The circus comes to town

Four times a year, across two continents, in four countries, through numerous time zones, the British fashion pack schlep their Prada bags and Manolo heels to the ready-to-wear shows in the fashion capitals of the world. New York, London, Milan and this week the final stop, Paris. They are there, as one fashion hack puts it, "to do a job". It’s work, business: the buying, selling and exchanging of ideas.

I love and loathe the shows in equal measure. On the one hand it’s a privilege to be witness to the theatre of it all, a designer’s imagination set to music. And on the other it’s a constant battle against the forces of darkness, namely public relations.

Day 1. Thursday 9 October

Up at 6:30am (yuk). Our team, consisting of Anne Pitcher, buying director, and Coco Chan, our ludicrously talented contemporary buyer and I head to the Dries Van Noten show. He, for me at least, is one of those designers who makes all the hassle, the late nights, endless meetings and jet lag worth while. The clothes are, quite frankly, sublime. Layer upon layer of washed out cottons worn with the sweetest silver flats.

We manage to squeeze in an impromptu meeting with designer Matthew Williamson, who has a lot to say about Scottish fashion. So, when I question him about this so called "new wave" of Scottish Style, he waxes lyrical about how the Scots have always had it in spades.

Day 2. Friday 10 October

As I peer into the bathroom mirror, a cross between Danny de Vito and Barbara Bush stares back at me. That last bottle of Pinot Grigio was not a good idea. I seek certain comfort in the fact that tonight is the Alexander McQueen show and I should be back to my former self.

How do I begin to describe the McQueen show? If you, like me, remember when The Tube started on Channel 4 back in the 80s, you’ll remember it was a shock: a shock of the new, unfettered and irreverent. Well, that was McQueen.

When I finally manage to get through the crowds outside begging for spare tickets, I am shown to my seat by the lovely PR Amie. The show itself is bonkers. I sniffed something was afoot when we received our invites: Damien Hirst-like drug boxes. I am right. The models come on in a whirling dervish of devilish dancing. Indeed, on closer inspection I don’t recognise any of the models at all as they are, in fact, dancers. And boy, do they make those clothes come alive. They twist and turn, and run about manically, just as the pill box invite suggested they would.

Day 3. Saturday 11 October

Today is the Chlo show, and we’re all eager to see if Phoebe Philo can pull it off again. It’s nice to see British talent running such an established French house and doing it so well. I decide, like many students before me, to crash the backstage. In fact, it is quite easy. The place is a buzz of energy and nerves.

All over, hairdressers are beavering away on semi-naked models. I ask Scottish, ber-hairstylist Sam McKnight, a constant fixture back stage at the shows, how he keeps calm amid the nonsense.

"It’s not really an issue for me, I’m not into the antics. It’s probably people showing off." I like his style.

Other models are sat in groups discussing their boyfriends. Lots of them are reading. Well, half reading and half chatting, but it looks as though books are back on the agenda. Last season it was knitting. Does this mean libraries across Scotland will now be filled with bony, chain-smoking models looking for the Slow Readers’ Section? In my day the best place to pull was Habitat. The model uniform certainly hasn’t changed much: the tightest of jeans (spray-on it seems), a knackered T-shirt, no make-up. There’s no point, you’ll only have to take it off again. The ubiquitous bottle of Evian and 20 Camel Lights.

Phoebe didn’t let us down, with an eclectic mix of banana prints and 80s back references. She comes out at the end to genuine applause as a pumped-up version of Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill booms out. I can’t help thinking she wasn’t running anywhere in those heels - five inches no less!

Day 4 Sunday 12 October

For a show that’s supposed to start at 9:30am, I’m sat here twiddling my thumbs at 10:10am. Fashion show schedules are like the static caravan of the holiday world: useless! What is the point? Bored and hot, I engage in that most popular of pastimes, gossip. The latest story doing the rounds comes from the Versace party in Milan. Every season, Donatella Versace hosts the most lavish of parties to celebrate the new season. The great and the good were there, plus more than a sprinkling of celebrities. Both Beyonc Knowles and that plump popster Mariah Carey showed up and, allegedly, as the music started to hot up, so did the dance floor.

Both Beyonc and Mariah were giving it large trying to out-dance each other with x-rated variations on a gyratory theme. Or, for the sake of a decent strap line - engaging in a "double diva dance-off sandwich". And by all accounts, after about an hour, Mariah gave up, stormed off and left the party early. Remember, you heard it here first.

Back to the fashion. Stella McCartney generally shows in the same format every season, to an audience of press, sat to the left of the catwalk, buyers sat to the right, and the photographers cramped in at the far end. In the press section I spy stylist Katie Grand looking effortlessly cool as usual, wearing a vintage black wool coat with jet beading and fur trim. Mark my fashionable words, if Katie’s wearing it now, in six months the rest of the UK will have caught up and we’ll all be raiding Granny’s dressing-up box.

Then, suddenly, the paparazzi go wild, as in walks Paul McCartney and eight months pregnant wife Heather: both smile politely at the cameras while Paul looks protective. Maybe it is the lights, but his hair looks decidedly more tonal by the day.

But, the big question is, what is she wearing? Stella McCartney? The answer is no. Well, not strictly speaking, anyway. Her top I have on good authority was Kooka and the skirt, we have no idea. Her hat, a purple velvet fedora, was from a local milliner. But I can tell you that she did have a Stella jacket strategically draped over one arm. A political statement? Not really. These shows are just too hot - everyone takes off their jackets. Sorry gossip columnists. As Stella comes out at the end, I see her mouth the words "where’s my dad?" Bless.

• Richard Gray is press manager for Harvey Nichols.