On Tanya Gold

Claimed by some to be the new Charile Brooker, Tanya Gold has a habit of writing hilarious and sarcastic articles lampooning aspects of society. Here is today's effort from The Guardian:

Two remarkable examples of evil have drifted past my eyeballs this week, and made them bleed, and so, dear reader, they must be shared with you.

First – fling your flat caps into the air and whoop – is the Tatler "most invited" list, a collection of the people the employees at the "society bible" (it's an oxymoron) have fantasised are "popular", while lying on the carpet after another too-long night at Boujis. It's very random, which makes me think it is all made up, like the Vanity Fair best-dressed list, which always includes some of the magazine's employees and, sometimes, its furnishings. As in "Vanity Fair spoon. Doesn't talk much. Once sat in Barack Obama's mouth, while wearing ice-cream."

I don't trust the methodology of the Tatler most invited list. If I were compiling the Tatler most invited list, I would take Elton John and David Furnish hostage, and make them show me their invitations at the point of a diamante-clad shotgun. Then I would weigh them, leave, take Elle Macpherson hostage, slap her, and repeat.

But this isn't Tatler's way. Each "most invited" person gets a name, a number and a little precis of why they have been included. And so, Sarah Brown (No 2 on the list) is "chillaxing with Paris Hilton in LA". I bet she isn't; anyone who considers Gordon Brown good company is not going to enjoy Paris Hilton, and vice versa.

It is also weirdly informative. Lady Antonia Fraser (No 7) mustn't be asked "to anything in early October". Why not? "It's when she mourns the anniversary of the execution of Marie Antoinette". Then there is the Tatler most invited list as aid for aspiring bulimics. You should, apparently, invite David Cameron (he's No 8), to get "right on with the Right On". That is a phrase so repulsive I actually just vomited on my computer. And, if you invite Princess Beatrice (No 18) "don't forget to make space for the security team too". The computer is now buried under vomit.

I think I love the Tatler most invited list because its existence presupposes the existence of a Tatler least invited list, written in the same cloying, gnashing style, like a very big tongue licking its way up a chocolate eclair. As in – "At No 4, Dennis Nilsen. Shy north London boy. Boils heads. Often to be found on Twitter typing, 'I did the bad thing again.' At No 5, Pazuzu. Demon spirit made famous by Exorcist movies. Immortal, so ask him for his skincare tips."

On and on, typing gamely through the vomit, I can also tell you that Trinny Woodall (No 36) appears for the very bizarre reason that people want to see "how big her lips are". And, finally, there is someone called "Dangerous" Dave Hanbury (No 86, NEW ENTRY) who is currently "recovering from being bitten by a tramp".

And so on to Evil Event Part Two – a belated report from the Paris couture shows by me, a woman who dresses like a breeze block and describes her own personal style as "half Bolshevik, half handbag". Couture week is where very young, thin women model £50,000 outfits for women who are less young, and less thin. The customers cannot buy the bodies – not legal – and so they buy the clothes, sewn by seamstresses for a pittance.

Paris couture week is also the only place on earth where people actually clap dresses. I think you have to be a moron to clap dresses, or at least so rich you can be classified as mentally ill. And the clothes are very odd, as if normal clothes – clothes that actually look like clothes – cannot justify the price. "For £50,000 we want something really special," the customers must say. "Make me an outfit that a potato masher would wear to the opera after a divorce."

And they try – how they try – to make clothes that are not clothes. Jean Paul Gaultier features a model with a net on her head. The net has a hole in it, so it looks as if she is peering out of a window at a view from which all the poor people have been removed. Then he does a silver basque with a feathered skirt, so the poor scrawny woman looks like a chicken being slowly removed from a tin can, as a precis to being stir-fried. Givenchy has a similar idea. He has a woman in black with a leathery skirt. The general impression is of a snake glued to a paint pot.

The Chanel collection is the work of the German designer Karl Lagerfeld. I find Lagerfeld fascinating, because he has had so much plastic surgery he looks like a Transformer – "Robots in Disguise!" He has put his women in little Darth Vader hats. His next model, I am absolutely certain, is wearing a B&Q bracket. Another woman seemed to be completely covered in eyeballs.

For 2009, Christian Lacroix has done bats. Every model is dressed as a bat. A very expensive bat. Valentino has also done bats. One of the bats seems to be wearing a tyre. Other bats are obese. They look terrifying. Even the brides look terrifying.

At Lacroix (which has reportedly filed for voluntary bankruptcy), fashionseems to have finally reached its murderous zenith. The models actually look dead, and, one day, I predict, there will be corpses on the catwalk. It is a philosophical certainty – because couture is all about making the "clothes" look good. Dead people can wear anything.

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Even after reading that, I found my therapy session difficult. The psychologist (who from now on will be known as Sionna) had picked up on the difficulties I had at school so she pressed me to recall some of my experiences. At times I felt like I was close to tears as recalled the details and with them came the concomitant sensations of shame and self-disgust. It was stressful and I did not really want to have to talk about such events. I keep on telling myself this is what therapy is like although a part of me wants to not return next week.