Wanted: A bitchy, rabid rottweiler to run Vogue
in case you’re in any doubt, that’s ME! ( )
WHEN Alex Shulman announced last week that she was stepping down as editor of Vogue after 25 years (long overdue: she furtively reads novels on her lap while sitting in the front row of shows, so you can tell she was bored seasons ago), I started to feverishly search online for names rumoured to be in the mix as her successor.
Natalie Massenet, who founded Net-a-Porter, the online luxury portal? Emily Sheffield, the current deputy on Vogue, a woman who used to work for me on the Evening Standard and who would turn up each day in opaque black tights, pixie boots and a denim mini skirt?
Pah! I could wipe the floor with these lightweights! Being bitchy is a prerequisite in the world of fashion and, tbh, Shulman never quite cut the mustard in the spiteful stakes.
In her just-published memoir about her final year in the editor’s chair, I’m the only person she attacks out of all the thousands around the world who work in fashion, the media, government and plumbing/building/mansion maintenance firms in her Queen’s Park home turf. Even then she can’t quite aim her kitten heel into the core of my just-aboutstill-beating heart.
In the book, Alex calls me a ‘rabid rottweiler’, which is really a compliment, as I adore these beautiful, intelligent animals. (I had wondered why a couple of summers ago Vogue’s features editor rejected my idea of how to find a wedding gown when you’re over 50; I thought she was being ageist, but turns out they just hate me! Phew!)
So, apart from the bitchiness, what other attributes do I have?
I’ve downloaded the application form. BMI of less than 12? Tick! Ever had your American Express card cut up in front of you inside Corso Como in Milan? Tick! Received a bunch of bloodred roses the size of a hippo from John Galliano? Tick!
Given your neighbour at a pre- Oscars lunch the Jimmy Choo voucher left on your plate as you ‘only wear Louboutins’? Tick!
Can you differentiate Gigi from Bella Hadid? Tick! Do you get sick on Philip Green’s superyacht? (Trick question.) Hell, no!
Do you possess, on specially made oak shelves, every single issue of UK Vogue (plus supplements) published since September 1977, in chronological order? Yes! Yes! Yes!
Do I have a hope in hell of inhabiting the pristine white office overlooking Hanover Square, and being able to employ as my PA an aristocrat’s daughter with a ridiculous name just for the pleasure of waterboarding her, given that it’s now back in fashion. (I’m in favour of Donald Trump for another reason. Mexican avocados are pure fat! Build that wall!)
SADLY, no. Why? Well, my refusal while editor of Marie Claire to condone the skinning of live pythons while their heads are nailed to trees in the hot sun, and the poleaxing of alligators, just to make handbags. My refusal to feature a rock star who, when I booked him a flight to visit a famine in Africa, insisted on business class.
My refusal to use models with heroin injection marks, and to airbrush wrinkles from the face of Sade. And a reluctance to shoot pop stars whose list of provisos included zero-fat milk and no rice, as it contains too much sugar (I did still put one such star on the cover, but I published her list of demands). Or to employ ancient male photographers who, when you say you’ve booked a new young model, ask: ‘Does she ’ave a boyfriend?’
I managed to annoy every single fashion designer under the sun, from Christopher Bailey at Burberry (when his catwalk was stormed by Peta protesters, I wrote that the bouncers ripped the hair from their scalps) to quoting an American designer who, seeing a clearly desperately ill Whitney Houston, screamed: ‘Finally, she’s a size zero!’
I understand the need to keep advertisers happy, as these luxury publications sell so few copies. The problem is that Vogue might be elitist, but it’s also hugely influential.
In the 1970s I read in its pages: ‘Fasting is not dangerous, but an 800-calorie a day diet for a longer period is a more certain way of slimming.’
So, that’s all I consumed for the next 40 years.
The editor of Vogue needs not only impeccable contacts, stamina and great style, she will also need to bear in mind that along with all the Louis Vuitton freebies, the best job in the world comes with another big piece of baggage: responsibility.