Here is Steven Woolfe MEP, the putative Leader of the United Kingdom Independence Party, having a lie-down on a walkway at the European Parliament in Strasbourg.
Actually he was not having a lie-down. He was spark out, having collapsed after hitting his head in a fall earlier that day. He was rushed to hospital with a suspected bleed on the brain, which, fortunately, was not there (the bleed, not the brain, although a compelling case could be made for either or both propositions). As WTF writes this on Thursday evening, Mr Woolfe is tucked up in a Strasbourg hospital bed whilst foreign infirmières, the sort he wants to stop coming to Blighty to nurse the rest of us, are keeping him under observation.
So what happened to Mr Woolfe? Apparently he had become involved in an “altercation” during the course of a “clear the air” meeting with his fellow UKIP MEPs. It can safely be said that this meeting was not an unparalleled success, clearing the air only in the way that an exploding bomb clears the air. It seems that the splendidly named Mike Hookem, ex RAF and the Party’s Defence spokesman, took exception to Mr Woolfe’s remark on Newsnight the previous evening that he had at one point considered defecting to the Tories but was nonetheless standing for Leader. It is alleged that Mr Righthookem and Mr Woolfe “took the matter outside”, possibly at Mr Woolfe’s suggestion. Mr Woolfe says Mr Righthookem came at him and smacked him one, causing him to hit his head on a door frame. Mr Righthookem denies laying hands upon Mr Woolfe and says that it was Mr Woolfe who tried to hit him but tripped over his feet in doing so. These are the men who want to run Britain. Europe was sneering at us before; now they are hysterical with mirth.
There is to be another UKIP Leadership election because the incumbent, Diane James, stepped down this week after only 18 days, a reign that makes Sam Allardyce’s tenure as England football manager look like George 111. Mr Woolfe missed standing in that former contest because he was 17 minutes late in putting in his nomination papers. Nigel Farage (fresh from advising Donald Trump on election strategy – ye Gods!) is back at the helm pro tem. Mr Farage told us that this physical aggression “was the sort of thing you expect to see in the parliaments of Third World countries” (Ukraine? Turkey?) which just about sums up his party. They are a shower, a disorderly rabble of bigots, misfits, loonies and xenophobes. Now that Brexit is upon us, their work is done. They have made themselves redundant and are now reduced to fighting each other instead of Johnny Foreigner. James hates everybody, the Leadership candidates all hate each other, Righthookem allegedly smacked Woolfe, Woolfe was wired up to a machine going beep, beep, beep with a big bandage round his head like Pudsey the Bear and Aaron Banks, the Party’s biggest donor has threatened to take his chequebook elsewhere. Now that it is official Tory policy to hate foreigners, particularly the ones who have the temerity to come to the UK and work hard in jobs the locals won’t touch, now that the Home Secretary wants to name and shame employers who employ non-Brits, now that Theresa May (who apparently was never the Home Secretary presiding over immigration policy for six years) is mouthing right-wing platitudes to appeal to the “working class”, now that everything is officially the fault of the sneering liberal elite from Islington (that means WTF and her ilk), UKIP is irrelevant. Let us hope that UKIP falls swiftly into desuetude, never to be seen again, but not before the doctors and nurses send a big fat bill to Mr Woolfe for the care lavished upon him.
We begin our survey of the week’s fashion flotsam with dancer Neil Jones from Strictly Come Dancing at the Inside Soap Awards in London.
It is a little known fact (even Neil does not know this) that he is a somnambulist. The poor love wandered into the Awards in his flowery jimjams and suede slippers, at which point some kindly waiter lent him a jacket to reduce the retinal damage potentially caused to appalled onlookers. Neil may be a somnambulist but WTF has had nightmares ever since catching sight of this ensemble.
This slumber-party thing must be catching. Here is Aussie soap actress, Olympia Valance from Neighbours wearing her negligée.
More orange than an orange. Tits. Thighs. Genitalia curtains. The whole nine yards….
To Paris Fashion Week and French actress Adele Exarchopolous at the Louis Vuitton show, wearing Louis Vuitton.
This is a new one. It appears to be a blue suede tit-blindfold. Just plain disturbing.
Meet fashion blogger Chiara Ferragni at the Dior Show wearing Dior. Dior. Yes – really.
Chiara is wearing a shrunken baby doll housecoat with pleated tits and saggy sleeves with yank-straps. It is an entirely pointless garment, unless you count the pointed tits. Which WTF would much rather not do as she hates a pleated tit almost above all things….
Here is Italian model Bianca Balti kicking off our regular section entitled Sheer Tedium, wearing Balmain at the L’Oreal Gold Obsession Party.
Bianca is dressed as a pole dancer in a gilded cage. A very leggy and beautiful pole dancer, but a pole dancer nonetheless.
OK, she is back but this is the pits and it is going in. I speak of Kim Kardashian (sorry, Hong Kong contingent) who was poncing around Paris until it all went tits up and she and her jewels parted company. This is her at the Balmain show, wearing Balmain.
This can be taken quite shortly. If you have to walk around with your hand over your minge to avoid exposing it to public view, there is something wrong with your outfit. Even more bizarrely, although wearing a thing with more holes than a colander, she has covered her breasts in a nude bra whilst according her minge only manual cover. Friend Michael has pointed out that Kim’s pose is clearly based on Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.
Frankly, Venus was better dressed.
Finally, we have fashionista and WTF favourite, Anna dello Russo, wearing (who else?) Balmain.
Why is nobody wearing proper panties? Anna has eschewed hers in favour of a frilly Minge Fringe. The rear view explains why.
There is a zip for ready access. You would be terrified to turn your back on anyone….. The back zip is almost as offensive as the Hallo Sailor hat, as worn in On The Town.
This week’s It’s Got to Go is courtesy of afore-mentioned friend Michael, who is an annual visitor to these shores from Australia. Michael is incensed and then incensed some more about the difficulty he experiences in spending the £50 notes given to him by the bank in exchange for his Aussie dollars. He rants – “This country needs to move on. £50 does not buy you what it used to (Note – it does if you are a foreigner, thanks to fucking Brexit) and yet if you present a £50 note in a shop or restaurant, you are treated like one of the Great Train Robbers. Use them or lose them. It’s Got To Go.”
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Keep those comments coming as WTF loves them, as well as your excellent suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good x