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Crystal Rasmussen diary of a fashion girl
Courtesy of Marni

Introducing: the very glam diary of an international fashion girl

World famous supermodel, author, and businesswoman Crystal Rasmussen gives us a glimpse at what it's really like when you’re booked and busy at fashion week

Welcome to my life. My diary. My truth. For those who have read my critically acclaimed book ‘Dazed & Confused Magazine’, you’ll know that I have a passion for, you guessed it, fashion. So when I was asked to go to every fashion show across the globe over the upcoming month or so, I said: what’s the fee?

Well, it was an economy class front row seat at every show and a stale bag of Popchips — so naturally I jumped at the chance. I had to find somewhere to wear my heeled Havaianas in this heat, and where better than a fabulous faszionne show?

As a model myself (Google Marni xoxo), this fashion week I’m looking for glamour, expense, a social conscience, and a husband. So join me on my foray into the fab world of high fashion as I traverse the parties, the buffet tables, the backstage, the frow, and the contents of a Eurostar tiramisu pot. This is The Diary of a Fashion Girl.


London. The home of punk. The home of stationary brands owned by Tories. An eclectic mix of young home-owners and actual cool people litter the streets of central London, all desperate to get the ticket I have: to Lion King: The Musical. 

After a quick nap in the stalls, I realise I’m late for fashion week. So I take a small car-shaped bus down to the BFC show space where I’m told I’m not on the list. Not on the list? I invented the list! I screamed and upon a quick Google the head of PR for fashion did indeed find my self-written Wikipedia which confirmed I did indeed invent the list. I swooped right in, just in time to watch good friend and long-time massage client Matty Bovan win the International Woolmark prize. 

Applause, acquire Matty’s bank details, and leave – just in time for the unveiling of McQueen’s new collection images which I shot and starred in. They looked gorgeous, and Sarah (Burton) – my dear friend – told me the collection was all about healing, and I said “yes” although I’ve never heard that word before. 

Luckily I was just in time to make it to the Reuben Selby show which I opened and closed. It was magnificent, especially the lavender suit worn by Bimini Bon Boulash on the front row, who flipped the bird at me as I strutted the catwalk. But that’s just what happens when you’re an internaçionalé supermodel, I guess. 


I ended last night eating saffron risotto on the roof of a ScrewFix in East Kent with my good friend Chloë Sevigny and [redacted]. It was scorching hot, and of course I only had factor one on, which meant that I was as sizzled as one of the aforementioned Popchips. Nothing a little concealer can’t sort out. 

After Chloe and [redacted] smothered my body in MAC, I jumped into my fashion week sponsored blimp and made the seven hour journey to central London just in time for the university of Westminster BA show which was to die for. I particularly liked the chairs in the show space, which relieved my burnt behind after seven hours stuck to the plastic driver’s seat of a BFC sponsored blimp.

No husband today, sadly, although I did cop off with a journalist from British V*gue, but I blocked his number because he kept asking me whether I’d be on the cover of the next issue. Too much!!!

“Not on the list? I invented the list! I screamed and upon a quick Google the head of PR for fashion did indeed find my self-written Wikipedia which confirmed I did indeed invent the list” – Crystal Rasmussen


Today is a new day. I’m feeling good. I’m wearing a Charlotte Knowles bikini and these stunning Ecco Orthopedic shoes which people keep commenting on. “Hideous”, said Kate Moss as I entered the show space this morning. I’ve never heard that word, but I can only assume it’s a compliment since we walked the Versace show together singing “Freedom 90” and we’ve been friends ever since. 

I’m particularly excited by Per Götesson and Ahluwalia today, and I’m thrilled to be wearing the new JW Anderson Tom of Finland collection to a secret Zoom party tonight. Next up Milan! Best brush up on my Italian. How do you say bank balance?


For anyone who’s actually chic enough to have been to Milan, you’ll know there’s pictures of me literally everywhere. Back when I was moonlighting under the name (The Virgin) Mary, people got obsessed – like, unhealthily obsessed. Naturally this means I have to find another way into the city, for fear of yet another press storm — and nobody wants to be inside the pages of Inside the Vatican Magazine in a gooch-skimming custom Brioni bikini and a nun’s habit made by none other than Alessandro Michele himself.

So, like any model turned nun-spy would, I got air-dropped on the outskirts of the city by my good friend Janice Dickinson in her two-person hang glider, and rode from there into the city on a donkey. First above ground, and then through the sewers – which meant by the time I arrived I was covered in faecal matter and – a stroke of luck! – was perfectly attired for the (redacted) show. 

Now I don’t know about you, but in my world money talks! And talks and talks and talks! I’d been told this before by my group of high-flying fashion folk with whom I share a WhatsApp group entitled Dinner With The Kushners, but tonight was the first time I’d actually got stuck with (redacted) in the corner of his after party.

Anyway, he was asking me whether I was interested in joining his team of network marketing professionals pedalling slimming juices via Facebook Marketplace when I realised the time. I’d already missed a bunch of shows,  but I couldn’t be late for Fendi. So I jumped an awaiting truck and rip-roared through the cobbled streets of Milan. YES I might have knocked down a wing of the Duomo, and YES I might have scraped some of the gold paint off the Fondazione Prada, but God, get over it – they can send me an invoice at a later date. I have some Fendi to see!


It’s fascinating to me that I haven’t yet been asked to walk the D*lce & G*bb*n* show. Every season they somehow manage to select from a slew of girls with far fewer followers on Vine than me, and there I end up, banging at the stage door, begging to be let in. Now, many might think that Dolce and their ‘high-octane’ opinions don’t necessarily align with my core values as a longterm and dedicated ally to every single person without exception in the LGBTQIA+ community, but at this point it’s all about me. I have given the gays so much, it’s time I took something for myself this Pride month. 

Naturally, no matter how hard I slammed on the door, nobody was letting me in since (redacted), (redacted) and myself had been (redacted)ing (redacted) with a rolled up (redacted) in the portaloo backstage at his show all night and I was looking pretty worse for wear. Luckily, all it took was me ripping my Ashley Williams bobby pins from my curly bob to pick the lock of the stage door, and boom, there I was – access all areas. Dominico – kiss! Stefano – kiss kiss! 

I stormed across the room, pushing 17 identical influencers out of my way as I did, and flung on a shiny blue blazer, some bejewelled pants, and some very high shoes. I looked in the mirror – ready to go – and there she was, Heidi Klum. My name was called, and I stepped out feeling reborn, like an influencer, finally where I belonged! Until kerplunk!, I’m flat on my face as my good friend Margaret Cho screams ‘FUCK’ and Klum literally steps over me. Well, like any self-respecting mother of six, I picked myself up, finished the show, and went home to my suite at the lesser-known Three Seasons and danced to Got To Be Real. What a (familiar sounding?) day!


Stayed in bed today. Gave myself a pedicure and cyberbullied the mayor of my hometown who wants to make the central streets pedestrianised. Ludicrous. Once I’d finished that, I took a nap only to sleep through the Prada show. Naturally, I go back to watch it because Raf is my ex and Miuccia is a longtime investor in my fish-pedicure salon chain Giggly Feet. Well, it was bloody fab as ever wasn’t it? I text Raf to say – congrats angel! So happy you’ve finally landed on your feet! – to which he replied – “I want you back Mary. Prada means nothing without you”. 



Today I’ve decided to take it easy. Start with a little shopping under cover of nun’s habit, trundle via trusty donkey to the A-COLD-WALL* show, and then finish off the day over aperitivo with good friends Donna V*rsace, Anna W*ntour, and Celine D*on. It’s warm in Milan, so I’ve decided to wear my new Plein bejewelled tankini, a 3D silicone cast of my own head-as-a-bag from Gucci’s last collection (Jared Leto who?), my brand new UGG x Claire Tabouret thigh-high wedges, and a brand new bucket hat from yesterday’s Prada collection that was couriered to me in the middle of the night with a note that just read “u up?” God, I just adore Milano, but it’s time to go. Ciao for now – Paris, here I come.


As ever, the Eurostar to Paris was a disaster. Despite knowing I probably should have dropped in on a private jet, I decided to take the train. Big mistake. Since neither my press team nor my travel agents seem to be able to do their job properly, I had to go without my crate of Eurostar’s official tiramisu, so I was forced to travel like everyone else: in first, with a cart to myself, sans Italian dessert. 

After a deep tissue massage from the head of the Fédération de la Haute Couture et de la Mode – I saved his marriage! He owes me, big! – and a quick pit-stop via the opening of my next, and Paris’s first, Cyberdog franchise in the North of the city, it was time to check in to my Airbnb.

Now, I’ve never heard of, but when my 19-year-old record producer told me that Gen Z loves it, my publicist and I decided that a bit of grunge couldn’t hurt my image. Well, grunge I can do. But the Airbnb they booked me? A sex dungeon right in the heart of Paris’s fisting district. Whips, chains, mirrored ceilings, and Crisco, plus a Saint Andrew’s cross and a wipe clean duvet and sheet. 

“Now, I’ve never heard of, but when my 19-year-old record producer told me that Gen Z loves it, my publicist and I decided that a bit of grunge couldn’t hurt my image. Well, grunge I can do. But the Airbnb they booked me? A sex dungeon right in the heart of Paris’s fisting district” – Crystal Rasmussen

To say I was shocked is an understatement. I haven’t done fetish work since I left the ranch in Wyoming. But, I thought, you’re never too famous and wealthy to remember your roots, and within 15 minutes I had four of Paris’s most notable fashion faces back at my flat giving me forty lashes with a diamanté cat and nine-tails while we live streamed a preview of the Rick Owens show. It was like slipping on an old Croc! Which I did, when I realised 27 lashes in that I was late for my friend Grace Wales Bonner’s show. It was a masterpiece. Based on the work of beautiful photographer Sanlé Sory, I left feeling jubilant.

A few hours later and it was time for Lanvin. When I arrived, it was just me and the other models: I said, oh I must be in the wrong place, all these people are much older than me. But alas, my editor at Dazed hadn’t told me that I was the new face of the brand, and that my assignment was to just look chic and play computer games. Well, if there’s anything I loathe, it’s fiction – so I bundled half of the collection into my Goyard tote and made a run for it, arriving just in time for my final 13 lashes.


Now I love Jonathan (Anderson), but it’s been a while since we spoke because last time we were together he told me I was his muse, and I said no. Given that last interaction, it was a shock when he called and asked me to come to his show – but, if I’ve learned anything from my close friendship with Oprah Winfrey, it’s to give people a second chance. 

With that in mind, I jumped in the sidecar of a motorbike and pointed West. This way! I said to the driver, as I changed discreetly out of the Le Chameau wellies I’d worn to walk my leather pups (all wearing custom Richard Quinn) and into a legging-boot from Walter Van Bierendonck’s collection which I was set to model that very afternoon. 

Arriving at the JW show, I jumped out of the sidecar, only to realise the driver was Riccardo Tisci, who pulled me in and kissed me on the lips before inviting me to the Burberry show. As we parted, he brushed my hair back, and said to me: you are the sun and the moon, the Burberry trench and the check. I take the compliment before turning round to message my assistant: tell Burberry no, but do tell them I’ll be happy to receive one of everything from the new collection.

“Now, I love Jonathan (Anderson), but it’s been a while since we spoke because last time we were together he told me I was his muse, and I said no. Given that last interaction, it was a shock when he called and asked me to come to his show – but, if I’ve learned anything from my close friendship with Oprah Winfrey, it’s to give people a second chance” – Crystal Rasmussen

Naturally the JW show is stunning – just me, Jonny, and Jeurgen in a studio in hot pink fluffy smock tops and neon green bags. He won’t gift me one frustratingly, so I tell him I’m going for a cigarette and simply leave in the full look.

I’ve missed the Walter show, but that’s fine because he’s back at mine confiting a duck which we eat like that man in Lord of the Rings who eats the tomatoes. He tells me he misses me, and I say the same and for a moment it’s Antwerp again. For a moment we’re students again. And for a moment anything is possible. He lights a cigarette for me, and then I blow smoke shapes into the air. Walter looks at me intently and softly says: thank you, that’s my entire next collection sorted.

Suddenly there’s a knock at the door. Our perfect world ebbs away. And here I am in Paris, receiving the entire Burberry collection as requested. Life really is hard.


Apparently JWA is fuming I stole the bag, and he’s looking for me. So I spend the day undercover as I know so well how to do: this time as a vicar. That’s why I didn’t get into the Louis Vuitton show, because it was so convincing that they couldn’t believe that I was me, and not an agent of the Lord.

It’s fine though because I live-streamed the whole thing from my 2021 Etch-a-Sketch and by God, was it beautiful. I take my great friend Kai for dinner to congratulate them on such beautiful poetry, and bump into Goldie and Björk, who was fuming because MGC at Dior swore the dress wasn’t a copy of her swan look, but Björk felt differently. I didn’t dare tell her that Maria Grazia had called me in to consult on the collection this season and it was me who’d ripped it off in return for the ‘This is what a feminist looks like’ t-shirt’ that I, a feminist, have been dying to get my hands on for years.


Fashion week fatigue has kicked in and I am so over it today. I slip on my heeled Crocs (thanks Demna!) and head down to the lesser known Four Seasonings for breakfast with my good friend Millie Bobby Brown, who convinces me to come to a party celebrating Pride month sponsored by Dyson hoovers. It was a sumptuous event, and I finally got my hands on an air blade. I’m supposed to be doing lots of shows today, but word on the street is that JW is still on the lookout for me, so I’m thinking of just heading back to the S&M flat and watching Buffy. Will update.


“It was just me, Jeurgen, and some close friends by the beach,” I told the New York Times of my hand in the latest Loewe collection. “The vision was all Jonathan, the beauty, of course, was me,” I concluded. There I was in the Rizz – three-star hang-out to the stars – sipping a gin martini and perusing the look-book for Glenn Marten’s new creative directorship at Diesel, chatting to my friend at the New York Times about my love for Loewe and my hostile takeover of Neiman Marcus in the eighties, when a furious PR girl stormed over to my table. “HOW COULD YOU?,” she screamed, before taking a clammy palm to my cheek, leaving a red handprint on my newly chemically peeled skin. 

Luckily I had my security team with me – Lara Stone, Bebe Rexha, and Julien MacDonald who can swing a vintage Givenchy handbag at an assailant like no other Merthyr Tydfilian can – and so they stopped her. I arose from my seat. “What are you talking about?,” I said, calmly, used to false accusations since I climbed from D to A-List in the 1990s for pioneering euro-trance music and 2CB among the landed gentry. I was all over the news rags. 

Anyway, “what are you talking about?,” I said, calmly. I finally got a look at her face – it wasn’t a PR girl, it was Donna V*rsace – and she was raging because pics of me pashing Phil Plein had ended up all over the cover of POTINS!, the French gossip magazine. I told her it was a one time thing, that I could never betray her like that. But this was it, she said, and she gave me a million reasons before she left in a rage. 

Well, safe to say I spiralled. I trashed the hotel lobby, leaving the clean-up cost to my editors at Dazed, before Julien dressed me up in some Grunge Deluxe. We stormed through Paris, and ended up at a goth baby shower rave in the 16th. And, well, the next thing I remember is…


...waking up on the runway, opening the Jil Sander show. Clothes were gorgeous as ever, but before I had a chance to double kiss Tim Blanks and give Suzy Menkes’s pompadour a little pat I was bundled into a taxi and straight to the frow of Y/Project. Very edgy, I was sat next to Vicky Beckham and Cher Lloyd who both told me I smelled of a damp basement. I styled it out, naturally – “it’s Byredo’s new one!” – to which they both nodded with fashion acceptance. I ran out of the show, tripping over all the papparazos desperate for the money shot. And SLAM, into the back of my cab. Silence. Finally. 

We drive to the edge of the city before I realise where I am. “Driver?,” I say, “where are we headed?” The car screeches to a halt, the partition rolls down and there she is: Donna V in a tux and postman hat.


I’m writing from my 2020 Motorola Razr. Donna has lost it. She spent the 36 hour drive going on and on about pity. I kept telling her to stop, begging her to let me phone Lara or Julien or even my editor at Dazed who by this point thinks I’m making it all up. We arrive at our destination and I finally understand. We’re at Pitti Uomo. More soon. For now I have to get myself out of this ball gag… 


We arrive in Florence, and Donna V can’t get me out of the car because I’m completely stuck in position – practically fossilised – since she’s forgotten the one thing I need everywhere I go: Dr. Dorfman, my chiropractor, chiropodist, and cosmetic surgeon. Little did I know, Donna’s trained in all three, and I learn this as she drags me by the Birkin, which is practically fused to my wrist, out of the car and crick-crack-crocks my skeleton back into place. It’s like a scene out of a cheap Florentine porno, and don’t think the fashion lot didn’t stop to get a snap of the scene, which will be all over their mood-boards come midnight Europe time.

Once we’ve set my bones straight, Donatella tells me that we have an appointment with her good friend Thebe Magugu – the guest designer at Pitti this season – in a hotel room in ten minutes. Thank god I worked as a silks girl for the touring show of Zumanity (the sexy circus thing) for all of my late teens through my 50s, because I have become the master of the quick change. I strip out of my green morph suit and Molly Goddard Uggs, and slip into head-to-toe Lindsay Lohan era Ungaro and a Jacquemus bag, which I shopped straight from the runway yesterday. I was a vision, and after a group bath in the suite, we hit Florence like a tonne of bricks. We started by repainting some frescos, and ended at an afterparty in one of the back rooms of the Uffizi (distanced, obviously) with a man who said he was heir to the Uffizi family fortune but turned out to be a tour guide looking for a quick buck. I took him home anyway.


Is he the one? We made love all night, and all throughout the day. I ditched the shows, and the parties, and the dinners, because men like Franco don’t come along every fashion week. Plus I could barely walk from all the chafing. So we stayed in bed, and he filmed me while I played double bass and sang Russian folk songs in nothing but a pair of beige Capezio pantyhose and a six-inch Manolo. 

“This is FASHION,” I told them over a double-speed voice note, “it’s about LIVING. LAUGHING. LOVING. EATING. PRAYING… LOVING. It’s about who you know, and how you look!” – Crystal Rasmussen


To say I was in trouble with my editors was an understatement. I hadn’t filed a show report in eleven days, they’d finally been billed for the mess I’d made in the hotel, and the fisting airbnb in Paris, and they weren’t best pleased. I BBMd them telling them I was done with their little magazine, and their obsession with accessories, looks, and runway shows. “This is FASHION,” I told them over a double-speed voice note, “it’s about LIVING. LAUGHING. LOVING. EATING. PRAYING… LOVING. It’s about who you know, and how you look!” 

The messages were relentless – both from my editors at Dazed and my friends who were arriving in Pitti. In the car with my assistant – who was of course taking the calls and messages – I told her that everyone wants to be us, before putting my sunglasses on even though the skies were grey. Next thing I know, I was being swallowed by paps on my way into an event with my good friends Diane Von Furstenburg, Lemony Snicket, and once popular singer Lemar. I turned to see her throwing her phone into a nearby fountain. “Maybe I should do the same?,” I wondered, before receiving a nude from T*ierry M*gler, alongside a pin drop. Not a chance I’m getting rid of this! Before bustling back into my car and to the location of my one true love, Monsieur Mugler.


I’m back in Malibu fighting with the Jenners for a table at Soho House. Fashion week’s over, which means I can finally go back to being just another girl in Los Angeles searching for love, money, and a green light on my dating show about just how totally random and slutty I am. See you next season dear readers. And if you can’t find me, look to the Western Skies. As someone told me lately: everyone deserves a chance to ride in the BFC fashion blimp!