Starry Night: Inside Kylie's hot pants

0 Comments | Sunday Mirror, Dec 1, 2002 | by Anne Celine Jaeger

It's with this in mind that I wrench my body into a leather corset and skirt, don a hideous Village People-style cap and do up the laces on my heels which require double-sided tape to stay in place (try walking with shoes sellotaped to your leg).

But rather than head for the red light district in Soho, where I'd fit in nicely, I make my way towards Quod, a posh restaurant in Haymarket. Oddly, nobody shouts, 'Look it's Britney!' when I enter. One woman, however, practically elbows her beau off the table, saying, 'Honey, look what just walked in. You have got to turn around.' She continues with her What Not To Wear commentary, 'She almost pulls it off. But that hat is a disaster.' And so on.

Two City workers are the only ones who seem to be smiling, so I take a seat next to them. 'You look great,' says one of them. 'But I'd never let my wife wear that. Well, I'd let her wear it in the house, but I'd never let her out like that.' Unsure as to whether they think I'm touting for customers, I make my excuses and head to the loo.

Liz Hurley's leg flashing dress

After the other outfits, the Hurley number seems like a piece of cake - or so I think. It's not until I'm in the dress that I realise I've, erm, made a bit of a boob. My decolletage practically meets the slit on the leg to form one big crevasse. But a strip or two of tit tape later, and my apples are sitting pretty.

The shoes are even scarier. A mile high, they make me realise why female celebs always have a man on their arm. It's not that they're constantly in love, it's because they need someone to help them walk. A human crutch, in fact. Because I am without a man, my strut is more of a teeter, but for the first time all night, I feel rather sexy.

And it shows. Before I even have a chance to hail one, a black cab pulls up and the driver purrs, 'Where to, madam?' I figure I'll get some good reactions in the City boy hangout Sports Bar, so I direct him there. But sadly, the men are more interested in the Wigan vs Man City round-up on telly than copping a look at my wares. The Dionysus Kebab shop, on the other hand, is a whole different story. As soon as my diamante sandals hit the greasy floor, eight Greek waiters are fighting to serve me. 'Hello madam,' says the first one. 'You have nice legs, nice outfit. How much you pay for that dress - pounds 10,000? Oh mama, you look delicious.'

And before I can place my order, he comes out with the magic words: 'Are you famous? What you famous for?' OK, so he's not exactly asking me for an autograph, but at least he thinks I must be someone. I decide to call it a night on this high note and get changed. As I emerge from the toilets in cargo pants and trainers, my new best friend in the paper hat shouts, 'Excuse me madam, before you look beautiful. Now I don't like you no more.'

Ah, it's a fickle world, this celebrity business. One minute they love you, the next it's all over. And one outfit can make or break a career. But besides the orange-size swelling on the ball of my foot (what's wrong with wearing Birkenstocks to a premiere, ladies?) and the cold I caught from standing around in little bits of stretchy nothing, you could say the evening was a success. For once, I didn't have to wave cash around or stand on my tip-toes in order to be served at the bar. Nevertheless, I think I might wait until I hit the big time before I venture out in celebrity threads again.