“Oh look at her there, swanning around in her lovely frock”
Name: Darius Boots
Occupation: Senior Judge – Australia’s next top model.
I’m in a taxi on my way from the airport, bonded to my seat by the marriage of sweaty clothes and fake leather upholstery. It’s so hot that small animals are in danger of combusting (particularly dehydrated ones, they wouldn’t have a prayer) , and the once freezing bottle of water is threatening to boil over in my hand.
I’m here in Sydney, home to Australians and Irish people looking to piss away a year getting locked. Australia’s Next Top Model has, much like it’s global siblings, become a phenomenon, with throngs of young Aussie ladies lining up around the block for a chance to be ridiculed on TV by “experts”, who claim to know all about ‘fashion” . One such “expert” is Darius Boots. Nicknamed “The Gold Duchess”, possibly because of his wealth, definitely because of his tiara, Boots holds the dreams of so many in his lovely soft hands. I know that they’re soft cause I shake one when I meet him, during a break in filming on the Models set. We sit on folding chairs in the corner, while the crew bustle about. He removes his high heeled converse shoes, custom made, and folds his legs like a yoga ninja. Dance music is played loudly over speakers, but still the hissing is audible.
Hissing. From the swans. Australia’s Next Top Model has gone “Avian Chic(k)”, a phrase that Darius coined himself in two hours. Knowing that I am from Ireland, Boots tells me that Ireland’s recent economic woes became a major catalyst for the show’s new direction.
“Well , it’s like this mate, ever since your country’s gone in the financial dunny, people have had to be careful with their money. They’ve cut back on the luxurys, the second car, the skiing holidays, teeth bleaching, all that stuff. They’ve also had to curb their grocery budget. No more organic cornflakes, no more probiotic chocolate spread. And with loaves of bread, every slice counts. So no one feeds bread to the swans anymore. And Miss Swan, what can she do? She can’t go to a supermarket, she hasn’t got a credit card. Emigration is the only way forward. So they come here, where there’s nice weather and loads of, you know, bread. “
Darius spends the next five minutes on the virtues of using swans as models, their “Poise”, “Elegance”, “Natural confidence in front of a camera” and ”big long bloody necks that look great with or without jewellery”.
“I mean, look at Saoirse over there, he says, pointing to a tall cygnet wearing a cowboy hat and a kimono. “There’s no way anyone should be able to pull that look off, but she makes it...” He pauses to drink from a bottle of Avian (Specially packaged bottles to tie in with the show). “…Work. And it shouldn’t work. American and Japanese cultures brought together in a way that economic rivalries could never allow.”
I ask Darius if there’s a negativity to using swans as models.
“Oh absolutely mate. The biggest problems are with dress straps. No bloody shoulders on swans is there? You put a swan in a strappy dress, I guarantee it’ll come off on the catwalk, and before you know it, she’s trod on the edge of it and gone arse over beak in front of the judges. We had to stop doing any live broadcasts cause of all the tumbles, that and the way that they tend to shit everywhere whether there’s a camera on or not.”
A floor manager sidles up to Darius, tapping his watch.
“Sorry mate, we gotta get filming, nice to meet you.”
I have one more question for Darius, before he returns to the set. I inquire about why his other arm is in a cast, suspended by a leather and diamante sling.
“Oh, that was from Grainne. I commented that she needed to shed some excess feathers, and the bitch hit me with her wing. Who knew that a swan could break your arm?”
Hmm. Everyone knows that.
Pictured: Savannah takes offence when the photographer asks her to stop pouting
