I am both a domestic goddess and a woman of business; I love to maximise my time by watching telly while completing any given task. Thus, while making a plum crumble for Easter, I took it upon myself to celebrate the resurrection of Christ by watching the BBC documentary ‘The Mysterious Mr Lagerfeld’. I emerged plummy and enraptured, but not by Karl. Oh no. By his bitch cat Choupette.
Now Choupette doesn’t need to do anything at Easter. Choupette herself is a gift. Choupette was such a delight to Karl (and apparently the world – she has marketing deals) that he stole her.
The documentary reveals that Batiste – a friend, model, and one of Lagerfeld’s muses – gave his cat to Karl to care for while he was on holiday. Karl looked after the cat and, remarkably, didn’t contact Batiste. After three days of silence, Batiste called Karl and they had a conversation in which Karl made himself very clear. He adored Choupette. “Now she’s mine”, he said.
In general, I am not very understanding of people’s anthropomorphic affection for their pets. However I am even less understanding of Karl’s insane level of affection for Choupette. She is the only way Lagerfeld showed weakness and affection, blah blah, but she is described in such a SASSY way that makes me want to Seriously Jest.
Karl describes her as a BEAUTIFUL cat with JASMINE eyes and GORGEOUS thick white fur. I will insert his words here, for they display his imaginative adoration without compare.
Pray, make your internal reading voice French:
“you have to see her, you would fall instantly in love with her, because she is unbelievable, these huge sapphire eyes, very coquette, she is over groomed, and everything, she is like a chic lady, like a kept woman, with her personal maid.”
You see my point. If one did not know better, one could imagine that Karl was doing very sophisticated Depop advertising. Will Choupette next tackle gorp core? Office siren? Bloke core? What’s next after Coquette Choupette?
So, from this description, Choupette seems pretty damn gorgeous. Such beauty, from Karl’s description, excites the imagination to project onto Choupette many lives (maid, kept woman, lady) that far exceed her litter tray. But when you see this cat and look deep into those Stunning Jasmine Eyes™ you see a cat who looks absolutely baffled. Like it just shat itself.
Derrida could say much about the consciousness of this cat. The cat has cover shoots. The cat was the inspiration for Doja Cat’s 2023 Met Gala look. The cat has merch, a nanny, and an agent, yet is very clearly just an abnormally gorgeous, very normal cat, implanted into the life of a famous human.
Now I don’t know much about cats, but Choupette seems to be a fairly bog standard one in psychological terms – she seems to be flummoxed AND unbothered AND sophisticated. She appears to have nothing behind the eyes – because she’s a cat. But I will say this. If (and it’s a heavy “if”) she does have something behind the eyes, it is not open hearted and glowing. It is pure bitch. (Chatte, if you will.)
I will not say complicated things like Derrida. Instead, I will bitch about a cat. Here is my imagined life of Choupette.
A Day in the Life of Choupette
05:00 am: I wake. I pad over to my nanny’s room, where she is lying on her front, snoring heavily. I piss next to the bedside table. I don’t really need to, but I think why the fuck not. Back to bed.
08:30 am: I am woken by my bitch nanny who puts my tuna steak down too heavily. Have some respect. I sulk for enough time to be obvious. I devour the tuna steak, making sure to leave some slobber on the floor for my nanny to clean up. She could do with the exertion. From the look of her figure in that dressing gown, it’s clear she doesn’t know that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. Back to bed.
09:37 am: Up and about, mooching. Roll about on the rug to increase fur volume. Brush my fur at my brushing station. Have Selling Sunset on in the background. I am literally so gorgeous. Volume and shine. John Frieda, see me and weep.
10:46 am: People literally love me sooo much. Correct! I think of how I have risen to fame by people’s sheer love for me. I think of how fickle the heart is. I reflect on pretty privilege. I conclude that it is a terrific system of achievement, and other people should just be hotter. My nanny has something to learn. I hiss at my chef, who looks particularly lumpy in that fuschia blouse.
10:58 am: Found more disgusting things. Found this scarf with a big H on, fairly gross. Have destroyed it. Tasted good.
11:07 am: Communicate to my nanny that she lacks that je ne sais quoi by punching her repeatedly in her fat arse with my paw.
11:09 am: I return to the brushing station. God this stuff is good. I am unfathomably gorgeous.
11:30 am: More tuna arrives. I eat it.
12:00 pm: My nanny calls me for my 30 minutes daily grieving of Karl. Who’s Karl, I miaow. Give me more fish.
12:31 pm: Spend time on Instagram. A stupid ugly cat on reels is sat in a tupperware with curry in and has turned yellow. Some bitches don’t know that beauty is power, and now their power is corrupt with Jalfrezi.
12:42 pm: Still on Insta. I see Doja Cat has dressed as me. Am I a joke to you? She looks good though. Obvs not as good as me. Clearly she’s pretty enough (thus clever enough) to not sit in a Jalfrezi.
12:59 pm: I think of sphinxes. I think, go to Turkey. I think, can’t you afford it? At least get some rosemary oil.
14:00 pm: People have arrived. Someone shows me a picture of me wearing a red headscarf in a car. It says VOGUE FRANCE across the top. I look stupid. I claw it and rip a hole in the image. Everyone says Awww. I claw more.
14:10 pm: I eat more shoes because, as I have been told, I am a superstar.
14:14 pm: A man walks across to me. He is crying, which is crass. He is getting nearer, crying, with his arms out, saying “Karl loved you so”. I am thinking who is this Karl. I am thinking, does he want my tuna steaks? I hiss and run.
14:58 pm: I wish I could go back through Janine’s cat flap. I am locked in my cage, my apartment, my ivory tower. All I want is to roam; I think of watching a YouTube karaoke version of Memory so I can howl it to the street cats should my fame die, but then I remember that Dior wants me to be the new ambassador for J’adore, and I eat a biscuit.
15:30 pm: Chill in my bed. Nap. I wake up to my nanny taking pics of me. Apparently it is “literally so cute” when I shut my eyes because it is all just fur. Like a cloud, apparently. Again, am I a joke? I think fuck off. I bite her ankle. She lacks tact.
15:42 pm: More Selling Sunset. Spirits are picking up now.
16:00 pm: My body remains a temple. Running out of tuna steaks though.
17:05 pm: More people come in. They are arguing about who I belong to, and pointing at me. I perk up. Obviously I belong to me. I mooched my way to the top. They say I am worth three million euros, I think – pah. My nose alone is worth two. And my arse? Well…
17:30 pm: The last supper. Nanny gives me a tuna steak but once she goes to her room, I eat three packets of oreos, a potato salad, and a blancmange. Nanny doesn’t need it. I am doing her a favour. I feast undetected and return to my cocoon bed for an evening of hard TV bingeing before beauty sleep.
21:19 pm: I cave. I watch the Memory YouTube video and learn the words. It could be useful one day.
The End
Such is the life of a diva. As the documentary says, “she’s always thinking about her next move”. Without doubt, one cannot know what Choupette thinks – if she thinks – but it is highly likely that her next move will be to the Fridge of Hypocrisy. Choupette sleeps, but a bitch will always rise again tomorrow. Another day awaits of stardom, gorgeousness and punching.