Goodbye Big Topshop.
PS. Highstreet, I miss you.
Author’s note: I am fully aware that there are far, far more pressing matters to focus on than the closure of a large retail store owned by an odious man, and much more to grieve than the loss of a shopping destination. My heart goes out to the thousands of people who lost their jobs, and their pensions. I write this piece with a light-heart and a knowing wink, and so as to offer some momentary relief to myself, and hopefully, anyone who reads it.
I bloody love shopping. Not so much the money spending, but the browsing, perusing, day-dreaming part of it. That glorious bit between window-shopping and reaching for your wallet, where it’s all yours to admire, touch and try without any commitment. I have been a shopper since I was a small child, accompanying my grandmother around M&S at Marble Arch. I have been fortunate enough to shop all over the world; I have ghost-written a column called Shop! in The Telegraph; my first blog was called ‘Camilla’s Store’; and I have consulted for brands on their shops. I shop to inspire myself, I shop as self care, I shop to pass time, and I shop to pay the (shopping) bills.
“The Big Topshop”, as the flagship Topshop on Oxford Circus became known, and which was recently announced to be closing, was a cornerstone in my shopping life. When I first started working in London, The Big Topshop became a bit of a haven. I was living on my own, and had yet to establish a proper friendship group. On Sunday mornings, when most of my peers were nursing hangovers and hanging with flatmates, I would drive to Oxford Circus (!) and park for free (!!) on a nearby side street in the early morning quiet. I knew that Topshop opened its doors at 11.00, but couldn’t start trading until 12.00, so I’d spend that hour poring over each rail and making my careful selection. Was I to be “business bling Camilla”, “weekend in Essex Camilla”, or “posh girl does Beyonce Camilla”? At Topshop, I could be any and all of them.
And I wasn’t alone. The 100,000 sq ft site welcomed nearly 10 million visitors a year — only a fraction of whom were long-suffering boyfriends and mums forced to sit on the Bench of Doom beside the changing rooms. The rest, like me, flocked to it as the ultimate fashion destination — the place where a whole new wardrobe, and a whole new you, could be yours for under £100. That’s the crux of it — The Big Topshop had the heft of a luxury department store, combined with the edge of a boutique and the price-point of a high-street shop.
By midday, when the hoards were arriving, I would switch into people-watcher mode. I learnt more about Millennial consumer trends on those Sundays than any insight report could provide. As well as the ebb and flow of fashion styles, I was able to witness shopping decisions, identify tribe attributes and — most interestingly — see the explosion of mobile and social media use in store first-hand. It was a petri dish of human behaviour and I soaked it up like a sponge. A sponge in a brand new, off-the-shoulder polka dot top and oversized gold hoops.
Topshop wasn’t just a platform for culture, it was also a cultural force in its own right. Having dwindled behind the likes of Miss Selfridge, Kookai and Tammy Girl in the 90’s, by the mid-00’s it took centre stage with hit after hit. The Kate Moss Collection, personal shopping, maternity wear and bridal wear all demonstrated a deep understanding of the contemporary customer — fashion-forward women with busy lives who wanted to look banging no matter whether they were in the boardroom or the delivery room.
Beyond product, The Big Topshop experience set the pace for how in-store retail could stand strong against fast-booming online presences. The ground floor became a marketplace of nascent yet adjacent brands, DJ’s were “in the mix” from open til close, and late night shopping on Thursdays felt like something of a warm up before hitting the bright lights and dark corners of Soho. Perhaps most importantly, Topshop positioned itself as a destination for everyone, making it a rare melting pot of class, race and age.
Back in the late 00’s, the links between online and offline, between people and the things they buy, were only just being forged. The technology and the know-how to manipulate, manage and track was under-developed, yet the opportunity was there. Never more so at Topshop, which became one of the first major hubs for a new generation of consumers armed with smart phones, influential digital networks, and ready cash. Almost overnight and entirely unofficially, changing rooms became “selfie” spots, overheard snippets of conversations became tweet fodder, and meeting a friend became broadcasting a Foursquare check-in to thousands of followers. As an emerging strategist and Millennial myself, the chance to translate my weekend sponging into real recommendations for clients was intoxicating and exciting.
The golden shimmer around Topshop lasted for just over a decade. By 2017 it was heavy and battle-scarred from a difficult global expansion, numerous lawsuits, accusations of slave labour, and a feminist pop-up that lasted all of 20 minutes before Philip Green saw it and closed it down. Despite the obvious opportunity, Green refused to invest properly in technology, thereby allowing the likes of ASOS and Net-a-Porter to lure customers away. And, as his poisonous actions and attitude seeped through the company, things quickly went downhill.
Which takes us to today, and a time when all the shops are shut and many, like The Big Topshop, will never re-open. There is something distinctly “uncanny valley” about a highstreet in lockdown with their window displays frozen in time or, worse, empty except for a few hangers lying around like discarded bones on the floor.
We can all name the many people we are missing from our lives, but I am also missing all the people whose names I will never know — those who merge and meld to form hustle and bustle of city life, vibrating with all the signs and semiotics that fuel and inspire me — that help me make sense of the world. I miss seeing people momentarily coalesce around a brand, or individual item before reabsorbing back into the throng. I miss being in it, of it, and watching over it. I miss being part of the city, of society.
So, goodbye Big Topshop and the cultural moments you stood for and represented. You’ll be missed, but you’ll be replaced, and life and shopping will, eventually, go on.
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