Darling, you look awful

FORGET Botox, Tupperware and pyjama parties women are now congregating at a new type of get-together: the Susannah and Trinny. Self-appointed style gurus Susannah Constantine and Trinny Woodall bring sartorial home truths to the nation via their BBC2 show, What Not To Wear. The Simon Cowells of the fashion world, each week the bossy duo trample through the wardrobe of some hapless woman who has been nominated for her poor dress sense by so-called friends or family. No insult is considered too harsh, no comment too frank.

Bosoms, bottoms and bellies are clutched and ridiculed while clothing taste is held up for harsh scrutiny. Gems include: "Gather up your top to cover that roll of flab", and "Oh my God, that dress makes your tits look huge. You really should get a bra that fits you." The upside? They get 2,000 to spend on a more flattering wardrobe.

With What Not To Wear rapidly becoming cult viewing - Susannah and Trinny's lack of tact makes mesmerising telly - some of the capital's fashion fallible have taken to recreating it in the comfort of their own homes. It's the perfect way to find out if that bias-cut, lace- trimmed floral dress you've never been too sure about is really naff or not. Just invite your friends round, ask them to bring all the outfits with question marks hanging over them, and, after a few glasses of wine, let brutal honesty prevail. You don't get a 2,000 cheque for new clothes, but you sometimes get your mates' cast-offs. And thanks to the rise of vintage chic, the social stigma of wearing second-hand clothes has long worn off.

Any thoughts of pussyfooting around were soon dashed when I got together with three female friends for a spot of S&T.

There were shrieks of horror as we went through our offerings, as well as many lame excuses. Julie Zirngast, an English teacher living in Tokyo, tried to explain away her hideous, knitted skirt by admitting that "it looks kind of naff off but not that bad on", while maintaining that "with boots it has potential".

Meanwhile, I'd followed the John Galliano spring/summer 2002 school of pattern-clashing; my skirt was from a student fashion show and the Cacharel-like print top from a boutique in Manchester.

Julie wasted no time telling me that "the whole outfit looks dreadful".

With this game, there is always a chance that long-time friendships could come to a short, sharp end.

CHLOE Marshall, a 30-year-old lawyer from Islington, had brought a fake sheepskin jerkin which even her husband thought made her look like a builder.

She insisted that it had a "certain Nordic niceness", but the rest of us agreed that it should be banned from public view. Chloe promised that she would only wear the jerkin to "watch TV in".

As the evening develops, and the wine bottles empty, the criticisms get more and more brutal. The trousers that gave me a little trouble sitting down in, for example, were pronounced "not that flattering" at the beginning of the party, with criticism escalating to "your hips are quite womanly", and several glasses of wine later upgraded to "you look huge" and "your short legs don't help much". I am now only allowed to wear loose, flared trousers with a heel.

After the knitted-skirt debacle, Julie, who admittedly had been out of the country for a while, decked herself head-to-foot in animal print in the mistaken belief that it was very "now".

When Claire, a 27-year-old fashion designer from St John's Wood, told her that she looked like a hooker, Julie's pitiful line of defence was: "Well, so what? Julia Roberts once played a prostitute." She was finally persuaded to tone down the look with Chloe's Topshop jeans and my black Chinese top.

Although, at the start of the evening, you are slightly taken aback when your friends start slagging off your clothes - as are the poor women in the TV show, judging by their startled and hurt expressions - you eventually become acclimatised to the insults. Sometimes you even agree with your friends' remarks.

SINCE last week's party, I've come to terms with the fact that now I'm 30, I'll have to ditch my cute stuff - jumpers with bunnies on and Miffy handbags - and go for something a little more sophisticated. I ended up taking home Claire's Miss Selfridge peasant- style top, which, as I tactfully told her, didn't work because she "hadn't been blessed by the bosom fairy".

So if you're about to throw or attend a S&T party, bear in mind two things.

One, make sure your mates aren't criticising a particular outfit solely because they want to take it home themselves, and two, however harsh the comments, it must be better than having Trinny, Susannah and a TV crew ferreting through your closet while the nation watches in horror.

Copyright 2001
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