What do Bridget Jones, Kylie Jenner and Asako Yuzuki have in common?
A dispatch from the BAFTAs, London’s magical man trees, and notes on the top trend of the season
Greetings! And yes, no, those three have nothing in common, except for the fact they’re all in this edition of the Gauche newsletter. Starting with the youngest of the Kardashian clan: it’s our biggest week yet. Scoops, giggles, gags!
Kylie Jenner’s BAFTA diary*
* (according to Gauche Magazine)
The Day Before…
“Hey you,” texts Timothee. This guy is so poetic! He’s taking me to London today. Well, we’re taking my jet. But still. I love it when he, like, takes the lead, you know?
8:00
I wake up to see Timothee lounging in the hotel’s towelling dressing gown. He’s stroking his moustache and looking softly into the mirror. “Good morning, mon amour,” he says.
9:00
I get a juice and an egg-white omelette. Timothee gets a “Full English”. There is some bean residue in his moustache. I love how European he is!
10:00
Timothee has a full day of press ahead so he’s practising his soundbites in the mirror. “I’m just a humble disciple in the church of Bob” he says. “And then I flew to Minnesota. That’s how committed I was to doing this role justice.” “I wouldn’t have said so myself, but now you mention it I do see the obvious parallels…” It’s so cute how seriously he takes himself!
11:00
My team arrives. We start with skin prep – the most important stage! – using a full set of La Mer Kylie Jenner Skin products. (Ed: not sponsored)
13:00
Kim facetimes me.
“Kanye and Bianca are over!”
“Oh my god! They broke up?”
“No.” she says darkly. “My people have scheduled it for next week.”
I say it’s crazy that he’s like a Nazi now.
“No but Ky, like, seriously, he has always had that vibe. Like when he would make me only wear neutrals, you know? Like, look at this house,” she swings the camera around the white bunker, “the vibes are just like so cringe and fasc, right?”
“Fasc?”
“It’s like a cuter word for fascist. Like momager, you know?”
I say I think it’s kind of got more serious now. Like, it’s about the Jews now as well as neutrals.
“You are so right, Ky.” Kim looks thoughtful. “I should do something about it. Like something major. A law thing. A next level law thing. Like, outlaw fascism, you know?”
“Hmm,” I say, shooing away my stylist.
“Wait, it’s so obvi, I’ll just call Ivanka and get her to sort it! I need to tell her she looked hot at the inauguration anyway.”
15:00
My stylist has brought, like, four-hundred racks of dresses. It’s crazy because I’m really not a materialistic person! These dresses will all have to be burnt tomorrow though. I can’t have someone else wear something I considered wearing, obviously.
“I’m thinking something old,” I tell my stylist. “Like ancient. Because we’re in London. At the BAFTAs. The British… British… the British version of an awards show. I want to respect their heritage.”
“Old.” My stylist says, scratching at the stress rash on her neck. I make a mental note to send her a gift box of Kylie skin care for that – employees are like family to me. “I think I have a 1995 Galliano somewhere here.”
“1995! That’s perfect! Very old-timey vibes.”
“Galliano?” my publicist frowns. “Are we sure–?” Her and my stylist stare each other down. “After the Kanye controversy, might it be sensible to avoid Galliano?”
“It’s, like, so fine,” I say. “Everyone’s forgotten about that.” Also my sideboob looks so fucking hot in this dress.
18:00
I skip the red carpet. I don’t want British people screaming at me.
19:00
I’m escorted inside the fugliest building I’ve ever seen. I feel like I’m back in High School again. Except obviously our school auditorium was nicer than this. Will Smith paid for it so no one would leak that story about Jada’s affair with the basketball coach to the press.
19:30
Timothee slips into the seat next to me. “How was the carpet baby?” I ask.
“Crazy, baby.” He sighs, bumping the matching cartier panther ring I bought him into mine. “It’s exhausting. Those girls outside. Just screaming. For me. It gets mad. Sometimes I think we should just escape. Go hang out in a little cottage somewhere in the French countryside and just, like, read. Maybe I’ll write some so–”
“Hm.” I choke as the lights go down.
20:00
Some old men are singing. I think maybe they won a competition to be here? Like a charity thing. They keep saying they’re having a great day. It’s sweet!
20:05
They’re still singing.
20:30
Oh my god. I’m being abused by a man in a skirt with this, like, feather thing at the front. At first I assumed he was some cool crazy gay, so I just went along with it. But now I realise he doesn’t have that vibe. He’s, like, Irish or something.
He keeps saying I’m a lookalike, like I’m not the real Kylie Jenner. I can’t tell if he’s joking. This is so awkward. I think he thinks I’m, like, actually not Kylie?
I sort of try to laugh. It doesn’t really happen.
I stare into the camera. Deep, deep into the camera lens. I signal with my eyes that I need HELP. That I need a helicopter to come right NOW and take me to Farnborough. That I don’t like it here in the old world. I want to be back in Calabasas where no one makes jokes unless studios pay them to.
20:50
That guy with the big nose just won Timothee’s award. Am I to be the only trophy in his life?
20:51
Maybe I should dump him.
20:52
Wait, fuck. Does this, like, also mean no afterparty?
20:53
This defo means no afterparty.
20:54
Apparently that guy with the big nose’s girlfriend is a fashion designer. Maybe she and Kylie Skin could do a collab.
20:55
Oh, apparently she’s Harvey Weinstein’s ex-wife. Maybe not.
20:56
Or maybe that vibe is, like, kind of back?
20:57
What the fuck is Conclave?
London’s magical man trees, ranked
Art by Amber Sidney Woollett
Bridget Jones bags a hottie in the latest instalment of her franchise when she gets stuck climbing a tree on Hampstead Heath. “It’s the most romantic park in London,” waxed the Financial Times, which is certainly one way of euphemising cruising.
Last year, The Fence eulogised what it called the Hampstead “Fuck Tree” – which is exactly as it sounds. It’s tucked away behind Jack Straw’s Castle in the part of the Heath where you probably wouldn’t end up even if you were actively avoiding a run-in with George Michael. Bridget’s Magical Man Tree is tamer (there are children involved) and in a quainter part of the Heath – but no less of a wingman. It reawakens her desires after several, very dry years. The tree is there as a sexual enabler. A bit of a pimp. A bit of a perv.
London is full of such Magical Man Trees. There are the horse chestnuts in Hyde Park along the Serpentine’s main path; the plane tree on Cheyne Walk opposite Michael Bloomberg’s house; and the late Magical Man Tree in Soho Square that died two years ago, falling right onto Paul McCartney’s offices. (No one was injured.)
Depending on what kind of Adonis you’d like coming to your rescue, we’ve compiled a helpful ranking of the city’s best magical man trees. Get stuck in!
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7. Grimston’s Oak
A beautiful, ancient oak in Epping forest, steeped in history and local lore. Over 350 years old, gnarly, majestic. It’s been a landmark for tree carvings since the 1870s. Great if you like a slow burner.
6. The Shagbark Hickory in Greenwich
Funny name, great big old tree. This one’s straightforward, much like people who live in Greenwich. Simple, charming and quiet – look forward to dates on the DLR with your eligible DILF.
5. The plane tree outside 2 Cheyne Walk
It’s the most handsome and dignified on our list: the prince regent of Magical Man Trees. Neighbours include Mike Bloomberg, Roman Abramovic, and Veere Greney, the interior designer. In need of a few million and a good eye for your renovation? Look no further.
4. Green Island in Victoria Park
For sake of variety, forego tree climbing and fall in the pond instead. Accept early on that your very own Mr Big will be wearing a Carhartt jacket and a beanie instead of a double breasted suit. (If you know you know).
3. The Totteridge yew in Barnet
This is the oldest magical man tree on the list, with some estimates putting it at around 2,000 years of age. That’s about as old as the city itself. The perfect tree to climb if the man you’re trying to attract works in conservation. Or law enforcement.
See also: the Cedar Tree of Lebanon at Forty Hall in Enfield.
2. The horse chestnuts in Hyde Park
Have you ever felt like your destiny was to become a sheik’s wife? Or, one of his many? The trees by the Serpentine are a veritable Mecca for Mayfair’s new aristocracy. Accept early on that any rescue will be handled by a member of staff, setting the tone for your marriage.
1. Every tree in London Fields
‘On the lido side?’
‘No, like - more Pub on the Park.’
‘Wait, I think I see you guys – is someone in an ironic camo baseball cap? And an Aries football scarf?’
‘Yes! We’re waving now!’
‘Oh, I’m not seeing that.’
Much like the friendship group you’re trying to meet, London Fields’ plane trees are entirely homogeneous. You might be forgiven for ascending their branches to get a better view, and you may even find a Creative Director comes to your rescue. Note: he may be more interested in recounting their trip to Tbilisi than helping you down.
You are what you read
Words by Clare St George
I bought a copy of Asako Yuzuki’s Butter on the way home from work. It was on the heftier side – 464 pages – and even as a paperback, slightly more authoritative in dimensions than the other books, its vivid yellow packaging beaming through the Waterstones stacks. I did not pay extra for a carrier bag, so I clutched it on the high street like a Fendi Baguette. Passing Tesco, I remembered that I needed butter to cook with that evening. So I walked down the dairy aisle, Butter in one hand, butter in the other.
I am not the first, nor the last, woman to carry Butter in public. There have been many documented sightings on the London Underground – the city’s main digestive system, and, also, most populous catwalk. Reading, like wired earphones, became cool again after Covid. And like all trends, it quickly became a precarious affair – verging on irony. Grimes loitering with the Communist Manifesto after her divorce with Elon Musk; Kendall Jenner photographing The Year of Magical Thinking on her sun lounger while on a getaway with the Biebers; celebrities often use reading as a PR tool, an indication that they can think critically. As do regular men… by which I mean, white men reading Bell Hooks’ All About Love upside down.
The union between reading and performing falls flaccid in certain hands. You sir, yes you on the Suffragette Line, what are you trying to do here?
What does Butter’s cover signal to other tube passengers, I wonder – besides the fact that you’re part of an ever growing herd? (It really is everywhere.) Its poisonous insect markings in yellow and red and black, its emphasis on verticality, and the implication of slaughter reminds me of the poster for Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill, which I first saw aged three at a Blockbusters. Uma Thurman’s Bride in a deadly bodysuit, rough cut hair, Hattori Hanzo slashing the silver screen, draws from the graphic world of traditional Hong Kong cinema and the legacy of Bruce Lee. On her feet: the yellow Adidas Sambas which have made a stellar return to East London creative wardrobes in recent years.
Thurman was an early glimpse into feminist iconography for me; she seemed to be onto something, even back then, in her Sambas, even when framed with Harvey Weinstein’s Miramax credits and the hideous meanings that they amassed in the time between. I wondered where to place Butter in relation to this.
Butter is a novel about deviant consumption, about women eating when and what and who(!) they shouldn’t. It is about control, consumption, and the underbelly of misogyny in modern Japan. Its reviews take the book at face (cover) value and veer into the ludicrously culinary. ‘Butter will churn your brain and your stomach with panache’ (Pandora Sykes). ‘I will be spoon-feeding Butter to every woman I know’ (Erin Kelly). ‘Butter is a full-fat, Michelin-starred treat’ (The Sunday Times). ‘I devoured this dark and delicious novel' (Imogen Crimp). ‘It'll make your mouth water’ (Irish Independent). Etcetera etcetera. It’s all very Nigella.
Butter is a book to crave, to consume, to indulge in. But the culture of appetite on which it is marketed inextricably hinges on lack – on not having it yet. In other words, Butter thrives on FOMO.
I’d wager the reader’s real stake is in the purchasing of the book, and in displaying their ownership of it, rather than in the actual reading and enjoyment of it. ‘I was so looking forward to it,’ my friend said to me, ‘but I felt quite let down in the end.’ Perhaps that’s one for the Marxist commodity fetishists to unpack.
Butter is not just the top accessory this fashion week, but almost a metaphor for the wider cultural state of play. It stands as the prime example of a marketing manoeuvre that is now standard across cultural industries: the relentless call to consume a popular cultural piece and the promise that our bodies, our intellects, and our emotional worlds (all three!) will be nourished by doing so. See also: Challengers; Babygirl; Eusexua.
If a handful of trendy thirty-something women are saying Butter is a cult-classic worth tasting, must we be seen to sample it too? Carrying Butter around London is to put on a uniform of sorts – the uniform of a certain group who, for want of a better term, are ‘girlies who read on the tube’ (‘girlies’ is gender-neutral). These people are quotidian yet stylish; imaginatively and critically inclined but also with real-life meetings to get to; they are like you, only better.
Beneath the trendiness of Butter’s deportment around the city, I detect a more enduring need expressed in its readership: the impulse to explore how sex/desire can bring us closer to ourselves, and alienate us from ourselves. And how, in a patriarchal world, the (female) body responds to pressures to consume, perform, and be consumed. Reading Butter on the tube is psychogeographic evidence that these questions persist in our daily lives and our commutes. It might be a performance, but as Judith Butler attests in their work on gender, performance ‘constitut[es] the identity it is purported to be.’ To consume art in public is to claim to be something, we just need to ask: what, exactly?
It can be a clutch bag or an Instagram post. Or it can be a book that you can open and stare at while you are listening to the couple breaking up on the tube next to you. At 8am. Rough. What a knob. Maybe I will lend her my copy.