WTF emerged from synagogue on Yom Kippur on Wednesday night to find a real treat awaiting her, a detective story to rival Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone and Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. WTF speaks of the feud between two British WAGs, Colleen Rooney, wife of the priapic former Engerland captain Wayne Rooney, and her erstwhile pal, Rebekah Vardy, spouse of the hapless Leicester striker Jamie Vardy. It seems that Colleen had grown weary of finding her deepest secrets, which she had shared only with mates on a locked Instagram account, appearing in The Sun. She therefore set a trap by spreading fake news on the said account, but limiting the recipients (without their knowledge), finally deducing that the Villanelle to her Eve was none other than Rebekah. This was disclosed, naturally, on social media, at which Rebekah, who is heavily pregnant, waxed most indignant and has called in M’Learned Friends and a forensic cybersecurity expert. As is now mandatory, she is receiving tons of abuse on Twitter, not to mention death threats, and the expressed hope that her unborn baby dies. All for (allegedly) disclosing that Colleen’s basement had flooded and other minutiae of Rooney family life.
Here’s the thing. Neither Wayne nor Jamie are what you would call heartthrobs, unless your heart throbs at the sight of men with faces like the sort of potatoes supermarkets reject as aesthetically displeasing. Nor were they likely to become Professors of Brain Surgery had they not been handy with their feet and heads. But both are richer than Croesus having won the pools. Whether either Colleen or Rebekah would have married their respective spouses had they been hod carriers, we will never know; but we do know that neither of these ladies would have been household names, even in their own households, had they not plighted their troth to these chaps. What is remarkable is not that Rebekah may or may not have traded her mate’s secrets for some publicity, or whatever, to The Sun, but that The Sun (and other newspapers) would choose to print such blockbuster exposés as the Rooneys seeking baby gender selection treatment in Mexico, Colleen’s planned return to television (kill me now), and a flood at her £20m, six bedroom, new-built mansion, which has been unkindly compared to a Morrison’s supermarket, nestling in forty Cheshire acres and featuring stables, two man-made fishing lakes and an orangery. Equally, as Brexit looms and Trumpy is letting his mate President Erdogan massacre our erstwhile allies, one would have thought that Colleen’s devastating detective work would not have been the main story on Thursday’s front page. But one would have thought wrong.
One would also have thought that it is a little late for Colleen to protect her privacy; this is the woman who flogged her wedding to OK!, and who is regularly photographed without her wedding ring following Mr Potato-Head’s latest alleged dalliance with someone or other, including, on occasion, ladies of the night. But, again it seems one would have thought wrong. This new revelation, which she chose to make public, rather than just suing Vardy or The Sun, will run and run, thereby exposing her to the very publicity she claims to dread. Meanwhile Rebekah, still on holiday in Dubai, has given a coruscating interview to The Daily Mail in which she denies everything and adds of her former friend, ‘It would be like arguing with a pigeon. You can tell it that you are right and it is wrong, but it’s still going to shit in your hair.’ The only answer is for Wayne Rooney and Jamie Vardy to fight for their wives’ honour in a public arena, like a scene from Camelot. Live on Pay-TV of course….
We start our review of the week’s crappy clothing in Atlanta at the Tyler Perry studios with American footballer Colin Kaepernick and his wife Nessa. Nessa looks lovely.
Which is more than you can say for Colin. What is that sash? Is he trying to emulate the Crown Prince of Ruritania? And why are his trousers not on speaking terms with his ankles?
Here is model Abbey Clancy at the Naked Heart Foundation Fund Raiser wearing Aadnevik.
Abbey recently gave birth to her third child, and has obviously been on a crash diet because she looks more gaunt than John of Gaunt looking gaunt. As for the dress, she seems to have taken the event name rather literally. If Miss Haversham went to a fancy dress party dressed as a melting icecap, this is what she would look like.
We pop into the Polo in Los Angeles, where we encounter show-off wannabe Megan Pormer, wearing Jaquemus.
Yes, it’s sunny, but surely she could done a bit better than a tablecloth on her head and an old fishing net, like a Pharaoh in giant panties.
Next up, we have actor Shia LaBoeuf, wearing Gucci and Louboutin Trapman boots (the boots cost $1,090).
Every few years, Fashion tries to tell us that chocolate brown is the new black, but no one believes them. This is why. With all that facial hair, Shia resembles a 1950s South American dictator about to nationalise the banks.
To a cornucopia of blatant bad taste, the BET Hip Hop Awards and rapper Rapsody.
Jewelled hair curlers are a new one to WTF and she is relieved to have reached such an advanced age without having ever encountered them. You never saw Corrie’s Hilda Ogden in jewelled hair curlers. As for the track suit, it seems to be made from a psychedelic version of the stuff they use for insulating sleeping bags and picnic baskets.
And of course, long-term WTF favourite, rapper Lil’ Kim, wearing Gucci.
What on earth has happened to Gucci? It could hardly be more trashy. This is more covered up than we usually get on Lil’ Kim, but it is still terribly, terribly, terrible, a slithery purple dressing gown with matching shingled hair and ridiculous shoes. And WTF will say it again – breasts are not supposed to start under the clavicles.
A newcomer to these pages, but WTF already loves him like a brother. Meet rapper DaBaby (né Jonathan Kirk), also wearing Gucci and a necklace the size of a chain saw with his surname hanging off it.
DaBaby looks as if he is about to do a soft shoe shuffle in a 1920’s speakeasy. With her hairstyle, Lil’Kim was probably in the audience.
This is rapper Kash Doll, wearing not enough.
Kash Doll is dressed as a titsy cheerleader with a double helping of tit and shr will be needing the Canesten….
And finally, we have reality star DreamDoll ‘star’ of Love and Hip Hop – New York.
With the preponderance of leather here, one would have hoped that some more of it could have been found for the bra, which is leaking bosom in all directions. The rest of the outfit, not that it is one, is simply a selection of belts, like a sadomasochist’s mail-order catalogue.
This week’s It’s Got To Go comes from WTF aficionado Dr. Sundry Letters (@SalCross) who has brought this appalling item to our attention, a wedding outfit for those who shun convention. And propriety. And taste. And a wish to stay married.
Sorry but what is occurring? This is up there with the Scrote Tote and the Cantaloupe Panties. Dr Sundry Letters expressed concern about the shin pads but, to be frank, WTF is a lot more concerned about the muff puff. If your intended is still at the altar by the time you get there in your bridal muff puff, you are either a lot luckier than you deserve to be, or there is something seriously wrong with him. 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. x