by Alex Fury .

Vivienne Westwood Red Label

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Yes, I'll admit it - I willingly vaulted a chair in the buyer's stand without a second thought to get a halfway-decent shot of Vivienne's post-show triumphal march (please note Paul Hetherington subtley peeking out of the corner). And that was pretty much what this show was about - the homecoming of La Vivienne, the jewel in our fashion crown. With the entire hall ram-packed to over-capacity, it really didn't matter what she put on the runway: although the saleable, covertable and classically Westwood pieces will no doubt be snapped up by whichever buyer's seat I stole, and the Westwood tradition of headline grabbing was ensured by protest-chic placard carrying models and a bare-breasted finale. Nevertheless, this all seemed like garnish: this show was all about Westwood the woman as opposed to Westwood the label, and the hysteria of her procession could only be compared to the coronation of that other national institution, HRH Elizabeth II. And rightly so. God Save The Queens!

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