Inside British Vogue

There’s a point in the new BBC documentary where the narrator is in a taxi with British Vogue's Editor-in-Chief Alexandra Schulman.  He’s brought up something on camera that he was asked not to question her about and things go quiet.  There’s a phone call and she leaves abruptly; nobody quite knows what to say.  Bizarrely, someone who teaches Physics, I can relate.

Vogue House is a grand building with an imposing facade tucked behind Regent Street - fortuitous given how on the train I had somehow managed to get blood on the white shirt I had spent hours picking out.  I mean, what on Earth do you wear to lunch at Vogue?  I was in a suit - the best fitting I could muster - and a tie with a hint of purple under a black front, an attempt to not be boring but not knowing how.  An hour to go and I was frantically dabbing all over the front of it in the bathroom of a coffee shop around the corner with damp and disintegrating paper towels.  I remember bizarrely thinking that it would be easier if I were a girl because of the freedom and then decided that was definitely not a thought to share over lunch. 

It had started, bizarrely, at Center Parcs, on a weekend away with my family for my brother’s birthday in February.  I had nothing to read and randomly ended picking up a copy, just to see; I’d never read it before but was intrigued to find out what it was really like.  Flicking through the magazine I came across a single page part-way through that described a ‘Vogue Talent Contest’; the pictures surrounding the copy showed beautiful models and a catwalk so I thumbed idly past it and figured I’d read it later.

Four months later it was July, hot, and I found myself stood inside the lobby of the Vogue offices; the doorman took my bag and gestured I take a seat, I was the first to arrive. Eventually there were eight of us sat on the enormous green leather couch; a Scottish journalism student, a few fashion bloggers, all 16-25 but it transpired that I was only the man.  As we were ushered upstairs for champagne I joked if I were the token boy, I thought it would break the tension but everyone was aghast and told me that they had many male applicants, I was just the only one to have made it. The editors were well briefed and incredibly friendly; we’d sent pictures in advance and so they greeted us by name, it was probably easier for me but they’d clearly been reading what we had written and our little biographies.  Everyone had questions about me being a science teacher, which was odd as to me they had by far the more interesting stories: What was the most interesting photo shoot you've been involved in? Organising the safety certificates for a Lion on an overnight train to a shoot in Africa...but what is it like teaching teenagers? Two people mentioned that I had been the only one to use a curse word in one of my submissions - I looked sheepishly into my champagne flute but the fashion director laughed and said that it was fun to be a little shocking from time to time.

Over lunch we were spread out around an enormous table. Truth be told I had wondered how so many people could sit and eat lunch in an office building, but as I took my seat and turned there was suddenly a wall where I had walked in from, spirited from nowhere and slid quietly into place it was covered with framed black and white photographs of some of the most iconic people of the past hundred years.  I was suddenly very nervous and prodded my salad quietly.

Sat alternately, eight finalists to eight editors and featured writers, they rose between courses and moved two seats along, efficiently trying to talk to as many of us as possible.  I spoke to one very lovely woman about her son who was wanting to study Physics; I disagreed with a young editor about the Chanel show - I had thought it grey and post-apocalyptic, she a contrast of hard edges and cosy; I managed to insert an observation about a particular designer being a little humdrum for it to transpire that she had worn one of his wedding dresses three months ago (and written about it).

While the editors cogitated we were given a tour of the building.  It’s smaller than you would think, with four Conde Nast magazines in the one space.  It’s cleverly arranged and the offices are bright and open plan, but the corridors are different to how you might imagine; they're full of racks of clothes and shoes but the age of the building means they're quite narrow with people squashing to move past each other without damaging something worth two months salary.  We were introduced to the keen interns running the website; stood outside but daren't go into Vanity Fair; smiled politely at the surprisingly casually-dressed staff in GQ who were prepping for a shoot with Brian Cox, everyone turned at looked at me so I stroked an oxblood Hermes tie appreciatively.

We saw the sandwich bar on the third floor, the advertising department making phone-calls to insanely famous designers as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and the big board with the next few months of magazines being put together a page at a time, but it’s the basement that was the highlight of the tour.  The archivist was a young guy who looked like he should have been working upstairs or modelling rather than showing us how the stacks were arranged but we all delved inside the rows and rows of magazines, thousands of them from every Conde Nast publication in all of the different national versions.  I rooted out French Vogue from the month I was born, American Vogue’s issue after September 2001, and the short-lived Men’s Vogue who ranged from George Clooney to Tony Blair on their covers.

At the end of the day I have no idea why none of us suggested taking photos of us outside the building but we all ended up at a little place on Carnaby Street to say goodbye and where I lost my driving licence. A few days later I received a very nice letter through the post on Vogue letter-headed paper thanking me for coming, and in October found my name in the magazine along with the winning piece from the youngest entrant who had sat the AQA GCSE Physics paper three days previously (and didn't want to talk about it), an excellent and witty report of the country show in her village as if it were a runway show.

It was possibly the maddest and most surreal experience of my life, but most especially in having the internationally renowned editor of British Vogue introduce herself, comment on my being a science teacher, and ask me pointedly about the reason for the recent Teachers’ Strike, the inconvenience it causes, and if I had been part of it.  I’d read up on Christopher Bailey at Burberry, the recent autumn/winter collections, what was in that month’s issue, but not how to answer that one.