Hotfoot from the fashion houses of London, Milan, Turin, Paris and Madrid revealing their latest haute couture wares, the avant garde designers of Ballykillboghill have stunned the fashion world with their garments for the autumn season.
True, the critics' visit did not pass without incident. Having been booked into Ballykillboghill's most salubrious accommodation - Mrs Murphy's Select Lodgings, Evening Teas, Early Calls for Mass At No Extra Charge, their autobus d'haute couture took the wrong turn in the Glen of Doom, and then became marooned in the Bog of No Hope. Abandoning their transport, the fashion writers, shod in their high-heels and Gucci loafers, had to wade, totter and flounder across the Fen of Much Anguish. Three vanished en route and are feared eaten by natives.
The survivors arrived at Mrs Murphy's accommodation in a state of some disrepair, carrying the frostbitten fashion correspondent from La Tribadiste, on an enchanting denim-rimmed stretcher, with the most exquisite corduroy tassels, and tulle extensions. It was, in fact, at the very cutting edge of stretcherdom.
Dead flies
Mrs Murphy offered them nourishment but, it not being Sunday, and since she had no watercress to tempt them, none of the writers took up her offer. However, they did ask for Badois mineral water, with crushed ice made from distilled water, diced lime, and a dash of essence of melon. Mrs Murphy managed to provide a dozen well-thumb-printed glasses of tapwater, two of which contained dead flies. It was now 5a.m.
The fashion writers retired to bed. Mrs Murphy not having had any guests at all in seven years, the beds felt like mushroom compost. Shortage of accommodation meant there was some doubling-up, and Marie-Claude Quoon, the haute couture critic of Le Doigt de la Branleuse de Lyon found herself sharing a moist little cot with Maria Legova, the burly fashion writer from Pravda Koutoura of Moscow.
Morning found the writers looking rather haggard at the breakfast table, though there was a curious little glint in Mme Quoon's eye. Requests for croissants and fresh orange juice and homeground java coffee were met with some slices of pan, glasses of MiWadi and cups of Nescafe; then the caravan of writers trooped off to the parish-hall, and despite their ordeal to date, they remained optimistic.
For it had been a vintage year. Milan had stunned the world with its plunging neckline and rocketing hemline. The two had met in Turin, where the models wore nothing at all, apart from some Chanel No 5 and a nose-ring apiece. This truly was couture with street-attitude - bracingly back to raw basics, simultaneously at the raw-cutting edge of design, challenging yet reassuring at the same time. London had then revelled in tulle, fishnets, sequins and velvet.
What would Ballykillboghill do to match the great fashion houses of the world?
Lapsang Souchong
First of all, there was an ecumenical service. This was followed by tea which was provided by the ladies of the local Church of Ireland church, under the vigilant eye of Canon Cyril McCorkindale and his wife Heather. A request for Lapsang Souchong seems to have been mistaken for an enquiry for a small dog, which was duly found and dumped on the lap of the correspondent from Les Jambes Akimbo de Marseilles.
The teacups having been collected, the world's great fashion writers, who can close a design house with a single line, sat down for the Ballykillboghill Collection. It began with some tea-cosies, courtesy of the Ballykillboghill Irish Countrywomen's Association. Client-friendly and hugely amiable, these items are at the very cutting-edge of garment-invention. They were daringly modelled by Mabel McFettridge, who carried a tray bearing four teapots sporting different designs. The silence which greeted their appearance spoke volumes.
There was a half-hour delay while Mabel changed, during which the small dog relieved itself in the lap of the fashion correspondent from Denmark, Fitte Tagbladt. Then Mabel reemerged attired in the latest Ballykillboghill swimwear accessories, which included heavy woollen socks, a sou'wester, a navy blue gaberdine and large wellingtons. She sashayed up the catwalk - if waddling like a potato-picker up the gap between two sets of interlinked stacking-chairs can be so described - before whipping off the gaberdine to reveal all.
Artistic tracksuit
"All" turned out to be an ancient blue tracksuit, though some critics praised the ruffled edgings and pleated elasicated anklets, and others saw artistic merit in the dark stains in the underarm area - "enchanting and subtlely-hued reminders of the robust humanity which lies at the heart of haute couture", proclaimed the fashion correspondent for The Guardian.
Ballykillboghill evening wear for this autumn is the very essence of straplessness, as revealed by Mabel's brother Willie John. And what need had Ballykillboghill of Naomi Campbell when it had Canon F. X. Gilhooley to strut his stuff? London might have had Posh Spice, but she more than met her match in Ballykillboghill's Mrs O'Hara of O'Hara's Vintners, Grocers and Undertakers. It is true her corns and her piles have a limiting effect on her catwalk style, but she more than compensates with the way she pulls a pint; and she lays out a corpse something lovely.
It was clear from the critics' ashen faces as they left that they'd never seen the like of Ballykillboghill's fashion morning.
We await their reports with breathless anticipation.