OK, hold the front page, it's turned brilliant here. No time to bang on now as back out into it. Just come from Prada, where hung on to my time as it ticked on my Frank* as was supposed to be going Geneva on a train. Aborted on instinct and stayed and waited in the Prada concrete 'car-park' space. It was worth it.

The Prada bunker on Via Fogazzaro was decked out with a giant rug based on modernist rug design with odd contraptions hanging from the ceiling. We sat round the outside. The odd contraptions lit up and the show started. It was a  spectacle. Sort of imperial and noble, grey overcoats with almost white tie references to the collars on shirts. Pre-revolution Russian court wear, or something.  It was properly dignified man-suave. There was loads of it, marching past to the ominous sound of the classical music from The Cook, The Thief... It carried on, it stayed strong.

Incredible grand tailored coats and high fastening suits featured Prada's signature leftfield nuances and oddities. Stately stuff. Then Tim Roth bowled out. Much applause. Then Willem Dafoe looking utterly brilliant. A tall dark hair fella (possibly Adrian Brody) was followed by Gary Oldman, looking like a driven military head Don of the University of Elegant-Serious.

This whole show stance bodes very positive for older styler fellas. Prada sent out mature models along with the younger lads, as well as the actors.

There was one daft young bloke modelling and doing sort of flaily hand movements at the end. He looked ridiculous and sort of spoilt the immaculate vista. Hope Miuccia had him horse whipped out the back.  That's all can say for now, back out into the fray. Stuck in Milan for the night.

Some mad other stuff to report. Hold tight.

Stubbs out.

*Muller, watch.

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