Hallo Readers,

Welcome to another dismal week in the still-but-only-just United Kingdom. It is freezing cold and although the blossom is out, it will not last long in these temperatures. We have had Storm Ciara and Storm Dennis, and now half the country is under water with despondent householders watching their furniture bob-bob-bobbing around the sitting room and no obvious relief in sight. Many of them are not insured because their houses have flooded before and are now uninsurable. As they splash outside to survey the rising river levels, there are plenty of journalists recording their misery, plus some brave men and women from the Armed Forces rescuing grannies and stacking sandbags to stem the flow. If they are really unlucky, they may catch a glimpse of the Environment Secretary George Eustice wading about in his wellies, looking sympathetic. Eustice was taking a break from his other main duty as Environment Secretary, namely refusing to deny that Britain will soon be awash with another form of pestilence, US chicken washed in lactic acid. Yummy yummy says my tummy…. But Prime Minister Boris Johnson was nowhere in sight, Perhaps he was disheartened after his visits to flooded Yorkshire in December, where he was told to fuck right off by the blunt-speaking locals. He seems to have taken them at their word.

So where was Wally? Not only was he not visiting the waterlogged, he was not on TV or radio or anywhere public. Instead  he was holed up at Chevening, the grace and favour country residence of the Foreign Secretary. Johnson and his inamorata Carrie Symonds laid claim to it for half-term week as the Prime Ministerial country house, Chequers, has the builders in. You might think that what with the country beset with floods and storms, threatened with coronavirus and acid-washed chooks, and needing to make some trade deals post-Brexit, Johnson would have some work to do, but it appears that he continues to emulate Donald Trump, this time in taking as many holidays as possible at someone else’s expense. He saw in 2020 at a luxury villa in the Caribbean which may or may not belong to David Ross, the bloke who founded Carphone Warehouse (Johnson says it was Ross’ home, and he was lent the villa; Ross – who ought to know- says it was not). But six weeks after returning from St Lucia, the PM and his consort disappeared into the Jacobean delights of Chevening and only emerged in time to attend the Black and White Ball, a thrash for rich Tory donors organised by….David Ross. Captains of industry various necked champagne and bid for such items as a signed copy of the Withdrawal Agreement (WTF is not making this up), a flight in a Lancaster Bomber with Grant Shapps (WTF would have bid for that one, but only if she could have pushed him out mid-air), whisky tasting with Liz Truss (you would need to drink a lot of it to get through an hour with her), and lunch in a prison with the Justice Minister Robert Buckland. Some prat with more money than sense paid £50,000 to play tennis with Boris Johnson. As WTF’s late father was wont to ask, why would a man voluntarily dip his head in a bucket of shit? If only the flood victims in the North and the Midlands could (a) have reached their wallet (b) found £15,000 to pay for a table, there to feast on red mullet with salsa verde and (c) had access to non-mouldy evening wear, they too could have been there. Because it was the only way they were ever going to meet Boris Johnson…,.

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The week’s fashion flotsam is as dismal as the weather and the prospect of acid-washed chicken. Let us begin with Donald Trump and his spouse Melania Trump in front of the Taj Mahal. FLOTUS is wearing Atelier Caito for Hervé Pierre

They are both more orange than an orange. His hair is preposterous, his teeth are preposterous, and he is wearing comedy trousers. Her face is more plastic that the K-Tel factory and she is the only woman to emerge from kidney surgery with bigger tits, wasting no opportunity thereafter in showing them off by fastening something around her waist and pulling it tight. In India it is most inappropriate to emphasise your breasts, crotch and bottom, but Melania was going for the hat trick. All that is bad enough, but she is also touring the Taj Mahal in sky-high white stilettos. NO ONE DOES THAT. NO ONE. 

Next, to LA and actress Quintessa Swindell wearing something foul.

She was attending the premiere of the new movie I Am Not OK With This. Who would be? She is flashing her drawers and covered in shedded fur from a deceased bunny. And the shoes were last seen on a Miami matron at the pool of the Fontainbleu Hotel.

Meet model and activist Hunter Schaefer at the Burberry Show in London, wearing Burberry.

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WTF’s immediate thought was that poor Hunter needed a blood transfusion – stat. Her next thought was to try and work out which flappage was part of the coat and which flappage was part of the top, both of them the same (lack of) colour as the pale face above the collar and the bloodless limbs emerging from the matching Minge Moment skirt. And then there are the ugly bootees, like bandages around a camel’s hooves.

This is top stylist and America’s Next Top Model judge Law Roach. Who even knows what he is wearing?

If Paddington Bear went to an Apocalypse Now party as a military nun from  hiding in the jungle, this is what he would look like.

To Italy, and actress Zazie Beetz wearing Rodarte at Milan Fashion Week.

1980s fashion was bad enough the first time. Why revive it? And it is catching, because here is superstar singer Rihanna, wearing Givenchy.

Yikes. Zazie and RiRi could both have fitted into the top part of that dress with its linebacker shoulders, and the ruffles are hideous. Clearly someone somewhere was paying a tribute to Joan Collins in Dynasty. At least her dress had a waist.

To the NAACP Image Awards, where we find lovely actress Cynthia Erivo wearing Prabal Gurung.

Ouch! That bodice is so small that it is slicing her boobies in half, like a skilled butcher filleting an acid-washed chicken. And what is occurring with the over-skirt, resembling the spores of some very nasty virus as seen under the microscope.

This is celebritee Lauren Goodger out and about in London wearing I Saw it First.

The last time Lauren was here, she was also wearing I Saw It First and that was horrid as well. That is not so much a cleavage as two canyons between a narrow valley. It is bad, but not as bad as the split trousers over clompy boots.

Finally, a newcomer, Broadway actress and singer Da’Vine Joy Randolph at BET Black Film Honours.

The lady has buckets of attitude but not enough to overcome the fact that this is a ruched bin-liner onesie, and it is just terribly, terribly, terrible.

This week’s It’s Got To Go is from WTF aficionado Ruth-Anne, who sent in this revolting example of revoltingness.

Apparently it is for people who don’t like their feet. Or perhaps it is a piss-take.  But whatever it is, it is truly revolting and It’s Got To Go.

OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Keep sending in your comments, which will bring cheer to WTF in these dark times, and please don’t forget your super suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good. x