Hallo Readers,

Last Friday there was a blazing row between Prime Ministerial candidate Boris Johnson and Carrie Symonds, his current inamorata, at her flat in South London. Upon hearing shouting, screaming, crashing plates, and cries of “get off me” (her), the neighbours summonsed the police, and then called The Guardian to give them chapter and verse – plus a recording of the whole thing which they made on their iPhone. Johnson spent the weekend refusing to answer questions about the fracas, whilst his supporters threw ordure at the neighbours, who were described variously as ‘lefties’, ‘curtain-twitchers’, ‘Guardianistas’, and ‘like the Stasi’. They declared that Johnson had been secretly taped, when you do not have to be to Q out of the James Bond films  to turn on your iPhone and capture shouting so loud you can hear it in your own living room. The Daily Mail also got in the fact, as it always does, that the female half of the couple was Jewish.  Johnson’s private life, declared his supporters, was private, and as long as he delivered Brexit, they were indifferent to what he did or with whom. Indeed, some of them claimed the incident made him ‘more normal’. Johnson himself declared that he never talked about his loved ones. Given that there are two ex wives, a mistress, discarded mistresses various, and at least one love child in addition to the four he has officially, talking about them would take longer than the whole of Wagner’s Ring Cycle. That is, if he could remember which one was which.

On Monday, the Daily Mail, which had excoriated the leftie, curtain-twitching, Guardianista, Stasi-like, Jew and her spouse, published a picture of Johnson and Symonds sitting in a leafy pastoral idyll, and gazing into each other’s eyes like a rom-com poster. Except the picture was obviously not recent, as Johnson’s hair was much longer than it had been on his last public appearance on Saturday. Unless he had donned a wig for the day. Nor was it clear how Daily Mail had come into possession of the snap, unless the couple, or one of them, or some minion, had leaked it to give the impression that all was well again in Paradise. In other words, invading their own private life for PR purposes, having complained of having their private life invaded. Johnson spent Monday in purdah, refusing to give interviews or to debate his rival for the premiership, Jeremy Hunt, on Sky TV. At which point, he was roundly condemned as a coward, whilst the media ran around playing Where’s Wally? On Monday night, he surfaced to splutter, burble, and lie to the BBC’s Laura Kuennsberg, and then did the rounds of radio programmes on Tuesday, refusing to discuss the photograph, or even to confirm when it was taken, or by whom. Smoked out by the scandal, and by the perception that he was too scared to take on Hunt, whom even Mrs Hunt would not call a political giant, or that he was too likely to cock it up, Johnson was forced to emerge from behind the curtain and show himself, like the Wizard Of Oz, to be inept, barely able to construct a sentence, without any discernible grasp of the facts, and very short on detail. He has a plan for making Brexit work, but he cannot tell us what it is, or what is in it. He has a plan for tax cuts but he will not give us the maths. We are definitely leaving on the EU on 31 October, probably. He will go out without a deal, but a no-deal is 1000-1. Like King Lear ‘I will do such things— What they are, yet I know not, but they shall be the terrors of the earth!’  It was soon very clear why his minders thought that the best way for him to win was for him not to speak.

And Readers, the worst thing? His supporters do not care. The MPs that praise him to the skies do not care. They want Brexit. He promised them Brexit. The fact that this man has never kept a promise in his life, and will probably break this one, has not occurred to them. Frankly, they deserve him. But what about the rest of us? 

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We begin our weekly wade into the fetid fashion waters at the Serpentine Summer Party in London with actress and writer Lena Dunham, wearing Christopher Kane.

The hair is good. The dress is truly terrible, an ill-fitting, elongated teeshirt with Shoulder-Shag and Minge Fringe. And the ‘Christ, I’m-dying-for-the-loo’ pose merely serves to demonstrate that her shoes don’t fit her either. Meanwhile the invitation on her chest is, to be blunt, uninviting.

To Paris Fashion Menswear Week, where we find NBA player Russell Westbrook. wearing Louis Vuitton.

There is an awful lot of limb crammed into those red trewsies, which are more than a trifle snug around his unmentionables, and he is baring his chest like Stormy Daniels about to meet Donald Trump for dinner.

Still in Paris, here is Russian model Natalia Vodianova, wearing Beluti.

The top half is very school teacher, but it all goes wrong below the waist with hairy culottes and some weird Native American woodland leggings.

Here we are at the NBA Awards, attended by rapper 2Chainz (né Tauheed Epps) wearing  a remarkable suit and no shirt. Not even of any kind.

How does he hold his neck up under the weight of those chains and the giant Olympic medal for epic sartorial silliness? He looks like an ice cream sundae in brogues.

Now to one of WTF’s favourite events, the Black Entertainment Television (BET) Awards, always a bedrock of bad taste, exemplified here by singer Stefflon Don.

Yurgle. It is cornucopia of craziness – tit portholes, peekaboo, and a black tablecloth wrapped randomly around her person to prevent an imminent Minge Moment. 

Next, we have singer B Simone, wearing For the Stars Fashion House. 

It is all highly offensive, worn without panties and with a heavily encrusted crotch resembling a particularly unpleasant outbreak of pustulent pubes. 

Singer Lil’ Kim never fails to look ridiculous, and this was no exception. Here she is, wearing Naz Couture by Rufat Ismayli and a Chanel bag.

If a scaly anteater went to a fancy dress party as Lil’ Kim, this is what it would look like. And that handbag looks like a wrecking ball in chains.

Meet singer Doja Kat, wearing who can even know what?

Pussycats adore playing with knitting materials, and this one is hiding behind grandma’s half-finished bedspread.

Finally, rapper Cardi B headed out after the ceremony, wearing Nicholas Jebran.

Nice to see fairy tales undergoing gender reversal. In olden days, the beautiful princess kissed the frog, which turned into a handsome prince. Here the prince has kissed the frog, which has turned into Cardi B with a giant leg tattoo, wicked stepmother shoulders and a Minge Waterfall.

This week’s It’s Got to Go comes from WTF aficionado Elaine from Manchester, who has taken great exception to these revolting ‘shoes’ from Nike. They have kitten heels and are designed by Romanian designer Ancuta Sarca.

These are basically recycled trainers.  More like regurgitated. They are ugly. Er, that’s it. It’s 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