For AW25, Sinead Gorey looks to the day after the night before, building a collection that is not so much assembled as it is thrown together. Despite an ostensible maturity, Gorey’s girl maintains her nightlife proclivities balancing them with newfound adult responsibilities. Still, old habits die hard.
Rooting itself in an accidental elegance, the offering proposes a way of dressing that only surfaces during the wee hours – a time when the club has closed, the sun is rising and the first train back awaits. Inspired by fellow revellers fashioning themselves for the walk of shame, Gorey enhances that same mish-mashed styling, streamlining the process. The result is an elevated yet no less chaotic vision, marking a new era for the South London-born designer. “I’ve been looking at myself and what I would wear,” says Gorey. “It’s a reflection of the stage I’m at in my life, mixing elements from Sinead Gorey, the brand, and Sinead Gorey, the person.” Somewhere, amidst the thumping basslines and council tax payments emerges a new girl, still buzzing from quite the evening, ready to recoup – KFC delivery in hand and face mask on – as she checks her missed calls.
Halter-neck gowns team with shrouding capes, daily separates get a work-inappropriate spin and, for a sophomore runway appearance, embellished Converse Chuck Taylors merge with stiletto heels. Throughout, a calculated palette moves between shades of steel, meringue, cinnamon and familiar charges of crimson and hot pink, channelling night-bus memories and thirsty Thursday lore.
Office siren staples are sexed up with plunging collars and button-fastened fronts, enhancing their form with handkerchief pleats and intricate panel work. She’s a little corporate, yes, but still down for a good, old-fashioned knees-up. Cotton shirting, seemingly demure, comes rounded at the collars or splayed open, pecked with kiss prints, foretelling the work-hard, play-hard antics to come. As such, hybridity plays a leading part. Suiting – deconstructed between the lapels and sleeveless – joins plaid bottoms, micro skirts and bow-top trench coats, proposing a seamless move from desk to disco.
As the girls who “were only going out for one” can attest, today’s nine-to-fiver is best primed with occasion wear that can be smuggled in a handbag and slipped on at the faintest suggestion of fun. Fire off the last email, grab a KFC snack box and head out, Gorey seems to be telling us. Chainmail, a new venture, takes to the dancefloor, printed with signature Hacienda stripes or backed with a ritzy train and matching balaclava – ideal for skulking in the backseat of an Uber once the music’s stopped. Styling is actively encouraged. Flashy numbers slot naturally beneath Del Boy faux furs – tied across the neck with hungover insouciance – meanwhile cosy, winter macs cover up a lack of undies. Baby mac jackets and knife-pleat minis offer the best of both, carefully incorporating clasp-purse pockets into their very design. Who needs a clutch for the club when your day job get-up already has space for lippy and a 20-deck?
Elsewhere, bubble-gum maxis in flocked wool tartans appear beside tailored bouclé jackets, each trimmed with a recurring Mongolian fringe. Similarly, shearling Daisy Dukes and welt-pocket outers offer the warmth and ass-shaking affinities required for Gorey’s party girl. In keeping with her punk sensibilities, leather bustier dresses buckle across the flank and torso, merging the late noughts biker-and-bodycon combo into one, simple solution. Speaking of old habits, lingerie codes remain, providing cutesy seamless-knit bodysuits, intricate floral netting and trompe l'oeil patterns that marry with digitally printed separates bearing the mementos of a late-night hook-up – lipstick-stained napkin notes and make-up wipes included.
Hazy memories aside, kimono duvet coats and boyfriend tees printed with ‘No Knickers’ slogans cement a well-earned rest – hot wings secured – from what, by all accounts, was quite the night. Sinead Gorey’s woman has undoubtedly grown up, but she’s still just as up for it.
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