By the time you come back next week (she says presumptuously) two things might well have happened. First the boy Andy Murray could have confirmed his status as British rather than Scottish by winning Wimbledon, making him the first home-grown winner since dinosaurs walked the Earth; and second, HRH Royal Foetus might have made his or her appearance. Yes, Andy and HRH Foetus are all set to put the Great back into Great Britain. WTF is telling you this now so that you can rush out and stock up on nausea tablets and sick bags (you cannot be too careful) in order to withstand the tidal wave of jingoistic guff heading straight at you. Here’s the thing. This country is knee deep in the shit. The economy is horrible, people are depressed and we are being governed by knobheads. The papers need to focus on something that has no relevance whatsoever to the lives of ordinary citizens but will distract them from the glugging sound of the country going down the toilet. So what better than a tennis player and a Royal Infant?
Of course, as far as Andy is concerned, we have been there before. Last year to be exact, when cheered on by a bevy of celebrities on a freebie and Sir Cliff Richard clad in a Union Flag jacket, Andy lost to Roger Federer. The nation’s disappointment weighed upon his shoulders like Atlas bearing up the globe. This year there was almost a collective coronary as Andy got the run around in the Quarter Final from some drop-dead-handsome Spaniard and lost the first 2 sets before winning the next 3, scowling, swearing and being entirely obnoxious. This was followed by a live interview so cringe-making that it took WTF a full ten minutes to emerge from behind the sofa where she had been forced to hide in embarrassment. Idiot sports journalist Garry Richardson later apologised to Andy and quite right too. The BBC’s descent into facetious inanity is distressing but that discussion is for another day. Meanwhile, like last year, we have been treated to the recollections of the bloke who used to sell Andy sweets and the woman who watched him bashing a ball against the barn door aged 3 and every other bugger he’s ever met ever since the day he was born. It is quite possible that WTF will die of boredom before he ever steps back on a court.
As for HRH Foetus, the due date is said to be 13 July and the papers have been bursting with sycophancy and speculation. Someone claimed to know what baby will look like (presumably pink and bald – it’s a baby). Thursday’s Daily Telegraph informed us that the bookies have decided that Alexandra was the likeliest name (but only, one supposes, if it is a girl). The Finnish Government sent over a cardboard box full of goodies as given to every new mother in Finland (you use the box as a cot as it comes with a mattress and they also give you a condom, which might perhaps be shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted). Gifts are pouring in from far and wide, solid gold potties and silver geegaws and a special one from UK taxpayers who forked out £1m for refurbishment of the modest 57-room Apartment 1 at Kensington Palace where they will make their home. WTF was further indignant to learn that 4 parking meters in front of the Maternity Wing were cancelled last week for the duration in case a flotilla of royal arse-lickers need to park there when Kate is rushed in for the birth, presided over by Alan Farthing the man in charge of all Royal Ladyparts. Presumably the ratepayers of Westminster City Council will be compensated for the loss of income exacted from harassed fathers-to-be who will now probably miss the birth of their children as they trawl hopelessly around Paddington in search of a parking spot.
And this is just the warm up – imagine what it will be like after Andy wins and HRH Foetus is actually born? Hand me some of those nausea tablets…..
To this week’s fashion disasters, and believe me, they are bad. Let us start with bimbo-supreme Helen Flanagan dressed as Little Bo Peep.
All she needs is a shepherd’s crook and a doggie.
That said, Little Bo Peep did not totter around in ugly Louboutins with legs the colour of creosote and carrying a packet of Marlboro Lights. And, as far as WTF can recall, Little Bo Peep did not flash a cleavage like two bald men under a yellow lace comforter. This is a bad case of paedo-porn dressing.
We come to the Minge Moment of the Week, in this case barely covered and belonging to former prostitute and current lingerie designer Zahia Dehar.
Zahia was only 16 when she provided her services to Franck Ribery, possibly the ugliest player in World Football (he says he did not know how old she was). Other members, as it were, of the French National Team may also have spent time with Zahia. In an interesting route to rehabilitation, Zahia started her own range of saucy lingerie and has just opened a boutique whose launch she attended wearing not much, her bits covered by confetti like a nude wedding guest. It may be naïve to complain that a retired tart is flashing her all but it is still shocking. Jesus said that prostitutes could enter into the Kingdom of God but this one is obviously going there via the bank.
Still in Paris, we call in on Fashion Week Haute-Couture to meet a very embarrassed Jennifer Lawrence wearing some terrible trousers from the Christian Dior S/S 2014 collection.
This is the downside of being the Face of a Fashion House. You might get to wear couture clothes but you also have to put on these preposterous trousers/culottes/whatever with its tiny co-ordinating lacy cushion cover. Women’s trousers have gone strange. They are either see-through (see below) or they billow like the sails in the Sydney to Hobart yacht race. Jennifer is clearly considering throwing herself over that parapet and who could blame her? Any Parisian Coroner worth his sel would take 20 seconds to conclude that the poor girl had been driven to it.
And it gets worse. Here is Kristen Stewart wearing Zuhair Murad.
WTF is not a fan of Kristen whose farouche expression and general air of a sulky teenaged boy has long been getting on her wick. As for the ensemble, WTF is not having it. This is a swimsuit with lacy leggings. It might pass muster in Mustique but not on the streets of Paris. Kristen has made a habit of wearing lacy onesies –she should break it. Now. And buy a hairbrush.
WTF just can’t bear it. Really she can’t. Tawdry, titsy and tarty, peekaboo AND visible nipple activity, worn with fuck-me sandals. Vile.
French seems to be sporting a couple of Olympic gold medals and has wrapped (see what I did there?) a pair of serviettes around his ankles. Equally bemusing is the white pointy thing on his hoodie. WTF is not one to criticise but he looks like a twat. As for Angela, her dress is insane. It seems to have both a minge guard and a pair of tit guards, seemingly inspired by the collar you put on a pet to stop it scratching and the headlights on an old Lightburn Zeta car, voted one of the 50 Ugliest Cars of all time.
Who knows why Angela chose to wear this. Perhaps she was trying to fend off French. But it is without doubt one of the very worst dresses that WTF ever did see.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. We will meet again next Friday. Keep the comments coming and be good x