It’s all over! The athletes have gone home (except the ones who actually live here) and the post-Olympic hangover has begun. WTF arrived home from holiday in time to see the awesome Mo Farrah win his second gold medal and the glorious Usain Bolt win his third and also watched a bit of the more obscure sports like the 50 km race walk. What sort of weird little boy turns to his parents and says “When I grow up, I want to be a 50 km race walker”? What is that all about? Their hips must be absolutely shot. On the Sunday, WTF and friends settled down to watch the Closing Ceremony. Like the curate’s egg, it was good in parts. The good parts included the fantastic Damien Hirst flag design, the amazing lighting, George Michael (if he had stuck to just to the first song), Ed Sheeran with Pink Floyd, Jessie J (outfits apart) and the absence of Sir Paul McCartney. The bad parts included hordes of pointless dancers dressed as liquorice allsorts, the inordinate length of it all (Mo could have run up to Glasgow by the time it finished), Jessie J’s outfits and the presence of various clapped out has-beens who have now made it onto WTF’s list of Stars Who Should Be Made To Stay Indoors. The roll of dishonour features The Pet Shop Boys (dressed in black Ku Klux Klan hats and singing flat), Madness (looking good but sounding terrible) and a demented looking Annie Lennox, (inexplicably looking like an extra from the Pirates of the Carribean and wailing like a banshee). WTF is willing to make an exception for Ray Davies. Although his voice was on the thin side, he sang with a lot of expression and he has a wonderful face. There is another exception to be made for The Who, who still know how to belt it out, despite having a collective age of about 340.
And then we come to the much-heralded reunion of the Spice Girls, sadly sounding like scalded cats. If there was a criminal offence of Grievous Auditary Harm, they would now be doing time in Holloway Prison. Readers may recall that when the US troops attempted to lure General Noriega out of his Panamanian bolthole in 1988, they resorted to playing Van Halen at full volume until he could stand it no longer and came out begging for mercy with his hands over his ears. Frankly, after half an hour of the Spice Girls shouting the lyrics to Spice Up Your Life, you could persuade anyone, anywhere, to surrender, no matter what heinous crime had been committed. And then there was Mel B committing Grievous Visual Harm in her sparkling condom.
This diamanté minge mania must end. First Jennifer Lopez, then Katy Perry and now Mel B. How can I put this politely? Mel is too busty to carry this off. Jessie J also looked silly in her flesh coloured condoms (yawn, yawn, Vivienne Westwood, shame on you), but at least she didn’t look like a pole dancer in a Bradford girlie bar. By the way, did anyone notice Victoria Beckham actually doing any singing? Pouting, yes. Posturing, definitely. Posing in her (rather nice) Giles Deacon frock, certainly. But singing? Worse still was the fact that their cacophony provoked Boris Johnson dancing like Balloo the Bear, his thumbs erect. It was so embarassing that WTF considered seeking refuge behind the sofa. David Cameron’s “dad-dancing” was no better, not that he was dancing as such any more than Victoria was singing. He was just sort of clapping his hands and bobbing about like a seal. It was bad. This man has his finger on the nuclear button, for Heaven’s sake. We have just spent £9bn to try and improve Britain’s image abroad and our morale at home and on the whole it seems to have worked save for London’s cabbies, shopkeepers and restaurateurs, all of whom are busy self-harming and avoiding calls from their bank managers. And then our PM, aided and abetted by the Mayor of London, almost chucked it all away before the Olympic Flame had even been extinguished. As Boris would say, yikes.
Let us cross the Atlantic to visit our Z lister of this week in the buxom form of Coco Austin, (real names Nicole Natalie Austin, now Marrow), seen here with her husband Ice T (real name Tracy Marrow).
Ice T was a rapper and is now in one of WTF’s favourite TV shows, Special Victims’ Unit, as moody-but-decent Detective Fin Tutuola. His wife’s claims to fame are her enormous breasts and her even larger bottom. Together (that is Coco and Ice T, not Coco’s breasts and bottom, although they are there too) they appear on a reality TV show called Ice Loves Coco. Nowadays, it is almost impossible to open any publication without seeing a picture of Mrs Marrow flaunting her ample assets. Perhaps surprisingly, Coco vehemently denies having had any cosmetic procedures and even underwent an on-air ultrasound conducted by a Dr Ordon to prove that her butt was 100% her own. Dr Ordon endorsed this claim, whereupon every cosmetic surgeon between here and Alaska then popped up to give his or her expert opinion on Dr Ordon’s expert opinion. Anyway last week Coco and Ice T turned up at an Eminem concert in New York, Coco wearing a teeshirt about four sizes too small, some sort of waspie belt and striped cycling shorts showcasing her cameltoe. How Coco manages to walk at all without toppling forwards is a problem that would have had Sir Isaac Newton scratching his head and playing with his abacus.
Next up, Halle Berry. Keep scrolling down because she looks fine until you get to her knees. Here is a golden rule. If it looks bad on a gorgeous film star, it is really bad. And this is really bad. WTF cannot understand why an adult would walk around in public wearing a giant nappy. On the plus side, the whole family is mega cute, especially the kiddie.
Let us next consider Lindsay Lohan, looking as rough as a bear’s arse at will.i.am’s wrap party.
Oh dear. Lindsay seems to have lost her skirt as well as her senses. The shirt thing, all slithery satin, Roy Rogers fringing and peek-a-boo tits, is just plain nasty and the magenta lipstick clashes with her hair. And the legs! Speckled like a hen! WTF is also worried about Lindsay’s underwear, to whit whether she is wearing any.
And so to this week’s edition of The Emperor’s New Clothes, featuring French footballer Djibril Cissé, now plying his trade for Queen’s Park Rangers, out and about in London dressed in £1100 worth of Givenchy.
Djibril has had a chequered history, including two police cautions for common assault. One was on a 15 year old boy and the other was on his pregnant wife Jude. Despite this, they are still together after 7 years. WTF cherishes fond memories of a Come Dine with Me Special in which various WAGs had to cook each other dinner. Jude messed up her pudding and was forced to reach for a sachet of Angel Delight. Having asked Djibril for the French translation, she served it her guests as “Delice des Anges”. Anyway, here is Djibril celebrating his birthday at Whisky Mist and looking like a knob. WTF doesn’t mind a man in a skirt, but his sweater and kilt combo, saggy leggings and chunky man-jewellery make him look like a butch Beefeater, and not in a good way.
We end with Stylists Who Need to Go to Specsavers. Here is stylist Misha Janette, who is based in Toyko. Brace yourselves…… this is not good.
This was the Japanese launch of Lady Gaga’s new perfume, and WTF understands that Misha had to up the ante a little. After all, Lady G likes to make a splash. Nevertheless, this is the most preposterous outfit since the Academy Awards in 2001 when Bjork dressed as a swan. And at least the swan was a well-behaved swan. It just sat quietly around her neck. Whatever the hell this thing is supposed to be, it appears to be groping Misha’s intimate bits, raising two of its fingers to the camera and giving everyone the evil eye in a sub-Magritte sort of way. Let us not even dwell on the tattoo-effect tights and the Minnie Mouse T-bar shoes over nude socklets. Unless the theme of the evening was “Feel Me Up”, WTF is at a loss to understand what is going on here, but is confident that this outfit is more than enough evidence to have the wearer confined to a padded cell.
OK dear readers. Is this not a collection of grotesquerie? Who do you think is the worst offender?