyl, Josephine Jones, a dentist who was trying to get a wristband to the after party. Charlotte Tilbury invited Emma Roberts for dinner at her house on Wednesday and Emma said yes!! Expect a collab asap. In the corner of the smoking area was the woman whose assistant shooed me off the carpet, whose name was ShiShi and who had just ditched her wealthy hub to come tonight with her footballer friends. I asked if we could be friends but she just wanted a lighter for her Sobranie. 

Went back inside and Naomi was onstage receiving the Icon Award, therein thanking every single person in fashion ever for the honour. Love. Bottega Veneta literally won every single other award (well, three) and even the designer couldn’t quite believe it – all this for a square toed mule! Daniel, if you’re reading this, I’d love a pair in a size 9.

Back to the smoking area where Rita Ora stood in head to toe vinyl, and I tried to make eye contact with her because I once told her at another party where I’d had too much prosexy that she saved my life lol, but she was having none of it. Back inside and @skipdin had joined our Leggia, where the Insta-critic bemoaned people on Instagram who have blue ticks – “I’ve applied three times!” he exclaimed. 

Kylie (the best one, and if you think I mean Jenner then you must immediately go and listen to the whole album Fever right now) wore neon, and presented Christopher Kane with Designers’ Designer of the Year. What that means, we’re not sure. Rita Ora presented an award and I tried to make eye contact with her again but she was busy reading from a teleprompter. Adut Akech won model of the year to a standing ovation, and her speech was deeply moving. And then Cate Blanchett and Julia Roberts presented Mr. Armani with an award and, we can’t lie, they were both flawless. Step on my neck. 

As the proceedings closed, a frantic energy gripped the Royal Albert Hall: which afterparty???? There was one at Tramp which I wasn’t invited to, and then I pretended instead that I had a political issue with a club in West London called Tramp, which I do, it being the alleged site of Prince Andrew absolutely not sweating a single drop, and that’s why I wasn’t going. 

Tracy Ellis Ross, who had hosted the whole evening, closed proceedings. She was a wonder of course, despite the hard task of making everyone from the political fashion queers and the guys who own Gucci laugh. I ran out of the Albert Hall like Blair when she runs across Manhattan to meet Chuck in that red Valentino dress and for a single second I felt gorgeous. Out into the big wide world, down the steps of the Hall and out onto the red carpet, only to be met once again by ShiShi getting even more snaps for her privé insta (for which I’m still on ‘Requested’). Cheers!