I went to my first ever fashion show last night. (I like to do new things, although I will never jump out of a plane.) It was the University of Northampton Graduate Fashion Show 2008, hence my VIP invite. It's quite easy to be a VIP in Northampton. In fact, I was given two VIP invites, which meant I was able to make a round trip out of it, see my parents and take my Mum to the show. This may have been my best impression of a gay man ever: taking my mother to a fashion show. I loved it.

I care little for fashion, and skim past all the endless photos of stupid dresses and stovepipe hats made of peacocks that clog up my newspaper whenever a new "collection" wows them in Milan or Paris or London, firmly convinced that the whole industry is run on equal measures of hot air, rampant capitalism, bourgeois decadence, fascism and fetishism. Also, hey, I don't know if you've noticed this, but all the models are thin, which is an issue itself in our confused world of Fern Britton and Kiera Knightley. Well, as a Fellow of the University of Northampton I am now invited to a calendar-full of functions and seeing the work of the fashion graduates struck me as intriguing. I might, I concluded, learn something. By the way, Bob Harris and Jo Whiley are also honorary Fellows of the University, but I didn't see them there. (At this year's graduation ceremony, The Now Show's Hugh Dennis will join our motley ranks. So I hope to bump into him in the VIP enclosure at the Royal & Derngate Theatre this time next June.)

It's a big night out for the University (they haven't been a University that many years and it's only the second time the show has been at the Derngate), and something of a corporate glad-hander, but this didn't subtract from the crux of the event: the quality and confidence of the students' work. Having never been to a fashion show before in my life, clearly, I have nothing to compare it to. Also, as it's Northampton, I am deeply biased, but the costumes that were stomped up and down the runway for two hours seemed of a very high standard. They were always arresting, often impractical, occasionally arch, immaculately made and, as Vice Chancellor Anne Tate said in her opening address, "cutting edge." (You have to get over yourself at a fashion show and just enjoy the ride. Crying out, "But nobody would actually wear a leather minidress that makes you look like a beachball in real life!" will mark you out as a philistine and an idiot.) Apparently, two of our students were selected for the final catwalk show at Graduate Fashion Week in London's Earls Court, and one of them had a gold leather jacket picked out and worn by Pixie Geldof at this event, which apparently got in Grazia. However, as Anne proudly pointed out, our students were "not commercial enough" to win any of the top awards that week, which she said was "a good thing."

We must remember that Fashion is a course run by the School of the Arts: it is art. It is design and drawing and creativity and self-expression and sticking things to other things and madness, just like the other courses. Certainly, a fashion student has one eye on the industry and getting a job, but one's chances are presumably improved by sticking things to other things and seeing what happens. (Again, I care not for Pixie Geldof, or Grazia, but I was quickly whipped up into partisan pride once I'd had my first glass of watered-down pink wine and soaked up the pre-show atmosphere among the other VIPs.)

It was all very professional, with professional models (except, I suspect, one of the men, who drew big cheers from the studes in the audience every time he marched on - he must have been one of their own), professional hair and professional lights and PA, although somebody might have thought to wipe all the fingermarks off the perspex lectern! It was as I kind of expected: a seemingly endless parade of funny clothes on rake-thin women and pouty men to a pounding disco soundtrack (M.I.A, lots of Daft Punk, and a fantastic dubstep track which I'd love to have recognised and I think accompanied the work of student Charlotte Quigley). There wasn't a collection that didn't have something to recommend it in terms of invention, shock value or simple craftsmanship. Mum and I were sat not quite in the front row seats which Carrie and Samantha and Charlotte and Miranda would occupy (which I was glad about, as you'd spend the whole time looking up the models' skirts), but we were in a good position with a good view and sat next to a friendly chap from one of the event's sponsors, a local firm that supplied the Ethiopian sheepskin for what I considered to be the most outstanding student's work: Huwaida Ahmed [see: above], whose collection was seemingly based on the look of Afghan freedom fighters, all knitted hats and scarves and robes with boots. Imagine if this man becomes famous - I'll be able to claim myself as a fashion talent-spotter in years to come! (I liked the evening dresses, too, and the big bags, and the elaborately frilled cream dresses, but I question the necessity to add actual Davy lamps to the men's workwear collection.)

A word about the female models: what happens to all the breasts and hips that should ordinarily be on their bodies? Where do they go? Why have none of these models got them? Their bodies just go straight down from their necks to their uncomfortable-looking shoes. I'm not daft, I understand how the industry works, and that bodies that looks like gardening implements are better "hangers" for the sorts of funny clothes designers make, but there is something surreal about the whole thing when seen in close-up. These are not dolls or dummies, which is how they look in the photos, they are actual real women, with imperfections and personalities and breath going in and out of their lungs, and they sometimes trip a little bit, and the more times the same models come out, the more you start to recognise individuals among them. But they have bodies that don't actually look as if organs could function inside them. It's quite amazing! I'm not actually criticising the models, by the way - they walked with incredible poise and rhythm and were actually a wonder to watch. This is clearly the way it is in fashion, and it would be odd for Northampton to use non-professional models who looked like women you actually meet in real life. But seeing the whole thing first hand, from Row G, sitting next to my mum, in my hometown, on a Wednesday night, with a man from a sheepskin company on the other side, was an education.

Thanks to the University for inviting me and broadening my mind. (And to Claire for sending through the photos.)

A polite note to the Royal & Derngate Theatre: you have a fine venue there, which is a credit to Northampton, but if you're going to offer a bar and call it a bar, run a bar. I declined the free wine after my first glass of light-pink rose and was directed to the bar where beer was served. I was happy to pay £2.70 for a bottle of Carlsberg - after all, I could have supped gratis rose all night if I'd wanted to be a real ligger, but I chose not to. Carlsberg is a weak and characterless lager, but it is brewed in Northampton, so you can't blame a Northampton bar for stocking it. (You can almost smell the brewery from the Derngate. They probably walk the crates over.) But if a bar chooses not to bother with draft beer and all those pumps and pipes and barrels, it is not strictly running a bar, it is running a series of fridges. And if it is running a series of fridges, it would be best to make them cold enough to keep the beer cold. A lukewarm Carlsberg is not a great night out. (The Derngate is not alone is providing a poor bar service: the Albert Hall's is similarly fridge-based, and they charge a lot more than £2.70 for a bottle of Becks.)

So, now I'm a ballet critic and a fashion correspondent. Is there any area of journalism I can't turn my hand to?