MADELEINE WEST: 'I walked red carpets for years. One night changed everything.'

I have a confession.

Long, long ago, somewhere between the ages of 20 and 22, before TikTok, back when influencer was a verb not a noun and Andrew was still a Prince. In those dark ages BC (i.e. Before Children), I would literally attend the opening of an envelope. I've always had a yen for stationary, but I'm talking about walking the red carpet.

These days, the closest I get to slipping on high heels is sliding orthotic inserts into my runners, so the very notion of 'glamming up' strikes terror into my heart because you see, dear reader, the red carpet is not just a place where beautiful people strive to outshine each other. It is, in fact, potentially deadly. 

Wearing last season's couture? CANCELLED! 

Work the same frock as a celebrity higher up the food chain? DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT! 

Watch: This or That, red carpet edition with Fashion Critical. Post continues below.

Partake in one too many margaritas and dance on the table, swinging your undies above your head? Well, you might not be physically dead, but your career will be! 

The red carpet is like a poorly constructed condominium: bright, shiny, and sparkly on the outside, but frequently held together with little more than a few well-placed stitches, false eyelash glue, and wishful thinking. 

I recently returned to the corridors of Channel 9 in Sydney to film a segment for A Current Affair. It had been a hot minute since I had graced a glamour department and even longer since someone had offered to iron my shirt for me. But spotting a poster from Underbelly tacked up in the green room, with me, front and centre in a barely there green frock, reminded me of some of my red carpet days gone by and more telling, the red carpet disasters that went with them.

When it comes to fashion, I am clueless. And I don't mean Alicia Silverstone in a cute tartan mini. I mean I have literally NO IDEA and my back catalogue of red carpet catastrophes attests to this. Clearly, when it comes to couture, I should never be left to my own devices.

Image: Instagram/ @msmadswest.

Let's begin at the end.

I think the episode which closed the chapter on my red carpet career was the 2005 Logies Awards when I didn't take home a little gold man, rather a bun in the oven.

Don't get the wrong idea! Plenty of naughtiness goes on after the after-party, but I wasn't making an ingenious play for the following year's Graham Kennedy Award for best new talent by getting up the duff on TV's night of nights.

Rather, it was a red carpet wardrobe malfunction that prompted me to think perhaps I was carrying around a lot more than 10 kilos of silk, taffeta and enough hairspray to close over the hole in the ozone layer.

That night, I was wrapped in a lustrous gold number so glittery and gorgeous it put the prized statuette to shame. The ladies were popping out of the bodice like a sausage escaping its skin, but there was nothing new about that, as anyone who has seen me work a red carpet can attest, with a glorious fishtail design cinched at both the waist and also at the knees.

Image: Getty.

I didn't feel like partaking in the free-flowing grog that night (now that WAS unusual), but within five minutes of arriving, I felt a desperate urge to take a tinkle. Despite eating and drinking little (I'd had some vague nausea for a few weeks…weird), the urge quickly escalated to desperation. Upon a quick trip to the ladies' and a round of 'Dodge this year's reality TV stars', I discovered that the flattering cinch at the knees had been sewn in place. Hence, I could only pull the frock up to my knees and not an inch more. I tried standing on the seat but didn't trust my aim. Should I smuggle a cup into the toilet and attempt to relieve myself by the glass?

However, so great was the urgency, I wasn't sure if once the levee broke, I'd have the pelvic floor fortitude to stop and start between cup-fulls. And what if I was caught? I could only imagine the field day the tabloids would have with that.

Resigned to prolonging my discomfort, I returned to my seat, made chitchat, and was duly called up to present that year's 'Favourite Actor in a Series'. By the time I took the stage, I was fit to burst, and practically hand-balled the award to its recipient (Erik Thompson if memory serves! I'm a huge fan) and hightailed it to the cab rank, running from the venue faster than Trump from speculation of friendship with the aforementioned Andrew Windsor, formerly known as Prince.

I was picking at stitches with a nail file the entire trip home, and once inside, hacked at the fine fabric with a pair of scissors, sending artfully stitched beads and pearls flying as I stormed the bathroom. Something was not right. 

The next morning, I was back in the bathroom trying to steady myself against the sink. Not due to a rampaging hangover, rather due to both the nausea which had crept up on me of late, and shock at the two blue lines which had quickly bloomed on the wee-stick, explaining why I felt so crap. I might not have brought home a Best Actress Logie the night before, but I was about to become a mum….and it would prove to be the best role of my life.

Listen to the entire episode of Mamamia's Nothing To Wear featuring Fashion Critical. Post continues below.

Was I sad to bid my red carpet days 'adieu'? Perhaps a little, but really it was best for all involved. I seem to be allergic to 'classiness' and no more designers needed me taking a wrecking ball to their reputation with my habit of turning any red carpet stroll into a walk of shame.

Besides, I'd had an excellent run.

Feature image: Getty.