The Lipster

Ooh, and indeed, la la. Here I am in Paris amidst the most ostentatious week of fashion our fair earth has to offer. That’s a weighty statement, I know, but it’s difficult to put into words just how fabulous (I say this with tongue so far in cheek, it’s actually pierced the gum) it all is. Yesterday, for example, driving up to Le Grand Palais on Le Champs Elysees for the Chanel couture show (we knocked back a bottle of Chanel No.5 en route, a la Patsy and Eddie), I had to do a double take at my blue-haired fashion friend because, for a moment, I thought I was in The Devil Wears Prada, and she was, in fact, Meryl Streep. If only.

Anyway, waiting outside this sublime building to enter the show, it was like a real people adaptation of the Animals Of Farthing Wood – there was so. much. fur. See, the couture shows are, essentially, for the clients – ie, the tiny population of the world who actually buy couture, people so rich they literally smell like the Royal Mint. This doesn’t necessarily mean – in fact, very rarely means – tasty celebrities. It’s usually all Botox-stretched 50-something dames who’ve never done a day’s work in their lives, tottering around together in a sea of silly plumages. But, this is Chanel. Not just Chanel, but Chanel couture – and that meant Anna Wintour (oh yes), Claudia Schiffer, Alexandra Shulman, Clemence Poesy and Dita Von Teese were all people I had to (literally) climb over to get to my fifth row seat.

Wintour was resplendent in some sort of vintage Chanel jacket, preying mantis-esque sunglasses, and that shiny bob that makes her look like a little lego woman. But my God, she’s a fierce little lego woman. Like a wired-up Jack Russell guarding its squeaky toy, Queen Vogue sat purse-lipped, surveying her fashion minions, regal in the knowledge that she is Top Dog and that if anyone came close, she’d open that vicious little mouth of hers and bite his or her hand off. Gift bag and all.

Before the show was about to start, and everyone had put their gorgeous gift bags by their ankles (it’s strictly unwritten protocol that one doesn’t look inside one’s gift bag until after the show), in walks Claudia Schiffer. Wafting her way through a sea of camera flashes and jittery journalists, the blonde supermodel was a total femme fatale, waving at people in that Lady Di kind of way. Totally L’Oreal, totally worth it.

The show was based around a totemic (nearly touching the beautiful glass ceiling of Le Palais) faux-stone statue of the classic Chanel jacket, that slowly rotated – housing all the model changes and acting like some sort of divine fashion volcano that spits out beautiful models every few seconds. I am not lying. But it was really spectacular. Big models like Coco Rochas, Iekeline Stange, and Anouk Lupere padded around the circular catwalk, hair coiffured into a big, sticky-up Eraserhead blocks, in a selection of clothes that epitomise the luxury of this fashion house. I hate fashion terminology more than I hate Bobby Davro, so I’ll just say that it was very shiny, very silky, and more indulgent than you could possibly imagine.

Karl Lagerfeld chooses the music for his shows, and he outdid himself this time – blasting out that new Glass Candy record (if you haven’t heard it yet, you’re missing out) which, for 20 minutes, turned Le Grand Palais into some kind of throbbing haute disco. It was very amusing to see, in the show’s finale (which was, incidentally, Lagerfeld holding hands with Devon Aoki in a huge, Princess Leah-like number), Mr Chanel whispering “keep in line” through gritted teeth to the flock of supermodels at his heels. He also missed the door (inside the giant Chanel jacket, obv) to get off the catwalk, which got a few sniggers.

This was one of the craziest spectacles I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a fair few fashion shows. My favourite bits – apart from Anna Wintour and the show, of course - were the goodie bag that was accompanied by a little curtsy from the Chanel person and trying to work out how many different species of animal had been slaughtered for all the fur gillets in the audience. We got to about 10. Oh, and my actual favourite bit was going through the airport-like security gates next to someone who actually was Patsy - in appearance, voice, everything. Upon spotting British Vogue editor, Alexandra Shulman, this fine figure of a woman gobbled “Alex! Oh, Alex sweetheart I didn’t see you there, you look fab.” Shulman completely ignored every word and scuttled off to her seat. Fucking brilliant.