There are 313 Tory MPs in Parliament and yesterday, more than a third of them voted for Boris Johnson in the first round of the contest to be the next Leader of the Party and the next Prime Minister. 114 people actually believe that this bloviating, bloated, bull-shitting, buffoon is the man to lead the United Kingdom out of the EU to somewhere over the rainbow, where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops, and everyone plays nicely by WTO rules. Jeremy Hunt, who has flip flopped on Brexit, the Single Market and a Second Referendum, who ran the NHS into the ground and who believes that abortions should be banned after twelve weeks, came in second with 43 votes and Michael ‘Yes, I’ve taken cocaine’ Gove, got 37. Dominic Raab, who wants to prorogue Parliament to stop it stopping Brexit, got 27. Next week, unless Johnson gets 157 votes, it goes down to the last two, at which point 160,000members of the Tory party get to choose. But it probably won’t come to that.
This contest has been notable for the appearance on radio and TV of pathetic shills for the main players, rather than the candidates themselves. In particular, Johnson has been kept firmly under wraps in order to stop him saying something stupid, dishonest or outrageous, which he does every time he opens his mouth, because, like the scorpion who stung the frog to death, even when he was riding on his back across the river as he was unable to swim, it was his nature. And he has more baggage than a Samsonite warehouse – lies, more lies, abandoned spouses, P45s, deceived mistresses, a love child, yet more lies, possible drug use, crap decisions and a well-deserved reputation for being lazy and unprepared. Thanks to his winging it, Nazanin Zaghari-Radcliffe is still languishing in an Iranian prison, her sentence actually doubled. If he were to be interviewed, he would have to answer questions about these matters, so he remains hidden away like a surprise entrant into the Big Brother House. Only this is the House of Commons and a certain degree of accountability should be mandatory. At his Launch, he read from notes, something he never does, dodged six questions from journalists, and then scarpered. There is at least one benefit from his election – Prime Minister’s Questions will be brief. Or perhaps he will send the appalling Liz Truss to speak for him. On Tuesday, Truss was eviscerated on the Today programme, babbling on about what a brilliant Foreign Secretary Johnson was (he wasn’t), what a great Mayor he was (he wasn’t) and how people were only picking on his alleged character flaws because he was so popular (they aren’t and he isn’t).
Readers, brace yourselves. By next week, Johnson could be your Prime Minister. His promise to negotiate a new deal is a lie, because he knows he cannot. His promise it will all be OK is a lie, because he knows that it won’t be. He says that we will leave on 31 October, but you know he will change his mind if he has to, and then deny that he ever said it. Either those 114 MPs, and the ones who will switch their votes to him next week, know that and don’t care, are so stupid they actually are willing to take him at his word, or want Brexit so badly they don’t care how they get it. Whichever it it, they deserve every obloquy going, because they are patently unfit to do their jobs, or indeed any job.
We start our review of the week’s clothing cock-ups at the World Premiere of MIB International and actress Tessa Thompson wearing Rodarte.
Admittedly, this is a sci-fi movie sequel, or prequel, or whatever the hell it is, (Tommy Lee Jones is not in it, and so that is the end of it), but that sleeve is extremely silly and makes her look like the Ice Dragon in Game of Thrones.
Next up, we are at a MaxMara Women In Film event in Los Angeles, where we find lovely actress January Jones wearing, er, MaxMara.
Good hair. But the massively-oversized trouser suit suggests that she stayed out overnight and had to borrow the guy’s suit to avoid doing the walk of shame to work, and the length of the jacket makes her legs look extremely stumpy.
Now we find ourselves at the Tony Theatre Awards in New York. The women all looked great, which is more than can be said for the next three gentlemen. First up is actor Michael Shannon wearing Martial Vivot. He is with his long-term partner Kate Arrington (who looks great).
Michael usually plays the tough guy, which is why it is surprising to find him wearing in this terrible suit with silk facings, like the night porter at a swanky Manhattan hotel.
And this is actor Reeve Carney, wearing who can say what?
Reeve has come dressed as the Artful Dodger. Only he knows why, but he looks very silly and those silk trousers are downright disturbing.
And here is the third of the duds, comedian, actor and chat show host James Corden wearing Dolce & Gabbana, seen here with his wife Julia Carey, who is wearing J Mendel.
WTF is not a fan of a tummy triangle, but otherwise Julia looks lovely. Unlike her spouse, who has gone full Maria von Trapp with the silken drawing room curtains, not to mention the matching bow tie fashioned from the offcuts. Still, this made WTF laugh a lot more than James usually does.
This is actress Hilary Swank wearing Azzedine Alaïa at the premiere of her new movie, I Am Mother.
WTF’s mother never went about dressed in a low-slung, leather tit-harness, for which, lovely as she was, we can at least be grateful. It must be said that Hilary is a lot trimmer that WTF mère, but she still looks awful. Why are her tits almost down to her waist? Epic fail.
Now we have two more thespians promoting their work, in this case a dismal new movie called Murder Mystery, starring Jennifer Aniston, wearing Céline, and Adam Sandler.
You see Readers, this is what Hollywood is all about. Jennifer, who is a fine looking woman, is done up to the nines, coiffed, made up, wearing a leather mini-dress and fuck-me sandals. Adam, on the other hand, looks as if he is about to walk the dog around Pacific Palisades. Why is there one rule for him and another for her? And whilst criticism is alien to WTF’s nature, Jen is suffering from a horrible dose of foot-blotch, so that her feet are about ten shades lighter than the rest of her, like ankle socks.
And finally, we have singer Christina Aguilera in Las Vegas, where she is doing a series of shows, wearing a tracksuit with sparkles.
If Harry Enfield’s famed creation, Waynetta Slob, won the pools, this is what she would look like. And why does Christina have those little turds in a row on her head? #baffled
This week’s It’s Got to Go comes from WTF aficionado Jan from Melbourne, who is still really furious about the incumbent Prime Minister, the moron Scott Morrison, who stormed to a wholly unexpected triumph in the recent Australian General Election.
Jan’s main ire is directed at the pollsters, who had confidently predicted a big win for Bill Shorten’s Labour Party, but who got it horribly, horribly wrong. As they did with Brexit. And with Trump’s 2016 election. You would think that after all those errors, they would hang their heads in shame, shut up shop, change their names by deed poll, and find new jobs as traffic wardens, but no – they are still carrying on. And earning a fortune. They’re crap and They’ve Got to Go.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Please send in your comments, and don’t forget your utterly splendid suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good. x
Trump rules. Lefties suck.
Very mature and reasoned argument there, matey.
Boris Johnson (who I have seen referred to as BJ, which seems apt) swears that the white powder he is suspected of hoovering up was in fact icing sugar, possibly. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know which is worse, that this man thinks we’re thick enough to believe that, or that he believes icing sugar gets you as high as a pile of Colombia’s finest.
We love Waynetta. Kathy Burke is brilliant.