These are tough times to be Royal. Her Majesty the Queen is ninety-three years old. Her knees probably hurt (all that horse-riding) and she must have the odd aches and pains, like you do when you are a nonagenarian. Her husband is even older and likely becoming ever more irascible, and he was bad enough to start with. Her favourite son, the Duke of Pork, is a nogoodnik with some dodgy friends, one of whom, a notorious paedophile, killed himself recently, leaving the Duke facing all manner of allegations against him (which, of course, he denies). And her beloved country is tearing itself apart. All that is bad enough, but now her Prime Ministers, present and former, have dragged her into the political spotlight, a place she has done her best to avoid over nearly seven decades. Boris Johnson lied to her about his reasons for proroguing Parliament, and now eleven Lords in the Supreme Court are hearing various other Lords telling them how Johnson did or did not dupe her, which must be pretty galling, as the nation tunes in and watches the proceedings with the same intensity they watched those women curlers at the Olympics, i.e. it was fascinating and impenetrable. And now former Prime Minister David Cameron, looking more than Fred Flintstone than ever, has popped up to flog his memoirs, ‘Yes I Cocked It Up But Don’t Blame Me, Blame Everyone Else’ and has broken protocol by blabbing about he begged the Queen to say something nice about the Union to save him from losing the Scottish Independence Referendum in 2014. HMQ duly obliged, and now the Scots are in great indignation and running around like headless Celtic chickens. HMQ has let her displeasure at the wretched Cameron be known. She must be reflecting that Old Etonians are not what they used to be, and although Theresa May may have landed her with a State Visit from Mr Tangerine Man and the frightful Trump family, and cocked up Brexit, at least she knew how to behave.
Meanwhile, even the Royal National Lifeboat Institute has copped it. The RNLI! Normally they are revered as brave chaps in sou’westers who risk life and limb in all weathers to rescue French trawler-men nicking our fish, and clueless tourists going out in dinghies in a Force Eight gale. Everyone loves the RNLI. Until this week, when some journalist ‘revealed’ that for every £1 donated to the charity, two pence go to saving Africans from drowning. Two pence! Most people would not bend and pick up a two pence coin if they saw it on the pavement, but the thought that a Royal Institute has secretly (not that it was secret, because it was on the bloody website) been shelling out two pence of every pound received on stopping little black kiddies going glug, glug, glug, was more than some patriotic Brits could stomach, and many cancelled their standing orders. This is what we have become. So hateful, so xenophobic, so insular, that trying to stop kids abroad from drowning is as heinous as Gina Miller trying to Stop the Will of the People. Welcome to Brexit Britain.
We start our weekly review of the week’s wretched wear with actor Hugh Bonneville, aka Lord Grantham, at the premiere of Downton Abbey – The Movie.
Hugh is dressed as a grasshopper. Who knows why?
Next we are off to Rihanna’s Diamond Ball in New York, where we find singer songwriter Normani, wearing J’Aton.
Those are two of the most improbable tits WTF ever did see in her life. How many times does she have to say this? Tits are not globular. And they do not sit right beneath the clavicles. Added to that, WTF hates a one-armed dress almost above all things, and is unimpressed with the balance of skirt to train. In short – a stinker.
Also there was French fashion model Cindy Bruna, wearing Rami Kadi.
Cindy is ostentatiously leggy, but this is ridiculous. She looks like she is standing in the middle of a lettuce salad.
Now we meet a newcomer to these pages, and dressed like this, he will be back. WTF speaks of American actor Ben Platt. Here he is at the premiere of his new Netflix series The Politician, (also starring Gwyneth Paltrow, Jessica Lange and Lucy Boynton), wearing Bally.
This horror can best be described as Sherlock Holmes turned bookie’s runner. That is a LOT of checks. Meanwhile, something very disturbing is happening around the crotch area.
Now we go to Fashion for Relief at London Fashion Week and supermodel Naomi Campbell, wearing Thierry Mugler.
That wig has got to go. No really, it has GOT to go. A lot of starving peasants in the Urals have flogged the hair off their heads just so Naomi can swan about with flowing tresses. As for the dress, if dress is the word, which is it not, not even at all, it is a Minge Moment waiting to happen, and only belly dancers should be flashing their bellybutton, and then only when at work.
She’s back! WTF speaks of presenter Maya Jama wearing Hassidriss.
In the wake of the demise of her romance with singer Stormzy, Maya is intent on showing him what he is missing, but on this showing, he is probably glad he is missing it. If only the rest of us were so lucky. If a loincloth went to a fancy dress party as a latticework blueberry pie, this is what it would look like.
Finally we have TV fashion guru Jonathan van Ness, wearing Christian Siriano.
Sigh. Look. This is not because it is a guy in a dress. With a beard. No, it is THIS dress, which is not so much a dress as a school uniform skirt worn as a dress with a stupid silk train. It needs a hoick upwards, because it looks as if it ready to start its slippage towards those hideous peekaboo tart’s trotters.