Happy New Year to you all and welcome back.
Of course, I say Happy New Year, but is it? And will it be happy? At least last year it was all Jubilee and Olympics and Paralympics and “we’re all in this together” (©George Osborne) which roughly translates as “it’s hard for all of us but a lot harder for you buggers without a country house and a trust fund” . This year, without Jessica Ennis’ awesome abs and Sir Bradley Wiggins’ sideburns and Rule Britannia to keep us cheery, how are we Brits to get through 2013? It is still pissing down with rain after the second wettest year since Noah set sail. Everyone has either been ill or is ill or is about to get ill. Those not hammered by the ‘flu virus, like WTF herself, spent part of the holidays with their head down the toilet because of the Norovirus. The papers are full of pictures of celebs flaunting their bikini bodies on sun kissed beaches or articles about how to lose 20 lbs of ugly unwanted fat. No one has any money because they have pissed it all away over Christmas. The economy is in the shit. No one likes the Coalition or believes a word they say. No one likes the police either, what with the cover-up over Hillsborough and new evidence that former Chief Whip Andrew Mitchell was verballed by the rozzers for unleashing a few naughty words in their direction. If he returns from this one, it will be the biggest comeback since Lazarus popped back up again and waved hello to the ladies and gentlemen. People are worried about their jobs, that is if they have a job. We are still fighting a pointless war for reasons no one understands. It is kicking off again in Northern Ireland. There is disenchantment at the overpaid tossers who play professional football and the slimebag agents who foist crappy players on clubs to get their commission and the rubbish managers who get the sack for being useless and walk away with a huge payoff and the idiot owners who don’t know the difference between Joe Cole, Ashley Cole, Carlton Cole and Old King Cole. Homeland’s finished. And there are months of emetic gush about the Royal Baby ahead, not to mention the Kimye baby, of which more below. The country is basically on suicide watch. Luckily for you, WTF is on hand to bring you a laugh when you most need one so step away from the kitchen knives and make the following things your resolutions for 2013 (i) to come back every Friday (ii) to follow me on Twitter @WTF_EEK and (iii) to hit the Comment Button at least sometimes and share your thoughts with us all.
I mentioned baby Kimyeti, the US rival to HRH Foetus, to be born, but only after a shedload of money has been made first, to Kim Kardashian and her besotted beau Kanye West.
What with HRH Foetus and Baby Kimyeti, it is going to be a long hard winter. In fact, it will soon be necessary to turn off all media, stuff your earholes with cotton wool and hide in a cellar until November at the earliest. It has been predicted that Kim is likely to make $100,000m even before the end of the gestation period. After all, she managed to rake in $10m from her marriage to Kris Humphries and that only lasted 72 days. Part of that profit came from her launching a “wedding fragrance”. Perhaps this time she could launch her own brand of baby arse-wipes with tiny sparkling $$$$$$ signs all over them. Anyway here are the proud parents-to-be on New Year’s Eve. Kim is wearing an encrusted fishing net adorned with extra-absorbent breast pads and peek-a-boo minge. WTF is disturbed that she is posing on such a shiny floor. The prospect of a close up of Baby Kimye’s entry curtains is deeply not at all nice. In fact I cannot tell you how much I wish I hadn’t said that.
Another New Year’s Eve outfit for you, this time from Fergie off the Black Eyed Peas.
Readers may be familiar with the phenomenon of the Croydon Face Lift. This is where you pull your hair so tightly up on the top of your head that it lifts up everything like the Bride of Wildenstein. Those eyebrows are particularly demonic. It is probably a good diet cure as well because you can barely wrench your lips apart, albeit that it might pose something of a problem if you are a superstar singer. The frock seems to have been crafted from recycled Christmas wrapping paper and is a little snug around the chest area. She has a bolster rather than a bosom, like Dame Margaret Rutherford as Miss Marple. Or, for that matter, Dame Margaret Rutherford as anyone, including Dame Margaret Rutherford.
Helen Flanagan is fast becoming WTF’s favourite Z lister EVER because she is just so ridiculous. After a fallow period, when she gave up “acting” on Coronation Street and was a WAG in Wales, she is enjoying a renaissance following her stint on I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here and now she is rarely out of the papers. This week, for example, she has announced that she is hoping to go to University and is studying for her “A” levels in History, Religious Studies and Philosophy. WTF had not previously marked Helen down as the academic type, but eagerly anticipates her insights on Buddhism and Heraclitus in the near future.
In the meantime, here is Helen going shopping in Manchester in a braless top and thigh high Louboutins like a pair of fisherman’s waders (she should have lent them to Kim to go with the fishing net), not to mention the nastiest pink lippy ever in the history of ever. She looks like she has been embalmed. WTF respectfully suggests that next time Helen passes Selfridges, perhaps on the way to buy her text books in her pursuit of intellectual pleasures, she should pop into its lingerie department, where she will find a variety of undergarments to support her decolletage. And buy a new lipstick whilst you are at it.
This is actress Bai Ling going shopping in LA, like you do, but dressed like you don’t. Unless you are totally barmy.
Umm…OK. WTF is all for experimentation and a touch of wackiness but Bai Ling, normally a vision in haute couture, looks like a multi coloured bank robber on the run from the Fashion Police. All she needs a bag labelled swag.
The tweed skirt and matching sun visor are nearly as bad as the lacy leggings which are nearly as bad as the utterly putrid yellow fuck-me shoes. Bai Ling, you have been found guilty of crimes against the eyeballs. You are sentenced to 6 months wearing plain black trousers and a black jumper and you must not contact your stylist or read Vogue. Next case.
Oh dear, here is serial offender Mariah Carey dressed for a stroll in the snow in Colorado.
In such conditions, most people would venture forth in trousers, jacket and snow boots, and maybe even a snood or a scarf, but Mariah IS A STAR. She does not have to walk anywhere as, like Catherine the Great, there are always several 200 lb minders available to lift her up and carry her from A to B. So Mariah stepped out in a strapless gingham picnic rug, which, to be frank, is less than flattering on her capacious boobage, enhanced, if that is the word I am looking for, which it isn’t, by one of Mike Tyson’s collection of World Heavyweight Boxing Belts, worn in a vain attempt to give her the hourglass silhouette of Marilyn Monroe. Her ankles must be getting awfully soggy. Time to have words with the stylist. Like “you’re fired”.
OK, now this is really horrible. Here is Coco Austin, wife of Ice-T, rapper and star of WTF’s favourite cop-show Law & Order – Special Victims Unit. Together they appear in a reality show called Ice Loves Coco which is about, er, Ice loving Coco.
Actually, there is trouble in Paradise between Coco, née Nicole Austin, 33 and Ice, né Tracy Marrow, 54. It seems that Coco was photographed snuggling with rapper AP.9 (no, me neither), who has since boasted, somewhat ungallantly in WTF’s view, that there are other more intimate photos in his possession. Ice is considering his position, or, put more accurately, considering Coco’s alleged positions with AP.9, but on New Year’s Eve the happy couple were all smiles in Las Vegas for their 11th wedding aniversary. Now here’s the thing. Coco looks like a shocker with an orange face and a dress about three sizes too small but what WTF wants you to focus on, not that your eyes are probably anywhere else, are the gigantic titties. Your first thought was of course that those titties are not real, in which case go to the top of the class. But if you look closer, you will see that (i) they are horribly mis-shapen and (ii) they have the weirdest texture, like leather covered Play-Doh and (iii) they are more scarred than Frankenstein’s monster. It looks like the plastic surgeon got busy with a darning needle whilst drinking brandy by the bucketful. So why on earth would Coco wear a dress cut to expose every vomit-inducing detail? It is like something out of a Victorian freak show. In fact, and WTF hopes she is not putting you off your breakfast here, it looks like Coco is suckling twin babies under her dress. Yuck. Yuck. And Yuck.
, that’s your lot for this week. See you next Friday. Be good.