Someone needs a nice cup of tea.

I browse the coverage of London Fashion Week more for teh crayzee than for the clothes because -- and hats off to them -- British designers are generally the least restrained and commercial. But this season I didn't just find teh crayzee, I found teh crayzee and the depressed. Good lord, there were just acres of dense, light-absorbing, soul-sucking black in styles I can only describe as prison matron fetish burhka.

And here's the thing -- If fashion reflects the zeitgeist, what do these designers know that we don't know? Did a memo circulate through their workshops stating "the End is Near and we ain't kidding?" Is the British economy taking a nose dive? Has Kate Moss' coke supply been cut off, or Pete Doherty's heroin been cut with too much baby laxative, thus impeding the flow of fabulousness to the New(est) Swinging London? Are the designers all morning the loss of Posh and Becks to L.A.? Are there no doctors in London writing prescriptions for Zoloft, Paxil, or Wellbutrin? What??

Of course, the London shows were not without their bright spots. Duro Olowu, who designed the dress that became the A-Dress-A-Day obsession, showed a colorful collection. The graduates of Central St. Martins also managed to put out some bright, if curiously covered up, garments. But meanwhile, I think a cheer-the-f*ck-up British fashion designer intervention is in order.


The designers, top to bottom, are Biba, Jens Laugesen, Burberry (who actually showed in Milan), Gareth Pugh and Nathan Jenden.