Star spotting and 'moob' tubes at the Paris menswear shows

I'm not one to let a minor setback like a stolen BlackBerry and iPod keep me down, so first thing this morning I was off bright and early to the opening show of Paris Menswear.

Well, not exactly the opening show, or the second show for that matter, but the third show nonetheless. Hugo Boss. At 11.30am. After a lovely French breakfast of chocolate chaud and croissants. Well I actually arrived at 11.50am.

But it wasn't a problem, these things never run on time. Last season I'd been given a front row seat at Hugo Boss (my only official one), thanks to the lovely Australian brand manager.

This season, not so much as a standing pass. I marched myself off to the PR agent and told him who I was, who my Australian press contact was, that my BlackBerry had been stolen, and that last season I'd been oh so VIP.

He assured me it wouldn't be a problem and asked me to wait to the side. Good thing I was so late, because at that very moment the security guards parted the entry gates and a black Mercedes sped up. Out hopped Adrien Brody. Out popped my camera. Sometimes it pays to be a pleb.

I liked the Hugo Boss collection last season, it was clean, strong and very German. This season was fifty times better. Out came a section of all white suits - the whitest white you've ever seen. Then white with the finest pale blue shirt.

Then a pale blue section, then some pale blue with navy accents. Then a navy section, a few navy/gold pieces, then back to white. Then some fire engine red with the white. Then back to white. Finally a closing section of ten black suits.

It's incredible how the simplest things always seem to be the most effective. If we follow Hugo Boss' guidance (alongside a good amount of the Milanese designers), next summer all us men will be wearing pleated pants that taper and crop just above the ankle. It's the best thing that's happened to pants since the demise of the bootcut jean.

Next up was Francisco van Benthum. Once again, no ticket. Once again, no problem. This time though I was front row, with a distinct lack of seating companions.

Hugo Boss had seemed a tad light on attendees, could low numbers at the shows be the trend of Paris Menswear? About halfway into the show I spied NZ model Aiden Andrews strutting his stuff. As he walked past I saw that the seemingly normal pink shirt he was wearing (see below) was entirely backless. We're in a recession folks, save on fabric costs, save on price.

After FVB I headed to Juun J, a show that I thoroughly enjoyed last season. This time round it wasn't to my taste - the shoes took the form of high top sneakers mixed with sandals. Snandals anybody? I'm not sure about you but I'm not quite ready to be seeing boys' toe cleavage in their laceups yet.

At Juun J I asked my good friend Frederic (head of men's fashion at French newspaper Le Figaro) if he was going to Louis Vuitton next.

He laughed at me like only the French can - ah ah ah I am laugheeeeng because you are stupeeeed - and told me "of course - it's ze very umportont show".

In that case, I thought to myself, I'd better go too.

Like Hugo Boss, I was invited to Louis Vuitton in January, but this season no invite arrived despite several emails to PR agents. I got on the Fashion Week bus (seeing as all the shows are in entirely separate parts of the city, they provide a bus for those of us who can't afford personal drivers) and walked to the backstage entrance of the show.

Suddenly I found myself intimidated in front of the security guard, so I kept walking as if I was a tourist. I walked the 400 or so metres around the building to the front. The entrance was a long hallway with an open courtyard at the end. I lined up behind the long queue of press people and waited my turn to plead my case to the PR agent.

I finally got to him and resigned my fate to the French Gods. I didn't like my chances. He was about 6'2, blonde, and stupidly good looking. He listened to my story and paused.

"Ok, ok," he said, "you are press, ees ok."

It would seem that tales of my stolen BlackBerry can evoke sympathy in even the coldest heart. I walked in and ran smack into the Black Eyed Peas. They didn't smile as sweetly as Adrien Brody and Carine Roitfeld.

The show itself, like Hugo Boss, was more enjoyable than last season.

Under the watchful eye of Creative Director Marc Jacobs (so the show notes said), they'd found inspiration in New York bike messengers - or Gentleman Butterflies in Louis Vuitton speak.

Traffic light yellow blazed down the diamond gravel catwalk to a soundtrack of honking taxi cabs. French luxury at its lowest brow best.

Outside Gaspard Yurkievich I ran into New Zealand artist Greg Samu - he was there meeting a friend.

Over crispy baguette sandwiches he told me of his next big trip - a two month residency in Taiwan where he plans to do a series of works with the indigenous people - something about bringing cannibalism to the masses. I was relieved the sandwich seemed to satisfy him.

Once again when it came time for the show there was a huge lack of attendees - quarter of the front row sat unoccupied.

You've gotta feel for the designers in that situation - so much work goes into preparing a show. I guess the recession has prompted travel budgets cuts to Paris this season.

At Jean Paul Gaultier I waited patiently for thirty minutes with the rest of the 'standing' crowd - those of us who were sent tickets, but not with seating allocations.

Once in, I was treated to a second row seat courtesy of the lovely ushers dressed in French striped JPG tee shirts. Just what I always wanted.

Two collaborations brought out the subversive side in Mr Gaultier this season - Levis and Converse. Skinny boys wearing denim boob tubes (moob tubes?) and bondage strapped jeans with transparent plastic Chuck Taylors stormed the catwalk.

That man is seriously skilled when it comes to stripes - they're a house signature - and the vertical candy striped blue and white pants did the trick for me.

Despite requesting a ticket for Dries van Noten and getting a promising email back, no invite ever arrived. I turned up anyway just in case but was not allowed through the black metal grated gate.

Turns out it didn't really matter though - the show was held outside just beyond the gates - I could see right through.

A truck pulled up behind me and blared out the opening notes to Kanye West's Love Lockdown and the show began.

It was about 20 metres away so I couldn't be sure but it looked like a good set of clothes to me.

I'll look at the pictures later so I can tell for sure. Post show another truck handed out citrus sorbet. The perfect end to a fantastic first day.

I'm off to meet up with Zambesi Man designer Dayne Johnston and Kiwi model Zippora Seven.

Until next time, I must bid you a bientot.

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