God save our style

Because I am in the mood to blog something whilst my Itunes library home streams itself from my computer in the corner, to the little pink laptop I'm typing on. Apparently 1000+ songs take their time to travel about 5 feet across the room.

So I'm sat here on my bed, surrounded by countless issues of US and Uk Elle magazines, clothes, bags... and a Teeline shorthand book, which sticks out like a sore thumb, not just because it's the only blue amongst all this pink, but because it's probably the object with the most depth amongst all this...well, pink.

Not to say that my issues of Elle do not contain intelligence. The London Fashion week edition in particular contained some of the best artists and designers, celebrated spectacularly with a splash of London culture. I am fully aware that Britain as we know it is going into the gutters, the gutters from which chavs and other slimy things spawn from in the dead of night. However, believe it or not, a little splash of England still remains. The England that Americans dream of. Red letterboxes, red buses, Mary Poppins and of course the Queen. This kind of London pride is seen in culture, in artwork, designs, in the Union Jack sewn intricately into a pair of skinny jeans, or a distressed image of Big Ben printed onto a baggy t-shirt. It's seen in the posters strewn around the underground as we celebrated 25 years of London fashion week.

England has always had a way of retaining a pure individualism when it comes to music, arts or fashion. We gave the world The Beatles, a hit which then gave us Stella McCartney. Britain's elaborate and unrivaled history gives it's culture a splash of vintage. The most recent styles to have hit the Uk catwalk this season have been the eighties, an era which saw the birth of London fashion week. Not yet mainstream or celebrated, the designers then had a lease of life all their own, expressing themselves with fabric, colors and prints. Looks, which after 25 years, are once more strutting down the runway. A celebration of creativeness and independence.

However, despite it all, we remain humble. Without the fluff and ruffles of the Paris collection (as delightful as it is, God bless Marc Jacobs designing for Louis Vuitton), and without the rigid clean cut lines of New York City's futuristic view (brilliant concept none the less), England retains it's humble origins. With designs that you can see walking down Tottenham Court Road, strolling through Hyde Park or stepping off the tube.

So the next time you see the untalented, with tack dripping from every limb, crawling from the graves of reality television, just hold your head up high and walk into Topshop. Walk over the gutters in your new pumps and be proud to be British.