I recently made a shocking discovery: people outside of New York, London, Paris and Milan wear clothes too!  I had always been under the impression that these "outsiders" ran through their streets quite naked, their bits hanging about blowing in the wind. If they do wear clothes, why then, I asked myself, don't they too have Fashion Weeks like us civilised people?  Well, shockingly, it turns out they do!

As the child of a Foreign Legion officer, and the grandchild of a general of the Raj, adventure is in my blood: so I decided to don my pith helmet, affix my monocle and polish up the old elephant gun and take to the exploration of these "so-called" Fashion Weeks.  My travels would last for more than two months and take me to six continents (apparently clothes aren't popular in Antarctica, bloody nudists!) and into the fierce jungles of hundreds of cat-walks.  Let the adventure begin!

I set sail New Year's Day and on the seventh of January I arrived in the Port of Rio de Janeiro aboard the SS De Lemos.  My eyes went immediately wide as I saw no evidence of clothing at all; instead I spied nothing but naked bodies prancing along beaches, the sirens of Ipanema seductive and inviting.  I was terrified.  I had a sherry and went to bed.  I had nightmares that night.

I woke with a start, dressed fashionably, and found my way to the Apoema show.  I was shocked - there on the cat-walk were models - clothed models!  They were civilised after all!  I felt a sudden calm in my breast.  I even enjoyed the Apoema collection, a dizzying array of patterns that both hypnotised and beautifully repulsed me.

I had a cocktail now and felt at ease.  I mingled with the locals, they spoke a strange language.  I went to the Colcci show and lo-and-behold there was a supermodel!  If Gisele Bundchen is comfortable amidst this bizarre land, then so too shall I be!  I wasn't, however, terribly fond of the Colcci collection, save a singular hippy/peasant dress mildly to my liking.  I wore it home that night.

Each day I grew calmer.  On the ninth of January I went to the Juliana Jabour show - highlighted by a psychedelic stained-glass piece - and a Maria Bonita show - a cornucopia of baby-doll dresses.

I didn't like the shows of the tenth and fell into a depression.  I drank heavily that day and attempted to shoot myself with my elephant gun.  I missed and blew a hole in the hotel wall and was forced to find alternate accommodations.  My good humour returned on the eleventh with the Layana Thomaz show, a dramatic ode to yellow sunshine that sprinkled sugar like faerie dust through the air and I happily inhaled it deep into my lungs.

On the final day of Rio, I found an outfit that so inspired me, I shall never dress the same again.  This Ivan Aguilar ensemble is one of the finest I've ever seen.

I left Rio immediately after the show, entombed in Ivan Aguilar, aboard the British Airways flight to London.  I arrived on the thirteenth and departed again from Heathrow for Hong Kong, where I arrived on the fourteenth.

I haven't trusted Hong Kong since 1997 when the United Kingdom handed it over to the Chinese.  The freedom I'd felt in Rio had vanished and I was crippled by fear.  I sought out an opium den - that always worked for my grandfather - but none was to be found.  I went to a fashion show instead.

I stumbled into the Hong Kong Young Fashion Designer's Contest, opium still on my brain and instead got high by the fashion itself.  Michael Lau, who won the contest for Most Innovative Collection and the Party & Evening Wear Prize, thrilled me with his crumpled pseudo-warrior dress and his Germanic leather men's jacket.

I slept solidly that night, too tired to be afraid.  The following day I attended the Supreme Corea Artist fashion show - fear was on my brain once more, they sounded like a cult - I worried they'd be serving Kool-Aid.  They didn't.  The collection went from fanciful - which I liked - to ragamuffin - which I didn't.  I would have preferred the Kool-Aid.

I was much happier with the Peter Lau line, a titillating show that coloured my cheeks red.  I spent the night at a brothel.

When I awoke it was the sixteenth of the month.  I was supposed to be back in Brazil for Sao Paolo Fashion Week.  I bid adieu to the sweet ladies of that ne'er-do-well back alley cathouse and made for the airport.  Luckily, by leaving right away I managed to arrive in Sao Paolo (via Heathrow) prior to the time I left Hong Kong.  Thusly I made the Fause Haten show on time.  What a superb collection!  The use of colour was absolutely sublime, never over-stated even when in your face.  It was genius!

After the final hoorah of the show, I seem to have passed out from exhaustion.  I slept through the shows of the seventeenth and woke on the eighteenth already in the front row of the Gisele Nasser show, elephant gun in my hand.  My eyes were glazed over and all I saw were antlers.  So I fired.

I gave the police a tenner to sooth the whole situation over and went to the Triton show.  I thought perhaps I'd shot myself, because I was in pure heaven!  Both the men's and women's lines showcased a beautifully romantic naiveté.  It reminded me of young love, of Paris, of times long since passed.  It was bliss!

From Heaven to Hell, my Dante's journey was going backwards!  Lino Villaventura frightened me terribly and my woe came back.

I stayed in bed through the nineteenth and drank, cowering under the covers.  I only emerged on the twentieth because I'd been told the Cavalera show was on a boat.  I figured the fresh air could do me some good, but instead was taken into the middle of the Tietê River, one of the most polluted in the world.  The stench was shocking and we were handed masks to cover our noses and mouths.  We were moored and from the boat we saw on the shore the most apocalyptic fashion show ever produced.  It was haunting, models in dour colours, hobo-chic brilliance, traipsing round in Wellies on soiled ground.  I wanted to vomit.

I was close to committing myself.  Thank god for the Neon Fashion Show to cheer me up!  Bathing suits and Lolita glasses.  Fantastic!

And even better was the Ellus line of yellows and pinks - feminine punk.  Margaret Thatcher's England.  I needed heroin.

I don't much know what happened for several days, but somehow I made my flight to Germany.  ‘Twas to the Berlin Fashion Week I was jetting off to.  And though I feared what savagery I might find in Central Europe, I was terribly excited...

By Jeremy Tarr

IF YOU FOUND THIS ARTICLE MILDLY ANNOYING, THIS ONE WILL REALLY IRRITATE YOU: THE FASHION OF THE CHRIST