Jean Paul Gaultier, a man of many notable achievements, including the perfect and most welcome corruption of the minds of kids who furtively watched late-night Channel 4 during the 1990s, has spoken about the responsibility of big fashion brands when it comes to waste. “Big groups are doing more collections, new collections… with a big amount of clothes. It’s absolutely ridiculous,” he told BBC News. “It’s not a question of thinking about what people need. It’s thinking about being bigger. It’s only a question of power and politics.”
We hear over and over again that our addiction to consumption is causing environmental devastation, that the incessant need for more, quicker, bigger is hastening our demise as a planet, and that’s just the kind of upbeat conversation that I have in the pub when trying to lift the mood after England’s semi-final defeat to USA. (*Sips tea, cries.*)
Yes, fast fashion is a disaster, and of course we should be horrified at the human cost of a T-shirt that’s being sold for £4. But big brands burning millions of pounds worth of excess stock have something to answer for, too.
So often, the responsibility to change seems to fall upon people who do not have the financial flexibility it requires to even try to do better. When a person of Gaultier’s stature and influence criticises his own side of the industry, it at least feels as if he’s sharing that accountability between everyone. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard people suggesting that the fast-fashion crisis could be solved by people spending more, but buying less.
It is a worthy notion, but also impractical. It suggests to me that this is someone who does not understand what it is like to be watching every penny. It’s the kind of solution that would work if money arrived in bulk once a year, to be portioned out with a single January splurge on a built-to-last pair of trousers that cost £700, but won’t end up in landfill in six months. I also wonder if the “buy one thing that will last” types have ever needed to be glad that a supermarket school uniform can be squeaked out of a tight weekly budget.
By airing his views with the precision of a conical bra, Gaultier is helping to make the point that everyone should play a part. I was also a fan of his suggestion of what to do next. “Keep your clothes… and after, we can make something new. I will help you do that,” he said.
Sigrid, making one fan’s dream come true
On an ordinary night, at an ordinary gig, you might turn up, queue for a bit and navigate a jumble of sweaty bodies in order to pay tribute at the feet of your musical idols. Or, in the case of Beyoncé at Cardiff’s Principality Stadium, enter into a kind of unspoken who-knows-more-lyrics competition with the dressed-to-kill women in the next row along, who, sadly, were victorious, and deserved their triumph.
But last week was a big one for music fans living out the kind of fairytales that Richard Curtis would carve into a sweet romcom in a heartbeat. First, there was Alex, the 15-year-old pulled from the crowd at Glastonbury by Dave, whose show he accidentally stole with a perfect rendition of the track Thiago Silva, and who became internet-famous overnight.
Then there was 13-year-old Nina, who sobbed through Sigrid’s set at the same festival, prompting the singer to call her “the biggest legend of them all”. Sigrid has since invited Nina to meet her at Latitude festival. Shawn Mendes, meanwhile, shared a clip of himself kissing “a little angel” in the crowd at a show in Denver, and that little angel appears to have had the night of her life.
I’m looking forward to a book out this month, called Fangirls (disclosure: the author is a friend, but I’d have recommended it anyway), which explores the world of female teenage music fans who dedicate their lives to the likes of Lady Gaga or One Direction. It treats fandom as a serious business and, as last week showed, the business of being a fan can reap unimaginable and brilliant rewards.
Hugh Grant, not everyone wants his photo
Hugh Grant found himself defending his wife against a paparazzo in Rome, taking the woman’s phone away when she dared to take it out in his vicinity. But the woman was the head of a municipal waste company and, instead of filming him, she was filming a restaurant illegally dumping its rubbish.
Grant should take comfort in the fact that this kind of thing happens all the time. I once ran after a man who had lost a glove, and wondered why he was so rudely ignoring my polite and repeated “excuse me”. I tapped him on the shoulder, and Mr TV Presenter turned round with a look that could kill. “You’ve dropped this,” I told him, as his face quickly adjusted his ego.
It also reminded me of when a friend of mine, a jobbing actor who’s been in the odd recognisable role, was approached by a couple who asked if they could take a picture. “Sure,” she said, moving herself into position between them, beaming her pearly whites, expecting them to hold up the camera for a group selfie. The situation became oddly tense, and the inevitable followed. “Er, we were just wondering if you could take a picture of us, actually,” they said.