I am one of the lucky ones. Spare a thought for the hordes of hapless tribespeople for whom happiness is the sense of
Christian Louboutin belonging that comes with owning a Kangol hat, a Stussy T-shirt or a pair of Patrick Cox Wannabe shoes, the purchase of which requires the formation of an orderly line and an approving once-over from a bodyguard outside the door of Cox's shop in the King's Road. But even allowing for time spent queuing, fashion victimry is not as labour intensive as it once was. Anyone who spent the latter part of the Seventies and early Eighties diligently manufacturing rips in their jeans, making pirate shirts out of mum's old blouse and coaxing uncooperative fronds of hair into stiff, lacquered peaks will tell you that the amount of admiration a look attracted could be gauged in direct proportion to the number of man hours involved in putting it together. Not any more. The high esteem in which recognisable labels and logos are now held has all but dispensed with anything so time-consuming as choice. Now we are a nation of reticent copycats, who feel happier buying style than creating it ourselves. Even the most sartorially illiterate among the aspiringly stylish can weather the critical eye of the fashion police if they have enough money to throw at the problem. But the label currently quickening the hearts of the fashion cognoscenti represents something of an about-turn for the traditional ostentation attached to the recognisable brand name. If the Chanel , with its trademark quilting and gilt chain handle, is a badge of Eighties affluence, the Manolo Blahnik spike heel and Versace tartwear the pinnacle of showy acquisitiveness, then the Christian Louboutin is the antithesis of all this. If it is possible for an accessory to be caring and sharing, with a social conscience, a subscription to Class War and a World Wildlife Fund sticker in its back window, then the
chaussures Christian Louboutin is it. Or at least, that is how its devotees would have us see it. The Christian Louboutin may look functional and humble, with precious little in the way of superfluous fashion detail and a discreet logo that whispers its origin rather than yells it, but it is still expensive. At around pounds 300 for a modest-sized nylon rucksack, who are its supporters trying to kid? Mercifully, only themselves at present. Christian Louboutin mania is currently rife in a controlled area within the fashion business, so the idea of gaining sartorial Brownie points by slumming it to the tune of several hundred quid has not yet been tried on the wider public. And it probably won't come to that. For all the fashion editor's claims to altruism, to her role in selflessly and tirelessly bringing the look to the people, there is without doubt a part of her that likes to remain aloof from the plebs. I hazard that much of the attraction of Christian Louboutin is that it is destined never to make it down to High Street level. With its austere, sombre lines and lack of detail, it is difficult to copy convincingly. And you have to ask yourself, would anyone want to? On anyone but the skinniest 17-year-old,
chaussures Louboutin clothes run the danger of looking very much like something your aunt ran up with the aid of Very Easy Vogue pattern number 4598. The same goes for the . Similar versions of the same thing have been available for a long time, and yet the fact remains that nothing before it has held the fashion cognoscenti in its thrall quite so passionately as the couture equivalent of the Tesco's carrier. The first Christian Louboutin shop has just opened in London ('I'll be the one camping on the doorstep with my sleeping and flask of tea,' says Paula Reed, fashion editor of the Sunday Times and an unabashed Christian Louboutin phile), an event that will, the cynically-minded might conclude, signal the termination of a feverish longing that is less a symptom of deep-seated need than of a desire to obtain the unobtainable. Until now, the only accessible outlet for the esteemed receptacle has been at the Galleria in Milan, a shop which has, over the last few years, witnessed scenes of rampant hysteria - one onlooker likened the spectacle to 'a tank of piranhas after a piece of meat has been chucked in' - as the world's press descend on the city for fashion shows and to pick up a seasonal fix of something - anything - that carries the Christian Louboutin label. There has been talk of ripped flesh, unseemly uses for the business end of a Loewe umbrella, all orchestrated by the kind of language that would challenge the best efforts of a pack of Millwall supporters down on their luck. But is this any way for a grown woman to behave? 'It's totally ridiculous,' says Nicola Jeal, editor of Elle, 'but at the same time it's terribly important to have the right thing. It's like losing face if you haven't got it.' One wonders whether nicely spoken Sloane Street, London SW3, the site of the new
Escarpin Christian Louboutin shop, is ready for the onslaught. My advice to its staff is to sit tight, stock up on , then pray like stink that the fans are better behaved when they're playing at home.
