LIZ JONES’S DIARY: In which I realise what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan…

I’m standing outside the Burberry show, held in a marquee in Victoria Park in Hackney*, for the brand’s Autumn/Winter 2024 collection. Already disillusioned because I just got back from a screening of the new John Galliano film.

None of the talking heads were present at his trial. I was there, in the same room where Marie Antoinette was sentenced to the guillotine. Which pretty much sums up fashion. No loyalty.

I’m shivering in my thin clothes. My lace Prada skirt does nothing to block the wind from howling through my nether regions. My Louboutins hurt. No one took my street style photo to post on Instagram.

Oh no, wait a minute, someone just took a picture of my shoes. ‘Oh my God!’ shouts a young woman, who I discover is an American fashion student. “Vintage Loub Shoe Boots!” They are not vintage. I have owned them since new. They are, like me, just old.

I arrived early as always and made friends – or so I thought! – with the burly bouncer. I had to stand in line. As the evening progressed, several non-award-winning fashion editors were tipped off Ubers to take no notice.

They didn’t even look my way. Eventually, two young women emerged with iPads in hand. I staggered towards them, like Dick Emery, with the grass turned to mud. (You can read Anna Wintour’s thoughts: ‘Hackney? Really?’)

‘Hi! I sent an email in December. I’m a big Burberry fan. I’m a little early.’

“What publication do you work for?”

I know I look a little different with shorter hair, but still. ‘The daily email And YOU magazine.’

The young woman pretends to scroll and then says, “You’re not on the list. Can you please step aside?’

I tell her I traveled 500 miles, plus hotel**, to be here. So far I have only ended up in Roksanda, where I had to stand at the back. Trying to take part in Fashion Week is like trying to book a holiday home in Cornwall in mid-August. ‘You can stream the show if you visit our website. Please step aside.”

I’m officially fashion roadkill. There are hundreds of nobodies here. I think of the former face of Burberry Stella Tennant, who committed suicide. I start to cry, and because I’m so tired, my knees are shaking. I don’t want to create a scene, but I mourn my old life as a glossy magazine editor: the cars, the ever-present PA smoothing my path as if I were a player in a curling match. The front row seat. The Amex business card.

I’m officially a fashion roadkill… But oh my god, I want to fit in

My ex-gay best friend*** warned this would happen when I told him I was leaving London Evening Standard to join the Mail – the invitations would dry up. Why is this NFI situation happening? It’s because the Mail‘s writers are beholden to no one: no advertisers, no commission from sales. We are not sycophants. We take into account the hard-earned money of the readers. But oh my god, I want to fit in!

I’m starting to realize what it must be like to be Harry and Meghan. One day you will be the biggest star on earth. Everyone is pleased with your presence, respectfully.

The next moment Michael Bublé ignores you. Did you see that video on social media? Yes! Well, that was me 24 hours earlier, in the fashion cage for the Baftas. Not a single star was transferred to me, not even Cuba Gooding Jr. not (he was led to me one year instead of Kate Winslet, who refuses to talk to me; all

I might think of the question: ‘How long did it take you to get ready?’).

I’m largely sympathetic to Harry in print, as I too am estranged from a sibling. We grew up together, we fought, we shared a house (in Brixton, next door to David, who I fell in love with instantly). Harry flew to his father in an attempt to heal wounds.

On Monday night, rejected by my all-consuming, super-busy career, reduced to less than a zero, told to step aside, I make a decision.

I’m going to drive to Somerset to try to reconcile with my sister, who I haven’t heard from since October 2017. After all, she’s the only one I have left…

*I once had sex in Vicky Park.

**Not on expenses.

***I still miss him. We used to cry with laughter at the ridiculousness of the fashion world, especially at a Puff Daddy party on the Thames.

Jones groans…Which Liz hates this week

  • The frequent texts from my doctor telling me I am eligible for a flu/shingles/Covid shot. Don’t they know I had a facelift?
  • Hotels. Why the dolly-sized products? And why are check-out times getting earlier and earlier? Where I’m staying it’s 10am!
  • Why do taxi drivers (I’m 65) still tilt their rear view mirror to see my legs? Why?

Contact Liz at and stalk her @lizjonesgoddess