Karl Lagerfeld Let's Rip ... Again! ... [Nurse!!!!!]

The Metro periodical was lying open on the workbench of gardener’s greenhouse. He was in the far corner, somewhat preoccupied with pulling off Basil, so had left it unattended. Naturally, one felt drawn to read the words scattered within the pages. As one did, one was flabbergasted at what one read, as one focused in on the typeset! So much so, one had to put one’s binoculars down and sit back in the studded leather captain’s chair of one’s study to reach an acceptable level of damely composure.

"Kate Middleton has a nice silhouette and she is the right girl for that boy (by ‘that boy’ one assumes you mean Prince William, our future King, dear). I like that kind of woman, I like romantic beauties. On the other hand, her sister struggles. I don't like the sister's face. She should only show her back."

One was outraged!

Even the slapping of a member of household staff, as she picked up remnants of Chu Me’s flip-flops from a rough section of the parquet flooring, could one release the pure anger one felt at such a revolting comment about the utterly gorgeous sister of our future queen.

“Who made this comment, Dame Crusty?” One hears you ask.

One’s gag reflex is held at bay as one mentions his name … Karl Lagerfeld.

One acknowledges that this member of the fashion community has been around for … well, goodness … it would seem like centuries (something certainly backed up by the way he dresses; wearing his usual high collar shirts, black suits and thigh length boots … often resembling a 17^th century hooker with a vampire fetish). As for the best sides to be taken from (especially where the rear is concerned), one suspects he speaks from significant experience.

If you are still unsure, picture the same outfit as one has previously described in your mind’s eye; black suit, high collared white shirt (one fancies to hide the turkey-neck at which even Coronation Street’s Audrey Roberts would grimace), thigh high leather boots (and one’s talking heels here), a face with the complexion of a pensioner’s left testicle and with white wiry hair plonked on top of said teste-face (akin to that of the pubic foliage surrounding that very same pensioner’s downstairs area) brushed back into a ponytail. Finish that image off with a pendulous pair of ears, a pair of Mick Jagger-esque lips which haven’t seen lip salve in a month and a pair of sunglasses … et voila! 

That’s right … that’s the one.

Karl dear, you are no oil painting yourself ... if oil was involved, however, one suspects it would be crude.