An interest in sport is seen as no bar to intelligent thought, while an interest in fashion is taken as proof of a girly-twirly cotton brain

I have done some terrible things in my time. Back in 1987, my parents took me to a record store for the first time and said I could buy any cassette I wanted. I promptly walked straight past the recently released Sign O’ The Times and Bad and, displaying the sure-footed good taste that would see me through the rest of my life, picked up the eponymous album Tiffany. Never mind all your paeans to Prince’s brilliance, if anyone wants a thousand words on the genius of Tiffany, you know where to come.

Then there are the various interviews I’ve done for this paper where I’ve managed to insult the celebrity right to their face, such as telling Tom Hanks that I hadn’t seen Cloud Atlas because “no one” had. “You really should see it,” Hanks chided me and, let me tell you, being reprimanded by Hanks is like being told off by a bald eagle, Mount Rushmore, democracy and all that is good about America rolled together.

But of all the terrible things I’ve done, there is no question what is widely deemed to be the worst: working in fashion. I spent eight years on the Guardian’s fashion desk, starting as the fashion assistant back in 2000. My God, it was fun. I still can’t believe my luck that I got such a jammy job at 21, one that allowed me to find my writing voice and work with so many smart, ambitious women.

It wasn’t until I moved over to the features desk in 2008 that I realised a certain type of person would now use my first job as evidence that everything I’d write thereafter could and should be disregarded. Over the past eight years, hundreds, maybe even thousands of wits have both emailed me or left a comment below the line dismissing me as “the fashion girl” or telling me to “go back to shoe shopping”. I’ve had snarky comments about fashion from teenagers, academics, even other journalists, suggesting the movie Spotlight might have painted a rather rosy view of my profession. But one thing unites them: do you really need me to tell you they’re all men?

This idea that fashion is fair game for accusations of idiocy has long intrigued me. When, earlier this month, the Guardian looked at which kinds of journalism attract the most blocked comments, fashion was number one – more than world news – proving definitively that readers find dresses more upsetting than, say, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

All the justified criticisms people make of the fashion industry – the high prices, the unrealistic body shapes – could equally be levelled at sport. But I have yet to hear anyone, ever, making fun of (predominantly male) sports writers the way they do about (predominantly female) fashion writers. There is absolutely no argument to be made that sport is more cerebral than fashion – indeed, one could argue that kicking a ball around is a great deal less cerebral – but an interest in sport is seen as no bar to intelligent thought, while an interest in fashion is taken as proof of a girly-twirly cotton brain. Dozens of straight men over the years have told me how much they love The Devil Wears Prada. It seems to be the straight man’s approved romcom – and this doesn’t surprise me, because the whole point of that film is to mock female fashion journalists.

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One of the reasons I loved writing about fashion is that there was always something new to write about. There were its flaws, for sure, which I enjoyed writing about perhaps too much, seeing as I ended up getting banned from half a dozen fashion shows. But there was also the way it bled into so many other things: photography, music, art. Most of all, I loved to write about the way people – from teenagers on a Saturday afternoon to politicians – use fashion to send a message about themselves.

Fashion, at its best, is about (mainly female) self-expression, which is why, when people try to use it to put me down, I express myself pretty damned freely. Nice try, dudes, but you’re messing with a Tiffany fan. Don’t even start.