They’re screaming, dying, and throwing up on the runway. Two models—Maddy and Charlie—are violently convulsing, thrashing to warped techno. Around them, a crowd of club kids belts out unhinged Addison Rae-“Von Dutch” screeches. Then, the models hurl themselves off the stage, nearly flattening i-D photographer Dorian Day.
It’s just another night in Doll World, a scrappy, DIY fashion-performance collective from Manchester. Founded by the eccentric duo Maddy and Charlie, the group is hellbent on bringing queer fashion-tainment to the North. Tonight’s event, their third so far, is an immersive murder mystery–meets–rave–meets–runway, loosely inspired by 1920s glamour—but with more RAWR than roar. After following them on Instagram for months, I finally decided to see it all for myself.
The venue’s five minutes from my flat—Off the Square, a low-ceilinged sweatbox. At 9 p.m., pounding gabber is already rattling the brickwork, mixed by two DJs with painted sad-clown faces. In a corner, a serious-looking fashion student adjusts a model like a junior Galliano. Another model downs a bottle of Magnum in a jeweled headpiece. Hairspray cans erupt like smoke machines. Duct tape, not safety pins, holds everything together. Think Mighty Boosh, but none of them would get the reference.
Everywhere you look: chaos couture. Blankets as capes, frocks from bedsheets, lace scraps as masks, rugs repurposed as cummerbunds. Blitz Kid makeup. Jewelry shrapnel. If it looks like a bomb went off in a charity shop, that’s because most of it came from one.
Maddy, 23, manages Barnardo’s Vintage in suburban Cheadle. Charlie, 20, her hyper-energetic sidekick, “weaseled her way in” after volunteering. She pulls pints full-time and stitches upcycled looks by night with Maddy and a rotating crew of interns. They’re having the time of their lives.
At the craft stalls, local designers sell Craig-Green-adjacent holey jackets, medieval-style bling, and (of course) homemade bag charms. In the smoking area, I meet a rap collective in matching black suits puffing cigars. One of them, Misfit Donny, has written a track called “Doll World.” Another, Yungprico, nods to the chaos. “We don’t really fit in with this crowd. They don’t fit in with us. But we’re all here raving together. It’s fire.”
Barnardo’s has quietly become a creative hub, drawing in half the Dollz. Maddy’s trying to zhuzh up the UK charity shop image—typically a sea of Mango dresses, chipped frog figurines, and worn-out Fifty Shades paperbacks. Sure, we love the chazza-shop kitsch, but let’s be real: you’d rather be seen at Peckham Car Boot Sale than Sue Ryder.
By 11 p.m., the show kicks off to glitchy beats from hot producer ezek1el. A rabid crowd lines the DIY runway. There are 23 looks. One girl in a bandage top and scribbled-on skirt slut drops, prompting a model in a lace eye mask to shriek, “WE LOVE YOU!” A guy in a leather chestplate reading “murder” parts a sea of camera flashes. A trench coat–clad detective inspects the front row.
This isn’t a runway—it’s a riot. Models kiss, grind, swap spit, fake seizures. The murder mystery narrative is meant to be decoded through their interactions, but I haven’t got a clue. Whodunnit? No idea. Feels like I’ve licked a ketamine key.
It’s messy, yes—but that’s the point. Upcycling isn’t a gimmick here; it’s survival. Manchester may have a strong streetwear scene, but runway-level designers are scarce. Chanel’s Metiers d’Art show last year was the only major one in memory—and local label Drama’s “Posh C*nts” protest tee summed up what most thought of it.
Outside, the smoking area is buzzing with anti-London energy. “So many fashion events in London are overpriced, intimidating, and scary,” says Katie, dressed as “a spiteful Miss Havisham in six-inch heels.” Maddy and Charlie echo it: “People just want a platform,” Maddy says. Charlie adds, “Fashion opportunities up North are basically… PLT.”
But as I push through the sweaty, ecstatic crowd, it hits me: Doll World isn’t just vibes—it’s legit. There’s no pretension, no clout-chasing. Just a beautifully chaotic patchwork of weirdos making fashion fun again, Fantastic Toiles style. “Because we’re not trying to make money, we’re actually free,” says Charlie.
And the killer? As the clock hits midnight, under flickering strobe lights, artist Dat Quang confesses: “BITCH, I KILLED THEM WITH DELICIOUS VEGAN PUSSY!” The crowd erupts. The rave goes on for two more delirious hours. Madchester is back—and it’s more contagious than ever.