In George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, which grew up to be My Fair Lady. Alfred Doolittle appears at Henry Higgins’ house after his daughter Eliza has moved in there to learn to speak proper and, in effect, offers to sell her to him for £5. He says, ‘I’m playing straight with you. I ain’t pretending to be deserving. I’m undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that’s the truth’. Doolittle père described himself as the undeserving poor. At the other end of the spectrum is Prince Andrew, the Queen’s third child and seventh in line to the throne. Prince Andrew is the undeserving rich, pottering about deputising for his aged parents at various duller-than-ditchwater occasions, receiving a dignitary here, attending a function there, and living in some style with his former wife, the ghastly Duchess of York, at Royal Lodge in Windsor Great Park, a grace and favour residence, which used to belong to his granny. There was a time when Andrew was known as Air Miles Andy, racking up flights at public expense as a “Trade Ambassador”, where he hobnobbed with dictators and oligarchs various from places you can’t name but used to be in the old Soviet Union. He lost that gig after a scandal involving his friendship with paedophile billionaire Jeffrey Epstein, and now has to pay retail like everyone else or else get Mummy to approve a trip on her behalf in which case it gets paid for out of a wedge of public cash called the Sovereign Grant.
Andrew’s daughters have no public duties, much to their father’s chagrin, and their chief purposes are to keep us entertained with their shocking sartorial choices and to attend every celebrity party going. They seem perfectly pleasant and each has a paid job, although how their work fits in with their gallivanting is unclear. The youngest, Princess Eugenie, is getting married in October to a person called Jack Brooksbank, a Tequila Ambassador, whatever that may be, for George Clooney’s label Casamigos. Like her cousin Prince Harry, Eugenie’s nuptials will be held at St George’s Chapel, Windsor with more or less the same guest list as graced Harry and Meghan’s event in May, including the Clooneys and the Beckhams, without whom, it appears, no function these days is complete. But also like Harry and Meghan, Andrew and/or Eugenie are insisting on the horse-drawn open carriage through the streets of Windsor – on a Friday!-, thereby doubling the costs from £1.6m to £3.5m with Tim and Tilly Tosser, the taxpayers, picking up the bill for the requisite security.
Readers, here’s the thing. If Eugenie and Jack want to risk getting pissed on in their wedding finery whilst ten tramps, who have only just regained their pitch having been moved out for May’s carry-on, a handful of locals denied a trip to Tesco because the roads are closed, and some excitable Japanese tourists, cheer and wave flags, good luck to them. But Eugenie has ideas above her station, which in her case is Kensington High Street. Why are we stumping up for a third-rate royal marrying a bloke who flogs booze for a living? Why is the public purse disgorging £2m because Andrew shouts Open Sesame, although police stations are closing and the number of officers is being cut and you can be mugged and no-one will turn up for days, if at all? Who gives a stuff about Andrew or Fergie or the Princesses or Tequila Ambassadors? If the public cannot eat the wedding cake, let their Royal Highnesses pay for their own bloody wedding.
All our clothing crap this week come from the Video Music Awards. We kick off with Madonna, wearing traditional Berber dress.
Clock the metallic pointy headgear, like knuckledusters for the temples. You could do someone a power of no good if you got too close.
Madonna was born in Michigan and lives in Portugal on a very substantial income, so why she is wandering around dressed like a tribeswoman in search of a lost goat, WTF cannot say.
Next up, we have singer Bryce Vine.
All is good until we get to about four inches north of the ankles, at which point it all goes horribly wrong. Those trousers are not so much cropped as aborted and the gilded snakeskin slippers are plain daft.
Then there was singer Nicki Minaj. wearing Off-White.
Sigh. Sheer is not over, but we are all really over sheer.
So we have side boob, and arse cheeks, and hair last seen on a Friesian horse, and a frilly shower curtain, not to mention Off-White, rather than filing for Chapter 11 and then melting into obscurity, making sure we know who designed this excrescence. Talking of Friesian horses, one can but hope that Nicky does not strangle herself on her throat-latch.
Meet actor and singer Algee Smith, wearing Moschino.
Algie looks like the eponymous hero in a hip-hop production of The Nutcracker Suite. Red trainers? Really?
This is singer Morgan Saint, wearing Peter Do.
Morgan’s white malignant pixie ensemble costs $2,000, combining a tit-baring ‘apron’ shirt and see-through trousers, worn, inexplicably, with black panties, stockings and suspenders. Morgan is more sinner than saint and make that Peter Doh…
Here is actress Tiffany Haddish, wearing Naeem Khan.
She is wearing a minge shield. And what appear to be blue knee pads.
And now, singer Teyana Taylor, wearing Namilia.
Fantastic abs. But those panty-trousers are the absolute pits. WTF is reminded of former Arsenal flop Niklas Bendtner struggling out of Boujis Night Club in London several years ago, pissed as a fart with his jeans round his knees.
Actress Dascha Polanco wearing Layana Aguilar.
Dascha looks like a mouldy cabbage that has gone several rounds with Tyson Fury. And lost.
Celebritee Amber Rose, with very pointy tits.
The VMA venue was more dangerous that a bad night in Basra, what with Madonna and her metal points, and Amber wearing the same lethally pointy tits that Madonna wore about 20 years ago. The two of them are like an armada of death, bearing down on a badly-dressed collection of models, luvvies and artistes, but an air kiss away from inflicting grievous bodily harm on anyone who comes close.
Bobby Lytes, star of Love and Hip Hop: Miami wearing That Trendy Guy.
Yurgle. The back of this outfit said ‘Make America Gay Again’. That makes a lot more sense than the front, a lattice-work tracksuit like a blueberry pie, worn with matching sunglasses.
Another newcomer, actress Jakeita ‘Sky’ Days wearing Her Little Secret Boutique.
To paraphrase the wondrous Peter Cook and Dudley Moore sketch about the one-legged man auditioning for the role of Tarzan, WTF has nothing against the suit. The trouble is, neither does Sky.
And finally, actor Nico Tortorella wearing a ragbag of old rubbish.
WTF does not even know what this is. Are a string vest, pyjama bottoms, bovver boots and a beret like Michael Crawford in ‘Some Mothers Do Have ‘Em’ an actual outfit? And then there is the little matter of the back.
There are several questions to be asked here. First, what the fuck is he talking about? Second, before he goes around giving civics lessons, should he perhaps not learn to spell? He needs to take one of the ‘m’s in ‘ammendment’ and transfer it to ‘flammable’. And then go and have a cuddle with Amber and Madonna.
This week’s It’s Got To Go comes from WTF aficionado Sue Peters, who expressed great disapprobation at the outfits of Mr and Mrs Kanye West for the wedding of rapper 2Chainz and Kesha Ward, now Mrs 2Chainz. Kim turned up in lime green latex, like a Margarita-flavoured blow-up sex doll, whilst Kanye wore an ill-fitting pistachio Vuitton suit (embossed all over with the logo) and sans shirt.
More offensive still, Kanye is wearing silly too-small sliders from his own label Yeezy AND SOCKS.
Socks and slides should never be worn, not even at all, and certainly not at a bloody wedding. It’s Got to Go.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Keep sending in your top comments and your excellent suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good x