“Dirty stop out” is one of those very British phrases that somehow manages to be both judgmental and affectionate at the same time. You had such a good night you simply… didn’t go home. Morning arrives. Reality hits. “Walk of shame” is what we call the aftermath. Glenn Martens, standing firmly in Diesel-land this afternoon, looked at the brand’s long-running slogan—For Successful Living—and decided it was time to rehab the entire post–all-nighter wardrobe. Honestly? About time.

Speaking before the show, Martens laid it out plainly. You wake up somewhere unfamiliar. No mirror. No plan. You throw something—anything—on and bolt. “Everything is messed up,” he said. But here’s the twist: once you hit the street, you look hot as fuck. Because you own it. You had a great night. You’re glowing from the inside. And suddenly the mess is the point.

The collection opened with what looked like everyday basics—white tank tops, denim jackets, knit twinsets, half-buttoned shirts, button-down skirts—but all of them had been dragged through the night. Tugged. Twisted. Yanked across the body like they’d been slept in, danced in, lived in. And somehow, they looked better for it. There was a free-spirited, slightly unhinged energy that recalled Martens’ Y/Project era—conceptual, but sexy in a very I didn’t try way. Denims were coated in more denim to keep their stiffness, as if they’d been splashed with last night’s cocktails and left to dry where they fell.

Knitwear came embroidered with needlepoint florals; denim was lined with upcycled felt blankets (and then blankets were lined with denim—because why not). Everything gave off that grabbed the nearest thing to cover myself and ran energy. Florals bloomed in strange, brilliant places: embedded into the neckline of a smudged ivory cable cardigan worn over a rib-knit romper; tucked into shirt collars and tank tops; reappearing later, sprouting across stiff quilted wraps. Boyfriend tees and check shirts were layered, twisted, and wrapped into what looked like single, beautifully wrong jumpsuits and dresses. A pale blue silk skirt clung neatly to the ankles—except at the left thigh, where it caught and hitched upward, like it’d snagged mid-escape.

Then came the extras. Velvet-flocked denim. Wraparound mini-shorts. Pantaboots. Pleated dresses that looked like their hems had accidentally been tucked into underwear (we’ve all been there). Patchworked faux-fur coats and gilets pulled from Diesel’s deadstock archives added to the dressed-in-the-dark fantasy. And just when it felt like the chaos had peaked, Martens unleashed what he called “a vomit of color.” Leather, shearling, shirts, pants—painted with the kind of bold, unapologetic brightness that felt almost cartoonish. Flattened-leg jeans and twinset cotton tops were soaked more delicately, splattered in confetti tones.

Those colors echoed the set itself—an anarchic installation built from tens of thousands of props pulled from Diesel shows and parties dating back to the 1980s. The archive, but make it feral. I spent the show being stared down by a stuffed (fake) zebra wearing a hat, surrounded by condoms, a slice of pizza, and a cigarette. Somewhere else: a bed. On it, an apparently empty pig costume, arranged like it had passed out mid-party. Then—during the finale—it stirred. Sat up. Blinked. Looked around with startled cartoon eyes.

Which felt… right. Like the show itself waking up after a very long night. Confused. Slightly unhinged. But absolutely alive.