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March 2004: PAUL SMITH'S DEVIANT'S DIARY - London Bound!
Fellow Buckinghamshire resident Disraeli had the same idea as me when it comes to statistics. We've both found it hard to trust numbers that seem so keen to be manipulated. However, last month I caught myself thinking about stats sensibly while travelling north on the Piccadilly line. As I got closer to Caledonian Road station, I was aware that the average amount of leather being worn around me seemed to be climbing. In general, in any given group of people there should be about X square feet of leather per person. Look around you now. Some shoes. An occasional jacket. Several handbags. On that shaking tube train there was definitely X+Y area of leather on display. By Russell Square Y was considerably greater than X. Had I closed my eyes it would have been easy to imagine I was on a livestock export lorry, heading for Dover. I tried to ignore a couple sitting opposite, especially the lady in her creamy cow-hide thigh boots, PVC microskirt and out-numbered t-shirt as she sluttishy eyed my finest Cherokee couture from Tesco. Instead I speculated that fetishwear would never go out of fashion. I mean, the last time I'd seen a guy in thigh boots in London it was 1645. And I don't mean a quarter-to-five.
Having enjoyed Erotica last November, I was now aboard the love train, heading towards N7 and one of the capitals other kinky craft shows. The London Fetish Fair is held on the first Sunday of every month between 11am and 5pm, in a bar/restaurant called Shillibeers off North Street, about five minutes walk from Caledonian Road tube station. Turning left from the grand brick façade of the station I followed Mr & Mrs Thigh-Boots up the road. I suspected they were going to the show too and I was thankfully right. This is unglamorous London, away from the tourists and postcard sights. The broken glass from an unlucky cars window and a slightly grotty corner shop behind steel bars reminded me of some inner-city truths. The contrast between the exotic looking couple walking in front of me and rust-stained concrete couldn't have been stronger. It was like a Vegas showgirl turning up for the pub-quiz at your local.
On the way into the show I passed some big steel gates, a big steely security guard and on the door I was hand-stamped with what I'll call a cute cat with a bow in her hair, to avoid referring to it as a cartoon pussy. With no more fuss than I feel obliged to make while being separated from a £5 note I was in, surrounded by an Aladdin's cliché of goodies. Kid/sweetshop. Clearly my money had been well spent so far.
February's show consisted of about 35 stands of various bondage, BDSM and sex-toy products, plus several fetish clothing stalls. In the summer this can swell to well over 50 stands, and the overspill moves out into the private courtyard of the bar and an empty industrial unit next door. Sellers regularly come from as far as north Wales and Scotland, and in recent months a company selling adult-babywear made it across the Channel from Belgium to be here. The stock on display today was, perhaps, a little more 'mainstream fetish', if such an oxymoron can be said to exist. Framed prints of artistic rope bondage competed with crops, electro-cock-rings and neck corsets for space. Fashion items such as gothic silver rings shared tabletops with paddles and handcuffs in an orgy of polished wood, spikes and latex. Rows of knobbly 'things' in vivid lollipop colours enticed me up a flight of stairs to one of the venues two raised areas. I pin wheeled from table to table, working through a thickening crowd to admire a diverse range of goods, from intricate leather harnesses to medical speculums (specula?) and even faithful recreations of medieval leg irons.
The visitors to the show were an equally eclectic mix. Young ones (18+ by law), old ones (81+ by enthusiasm for life), tall ones (a 6ft 3" tranny in 7" heels is a thing to behold) and short ones... A well-rounded collection of individuals featuring several obligatory bald men in full-length leather coats (worn at all times, despite the fact the upper decks of the show had become very warm. I know I don't have any hair, but in my defence, I don't have a leather coat either) and several scantily clad corset-wearing honeys. Mixed with these were a broad cross section of vanilla looking people and a couple of pretty, delicate Asian girls you'd never believe were into 'that kind of thing'. One uneasy combination was the marriage of 'bought by my mum' jumper and leather collar and cuffs I saw being worn by another shopper. S&M meets M&S isn't a look that I'd recommend.
After a spot of dinner from what was called the fetish menu - not that I noticed battered sausage, spicy dip or any other suitable witticism on it - I returned to the fray. As I walked into the loos the first thing my eyes fell on was a graceful black stiletto. I did a double take of the MEN sign on the door and was about to say "Excuse me Miss, but I think you're in the wrong toilet", when I noticed that the lady in question was standing to piss. I kept my helpful advice to myself and headed to a cubical. Later, after I'd washed my hands, I met the organiser: Heather, a.k.a. Mistress Hades. She was a striking- even imposing figure in black velvet, but looked as if she'd be just as comfortable in bronze armour, escorting the souls of fallen warriors off to Valhalla for a good hard quaffing. If glittery eye-makeup is discovered to be toxic in years to come, I'll be deeply concerned for her health. I felt a little overawed but her disarming smile soon put me at my ease and we chatted about the seven-year history of the show as she took me on a guided tour. A few personal anecdotes from her time as a committed fetishist and Domme, also cropped up, pardon the pun. One of her many claims to fame is that she appeared in an oft' repeated 1995 episode of Eurotrash. "It'd been a long-held fantasy of mine to be a Zebra", she told me, in an accent which grew up in Massachusetts. "When the striped body-paint went on I found myself mentally transforming into one. Which is when I started with the biting and the kicking…" She went on a naked rampage through the Hertfordshire wood. The episode is forever burnt into my memory for containing the phrase, "There are two sorts of tail. The stick-on type, and the plug-in type…"
Heather's run the show since 2000. It used to be held in an arch under London Bridge, which had the right atmosphere but the wrong support logistics. "The people we hired the site from were a bit… Clubby. They couldn't get their act together to make sure it was clean and tidy for us", Heather explained. Other than venue worries, she's also keen to avoid the kind of products peddled by some big names in the industry. "Cheap 'n' nasty tat", was the phrase she used I think, describing the wares of a well-known chain of furry-love-cuff shops. Certainly her policy of keeping the Fair true to its roots has given it a sense of community. Most of the stallholders are firmly in the lifestyle and the resulting atmosphere is very relaxed and 'club-like', without being cliquey. So long as they're over 17 and respect other visitors, everyone is welcome. There's no dress code (bar the same restrictions on genital nudity that your local shopping centre imposes, I imagine) and Heather was keen to point out the easy access to the majority of the venue for wheelchair users.
As an event, it's less commercial and more exclusive than Erotica. Run by a dedicated organiser and with an environment based on nothing as base as sex or money, but on an ideology. It's a nice gentle introduction to the world of fetish, bondage and BDSM. It's a stepping-stone, a launch pad, a portal. It's a resource. It's not just a shopping trip, it's also a place to be yourself, or try a fantasy persona on for size for an hour or two. Somewhere that Dom isn't short for Dominic and Subs don't have sonar. Topping from the Bottom, I've learnt, isn't a dessert sauce that no one likes on ice cream, and CBT isn't just a test you need to pass to get a motorcycle licence. From a dealer's perspective, the event offers visitors with a clear shopping agenda. It's not the kind of show where a group of lads just looking for a fun day out come. I even made a few purchases myself, for the sake of the thing you understand, and was embarrassed to run out of money (Note to self: Set a budget before going again! Also, the nearest cash point is a long walk away) and ended up part-paying for a ball-gag with postage stamps. I seem to recall they're legal tender, but I've never actually 'spent' any before. Stamps I mean, not ball-gags. Money, in my opinion, should never have a self-adhesive reverse. It's bad enough that sometimes stamps require you to lick the Queen's backside until it becomes sticky.
If your business is about tacky toys, or crotchless panties, mainstream R18 videos and DVDs then the LFF isn't for you. But if you know your tawse from your flogger, then a stand for a refreshingly reasonable £40 and an average customer attendance of 500+ per month might make a visit to www.londonfetishfair.co.uk and a word with Heather (via info@etc.) well worth your while. At last, some statistics that make sound business sense.
Next Month: Why you don't need a licence to sell cancer-causing tobacco products, but you do need a licence to sell erection-causing pornography.
Paul Smith is still free to a good home. Kinky Job offers to info@snapsandbytes.co.uk please.
Around 1650 words on things fetish, Dale :-D
Paul.
Praise for this article:
Well,
I am flabbergasted at what a good article it is!
Thankyou! I actually laughed at several points as well. And considering I have just come from an hilarious evening at Brixton Academy of listening to Peaches sing 'shake your dick, shake your tits' I think that was quite a feat!
I think it was quite fairly and accurately written which is very refreshing. So thankyou for that, and remember my invitation to come back sometime, June and July is usually about the perfect time to get the full buzz of the fair.
thanks again
Heather x