Hallo Readers, 

This week eleven Supreme Court Justices told Boris Johnson where to put his prorogation of Parliament. The Court unanimously took the view that it had been done for an improper purpose, namely to avoid Parliamentary scrutiny, and that the prorogation was therefore null and void and had never happened. Johnson had submitted no witness statement in support his ridiculous story that this was all about needing time to write the Queen’s Speech, so at least he stopped short of committing perjury. It did not matter. His case was toast. And burnt toast at that.

When eleven Justices of the Supreme Court take the view that your case is what is known in legal circles as ‘bollocks’, one would expect the Prime Minister, particularly one who has banged on about regaining control of our laws, to affect some sort of apology and to acknowledge that his case had been given the judicial nostril. Not Johnson. Despite never having studied law, he felt able to disagree with the judgment. The fact that his disagreement is as useful as tits on a fish did not bother him at all. The Attorney-General, Brian Blessed sound-a-likey, Geoffrey Cox QC,  was similarly sanguine. Cox boomed away in the recalled House of Commons’ Chamber like a foghorn with pomposity issues. Three English Divisional Court Judges and one Scottish Judge had agreed with the Opinion he had given to the Government. That is as maybe, but eleven UK Supreme Court Justices and three Scottish Court of Session Judges had disagreed with it – making the score 14-4, which is not a victory, not even at all. It is akin to arguing that if you are ahead at half time, you are entitled to a point, even though you get thumped in the second half. As Brexiteers are wont to say, ‘you lost – get over it’.

Since assuming office in July, Johnson has had a nightmare and is beginning to resemble the character known as Two-and-Twenty Disasters  in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard. He has lost eight votes in the House of Commons (that is eight out of eight – even Geoffrey Cox cannot argue with that one). He has lost the case in the Supreme Court, and the Queen had a very frosty phone call with him after judgment was handed down. He wants an election, but Corbyn will not agree to one until Brexit is postponed, so that Brits can vote Labour without knowing what Labour is going to do once they have voted Labour, an act of faith in a weary and cynical world. And now Johnson has been accused of cavorting with busty businesswoman Jennifer Acuri when he was Mayor of London, a young woman who entertained him in her London flat and, quite coincidentally, then got sponsorship money for her fledgling businesses, not to mention paid-for trips abroad to market her said businesses, and a grant for £100,000 for yet another new business only last year. Acuri explained that Johnson’s visits were because she was teaching him ‘technology’, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘moving parts’. Is it any wonder that he is a trifle tetchy? His only remaining trick seems to be to ramp up the rhetoric (© Donald J. Trump), and rant about ‘surrender’ and ‘Parliament against the People’. Meanwhile MPs are getting death threats as a result of this language. On Thursday, Karl Turner MP saw Johnson’s ‘adviser’, Dominic Cummings, lounging against a pillar at Westminster and told him he had received a death threat overnight. The response? “Get Brexit done’. In other words, agree to what we’re doing, even though we don’t seem to be doing it, or it’s your fault. And this, apparently, is sovereignty and reclaiming our laws. Ye Gods.

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We dip our toe into the poxy pool of fashion with singer Sam Smith wearing a fearfully frightful suit at the premiere of Judy, the movie about the late Judy Garland, .

There is more anatomical detail on view than Michelangelo’s statue of David, and were Sam to go back to the same tailor (but why would he?), he would be strongly advised to take a size up, if not two sizes. His satin shirt is slashed to the waist like an Italian gigolo trying to chat up ageing widows in Positano, and the shoes look like Pegasus’ hooves. If only the warbling Sam would really fly away…..

Next up, we have actress Cynthia Erivo wearing Mark Gong.

Cynthia turned up an at HBO premiere dressed in a shirtdress covered with feathers, like Mother Goose after a punch up with a pound of butter.

And now to Ivanka Trump displaying a great deal of VNA (visible nipple activity) at the United Nations in New York.

Yes, WTF loathes Nepotism Barbie with a passion, and yes, that hideous skirt with someone’s plait hanging off it is to be sick on. But HER NIPS SHOULD NOT BE SHOWING THROUGH HER SHIRT. She is at work. The woman is a multi-millionaire. Go to Bergdorf Goodman and buy a decent bra, woman. You are making a show of yourself. 

To Paris to see singer Rita Ora wearing Prada at the amFAR gala held during Paris Fashion Week.

Dear Lord. Rita has turned up dressed as a white dragon in some mythical medieval story. She also seems to have a blanched turd on her head.

Still in Paris, here is actor Ezra Miller wearing St Laurent.

More hairy chest, more horrible hooves, and a lot of dead animal. The World Wildlife Fund must be in mourning. As is the wardrobe mistress of the latest Jane Austen dramatisation from whom Ezra nicked that shirt. As for the makeup and the word slut on his cheek, WTF prefers not to speak of them.

Here we are in LA and the Emmys, and a couple of right stinkers. First, WTF regular actress Dascha Polanco wearing Christian Siriano.

Sam is not the only person this week who needs to take a size up. WTF is however more concerned with why Dascha is wearing her kiddies’ water wings….

And finally, actress Indya Moore wearing Louis Vuitton.

Da dah, da dah, MAJOR MINGE ALERT!!!!! WTF hates a crotch curtain almost above all things. One gust of wind on the Purple Carpet and it could have gone so horribly wrong. And you can see her tan lines. Rarely has anyone looked more miserable, and with very good reason…..

This week’s It’s Got To Go comes from WTF aficionado Rebecca Jay who sent in this revolting designer jeans jacket.

It comes from Nordstrom and costs £370. And you can buy matching jeans for another £370, and then you can check in to a mental health facility and sign over power of attorney to your loved ones, because there is no reason why any sane person would contemplate paying a fortune to look like they have rolled in pig-shit. It’s Got To Go.

OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Put a smile on WTF’s face by keeping those comments rolling in, as well as your splendid suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good.