Amy Cooper
LOWDOWN
THIS week's party scene was a bit like a night in front of the TV - except with hundreds of other people and no pyjamas.
There were the ASTRA awards, today's MTV awards and Fashion TV's big bash to celebrate going local.
The invitation to the Fashion TV party came with a giant Swarovski crystal. I wondered what it was for, but then remembered that in fashion, no one asks what anything's for. I put it in my pocket in case it was the key to a VIP grotto, or something for Beyonce.
The Fashion TV people had offered to show me how their VIPs partied, and as further research into the meaning of VIP I headed preparty to a sort of primping factory deep inside the Hilton Sydney. There, an army of make-up girls and stylists wrangled a production line of fragile people. One male VIP was having a hair drama and was close to tears. "I don't want it twisty," he hissed. "I want it beach." Celebrity hairdresser Anthony Nader presided over it all with surprising calm.
Down at the special marquee behind the Opera House, we walked a red carpet strewn with more crystals. (Fashion VIPs like to see pretty everywhere - even on the floor.) Inside, beautiful people lounged on chaises and dangled martinis between their elegant fingers.
I spotted faces: a Kirk Pengilly here, a Kamahl there; lots of models, including catwalk star Elyse Taylor. On the stage were clothes, not people; previews of collections from such as Bowie Wong, Kirrily Johnston and my favourite, the sassy Lil' Mama from 2Day FM's Mamajugs.
The dress code was casual chic, which manifested as absolutely anything. One man wore a military uniform and another was channelling building site chic, with shorts, singlet and bad-weather hair. There were evening gowns and cargo pants, overalls and bling. But each look, no matter how careless it seemed, had been constructed with precision. It would not be OK, my Fashion TV friend warned me, to laugh at any of it.
In the end I didn't, because the Fashion TV people are very kind. The whole event was in aid of the Red Ribbon Foundation (an HIV and AIDS research charity) and when the silent auction began, they bid generously.
By the time everyone reached the after-party at Zeta Bar, I had noted that Fashion TV VIPs are an astonishingly well-behaved bunch. Even in the blurrier hours, when apple martinis flowed, there was no sign of the potential rage glimpsed in the styling room. The models lounged prettily and the celebrities remained upright. There can only be one explanation: on Fashion TV, no one wants to spoil their clothes.
- by Amy Cooper at 02:02 PM
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LOWDOWN
HERE'S another philosophical party question. What, exactly, is a VIP?
I'm just not sure any more. Once, this tag belonged to a small group; so small, in fact, they would barely fill a limo, a snug private lounge or one of Ian Thorpe's shoes. This was the whole point. If you were Very Important, you were rare, inhabiting the pointy top of the party pyramid beneath which dwelt a larger layer of Important People. Below that was an anonymous mass called Everyone Else, or Melbourne.
At a VIP launch, someone would present their new shop or bar or toaster to a posse of these exotic creatures in a little, exclusive space with little, exclusive treats. With this in mind, we arrived at the VIP launch of Sydney's latest bar, The Argyle.
Outside, the road was blocked by what appeared to be a large, well-dressed demonstration of hundreds. In fact these multitudes were the guests, filing into The Argyle like extras in Ben Hur. They swarmed over the cobbled courtyard and filled every corner of the venue's five bars. Venue manager Ben English was doing his best to greet everyone at the door. Clad all in white he looked like heaven's gatekeeper on a day when a mysterious plague had wiped out every partygoer in the southern hemisphere.
This was not a VIP launch as we knew it. The Argyle is huge, and it was full. We squeezed up to the outdoor bar to watch flame-throwing bartenders. Nearby, a VIP of the old school raised an eyebrow at the masses. "Very egalitarian," she said. And it really was, because they were feeding this thousand-strong crowd the things normally reserved for those scant VIPs: magnums of Moet and buckets of Veuve; caviar, tequila. It was generosity bordering on madness.
We heard there was a VIP room upstairs, and went to investigate. We found a darkened, glowing cocoon with a cool lava bar and hundreds more people. I'd lost my friends but it didn't matter, because there were about 995 potential more. And it was fun, being part of something so big. It made up for never having been in a revolution.
Then a male friend popped up. "I've just had two pees in a pod," he said. He led me to a unisex bathroom containing the showiest urinals I've ever seen. They were indeed pods; glowing, alien-like capsules. They were not for the faint-hearted and many men fled to the cubicles.
And there, in the city's most fabulous bathroom at its largest party in a long time, I glimpsed the elite at last. Everyone might have been a VIP, but only a few were special enough to perform a Very Important Pee.
- by Amy Cooper at 02:03 PM
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