Sometime in the 14th century, Dick Whittington and his cat were trudging up Highgate Hill heading North to escape his creditors when he heard Bow Bells ringing out and a voice saying “Turn Again Dick Whittington Lord Mayor of London”. Nowadays you would be sectioned if you heard voices but they did things differently then and Dick duly went on to become Lord Mayor of London. Thus began a succession of nutters, showmen and shysters who have run our great metropolis. As it happens London is presently a nightmare. The weather is freezing bloody cold and it is impossible to drive anywhere because councils are using up their budget and hundreds of roads are blocked off by cones and contractors’ vehicles whilst yobbos in high visibility jackets stand about drinking buckets of cappucino. You and your cat would have to walk up Highgate Hill because it would be down to a single lane regulated by a temporary traffic light and a queue both ways 2 miles long. However an unexpected ray of sunshine was cast across suffering, suicidal citiziens on Sunday morning when the Old Etonian, mop-haired, bumbling, podgy fuckfest that is Mayor Boris Johnson was taken apart with surgical precision by BBC interviewer Eddie Mair. Boris had come onto The Andrew Marr Show thinking that he could big up his Olympic triumphs and boast about his plans to introduce more cycle lanes (an idea which he nicked from his predecessor Ken Livingstone). He was therefore quite taken aback when the deceptively soft-spoken Mair, standing in for Andrew Marr, began to question him about some of his previous indiscretions including lying about his extra-marital affairs (not to his wife but to his Party Leader which apparently is the more heinous), getting sacked from The Times for falsifying a quote (from his own godfather, who then complained to the editor) and agreeing to give his Old Etonian pal Darius Guppy the address of a journalist whom Guppy wanted beaten up. Boris looked like a man who had been expecting to drink Chateau Lafitte and was instead offered some Asda’s Smartprice Serbian Shiraz. He tried to steer Mair into the greener pastures of his Mayoral successes but in vain and could only mutter plaintively that he was sure that the viewers were not interested in ancient history. Oh they were, they were. Boris clearly has ambitions to replace yet another Old Etonian, Call Me Dave, whose standing in the Party is rock bottom and probably not even as high as that. Mair’s point was that although Boris has managed to charm people with his floppy hair, wit and cycle helmet, prick the surface of his buffoonery and what emerges is a devious, morally bankrupt rogue who cannot stand up to close scrutiny and is unfit for High Office. But here is the sad part. Despite this display of ineptitude, a survey yesterday found that the Tories led by Call Me Dave would be trashed by little Ed Milliband at the next election, the Tories led by Boris would put the horny little bugger into Number 10, a thought so terrible that WTF immediately decided to emigrate to Outer Mongolia. Some saw this as proof positive of a BBC Marxist conspiracy but as far as WTF is concerned moments like this are not only part of the BBC’s duty as the National Broadcaster but also its way of apologising for Bruce Forsyth and Mrs Brown’s Boys.
This is yet another abysmal example of the new and terrible phenomenon of men in cropped trousers and no socks and it looks just as silly on Tinie as it does on a full-sized person. Idris on the other hand looks terrific although he should have unbuttoned his jacket.
A see-through shirt, lederhosen, knee length boots and a leopardskin coat? Umm…OK. Jenna seems to have chosen Lil’ Kim and Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman as her fashion muses, which is rather like looking up to Vlad the Impaler for his diplomacy skills.
Believe it or not, this is not Ozzy Osbourne but his daughter Kelly.
One would not perhaps see Ozzy as role model for anything except the art of dove decapitation, but his daughter clearly feels differently. Filial devotion is a wonderful thing but it does leave Kelly looking like a cross between her dad and My Little Pony.
This is not perhaps the ideal look for a woman who earns her living trashing other people’s fashion choices on primetime television. And those trousers look more than a trifle long as if designed for Michael Jordan.
Adriana Lima is stunningly beautiful and a Victoria’s Secret Angel, but here she has succumbed to 2 horrible trends; peek-a-boo and back to front.
WTF likes to think of herself as reasonably bright but she cannot get her head around this back to front nonsense. I mean, you never see men with their trousers on back to front, so why have women started turning their dresses back to front? Either you like the dress or you don’t, in which case wear another dress. Here Adriana wanted to show some cleavage, although an onlooker might well feel that Alberta Ferretti, clearly inspired by the lattice work around her begonias, had already been more than generous with the amount of flesh on display. The result of this folly is that the dress doesn’t sit properly over the stomach as there is a space where her bottom is meant to be.
Chanel used to be the epitome of elegance. Now, under the stewardship of Nosferatu look-a-likey, frozen-faced Karl Lagerfeld, the atelier is turning out garbage like this clown-like onesie made out of deckchair material, made worse by the fact that Miley seems to have no feet and is wearing lipstick like Dracula dripping blood. As for Miley herself, she gives new nuance to the word “irritating”. What is the point of her? Like that other former child-star the wiener Justin Bieber she has yet to come to terms with adulthood and foists her growing-pains upon us in the form of going on about her sex life, silly tattoos, silly hair and silly outfits. Should there not be some private Hollywood home where these kids can go through this right of passage without bothering the rest of us? Just go away.
Fuck me, its the Munsters.
These are their Serene Highnesses Princess Caroline, Prince Albert and his “wife” Princess Charlene, Caroline’s children Charlotte and Pierre and Nosferatu himself. Let me speak frankly. They are all a complete shower, and they obviously share this opinion as not one of them is actually looking at any of the others. Sadly absent from this happy group is HSH Princess Stephanie, Caroline’s and Albert’s sister, who was no doubt off shagging a lion tamer or some other circus artiste for whom she has always had such a penchant. Karl, who is wearing leather driving gloves for reasons WTF cannot begin to guess at, is responsible for both Caroline’s mumsy ensemble and Charlotte’s feathery mullet dress which makes her look like the lovechild of Big Bird and the pink one from the Honkers.
Charl’s expression is more suicidal than serene and WTF is firmly of the view that the chainmail was wired up so that Albert would be electrocuted if he tried to put his arm around her. Be honest love – it is not working out. You would rather live up a tree in the Veldt with wild animals milling around the trunk than in a pink palace with a man you do not want to be married to. Meanwhile, not content with the sartorial flops foisted upon Caroline and Charlotte, Karl also further debased the Chanel heritage by dressing cabaret turn Rita Ora as a showgirl with floral tits.
Last week we discussed paying people to go away. WTF would bung in a fair sum to get rid of this lot, particularly Karl who has gone past being a parody of himself and turned into a mummified monster with a ponytail.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Don’t overdo the Easter eggs and lets meet again next week. Be good x