Now this is a story about a boy named Unlucky, about the time when I oh so nearly got to be included in a glossy magazine shoot, but was unceremoniously slashed from the line-up the day before for bring too “fashion-y,” DAMN MY SUPER STYLISH STYLE!
Let me take you back to a couple of weeks ago, when I received an email from a freelance journalist working for the Sunday Telegraph‘s style supplement, Stella. Following the footsteps of Grazia and Stylist alike, the magazine is looking to produce a regional feature on British cities – well, Manchester, Glasgow, East London and Brighton, an odd mix, but there you go – and they need assistance from the natives.
The freelancer asked me if I’d be up for taking part in a shoot and being interviewed about my thoughts on the “Manchester look,” whatever that is. I said of course, I’d be happy to, anything for a bit of free exposure, ‘eh? The journalist also asked me if I had any thoughts on who else would be suitable to represent Manchester in the magazine, so, I very helpfully and nicely produced a list of people that I thought represented the eclectic style of the city’s dwellers. This list also included a synopsis of each person’s job, their age, their style and a link to a social page or website for the journalist to have a nosey at.
Then I didn’t hear anything from the journalist. At all. I began to get nervous, was this the usual pattern of events? Did Cheryl Cole say yes to Vogue and then not hear from them for days, not knowing where she was expected to turn up and pout? Was this a test!? Some of the people I’d suggested to Stella started texting and tweeting me to say thanks for the recommendation. Oh jesus, had I been forgotten!?
So, I hit the journo back up to get the low-down on the shoot etc. Oops, the writer had been reassigned and her research (inc. my list) had been passed onto another writer to complete. Hmm, bollocks. I thought I’d wait it out and play cool, to see if the new writer would get in contact to say, y’know, “hey, you who did a spot of unpaid research for our regions feature, here’s where we’re meeting, what’s your Starbucks order?”
Well, they didn’t, not until a friend of mine who had appeared on my list queried if this writer had actually spoken to the person responsible for putting her in contact with some of Manchester’s style ambassadors.
Then I got this:
Uh, alas, my future as a global supermodel was over, before it had even begun. Right after I’d helped the magazine construct the feature with my black book. God damn my efficiency and heart of gold. I was supposed to be the new Agnes Deyn, all northern cockiness and fierce cheek bones. But, no, I was too damn fashionable for the fashion magazine! I think it was the statement jewellery to be honest.
Still, I know it’s not this journalist’s fault that she’s been given a task deserving of more time and research to complete in 3 days and I know it’s not her fault that Stella supposedly set out to represent “Manchester style” and instead have decided to edit participants to suit their preconceived idea of the Northern look. But c’mon, I’d have rocked that shoot, right?
Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll be quoted in the mag any time soon.