Hallo Readers,

Happy Jubilee, your Majesty. Seventy years is a very long time, seven decades of taking tea with boring bishops and pompous politicians and well-meaning members of the public, sniffing new paint fumes wherever your go, drinking endless cups of tea and making small talk of balls-aching banality. The Israelites wandered through the desert with nothing but manna to sustain them for 40 years. Current policy means that you have been there for about three life sentences and you are  still going, perhaps not as strong, but going nonetheless, determined to see it through and, one suspects, to last as long as possible so thwart the expectations of Prince Charles.

During your time, you have gone from Winston Churchill to Anthony Eden to Harold Macmillan to Alec Douglas Home to Harold Wilson to Edward Heath to Harold Wilson again to James Callaghan to Margaret Thatcher to John Major to Tony Blair to Gordon Brown to David Cameron to Theresa May and God help us all to Boris bloody Johnson. If there were ever a case of from Hyperion to a satyr, this is it. Frankly, you have to live longer if only to ensure  that your last Prime Minister is not a lying, unprincipled scoundrel, surrounded by fools, toadies and more fools, a man whose only instinct is to stay in situ as long as possible whilst flouting every concept of decency and honour. Have you not suffered enough of late? You have lost her husband.  You have seen the country ravaged by Covid. You have had Covid. Your son has turned out to be, at best, a nonce’s friend. Your grandson has buggered off to California, sold his soul to Oprah Winfrey and succumbed to therapy-speak and other new-age nonsense. Your legs have obviously either packed up or are about to pack up, although at 96, how long were they going to leave it? And now, you are forced to take tea every Tuesday with a charlatan with stupid hair whose staff partied like it was 1999 the night before you buried your husband. It is lucky that you are so stoic. A lesser woman would have locked herself in Balmoral with corgis at the door baring their corgi teeth at anyone daring to approach ….

Anyway. Once again, congratulations Your Majesty. Anyone under 70 has never known any other Monarch. In you they got a good one, diligent and dutiful. Put your feet up and enjoy a glass of wine while everyone else has to endure the alleged Jubilee treats ahead. The service at St Paul’s complete with wittering commentary. The God-Awful concert in your honour full of has- beens nearly as old as you are. Stay in and play with the doggies, cuddle your great grandchildren and practice saying No to Prince Andrew. Have a great weekend.

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We start our review of their week’s clothing crapulence with actor Olivia deJonge  at the London premiere of Elvis, in which she plays Priscilla Presley. She is wearing Jonathan Simkhai.

That is one of the problems with satin – it clings. And in Olivia’s case, it clings to her rib cage so that it looks as if she has grown a second pair of tits, although one pair is usually deemed sufficient, and an extra nose (ditto). Meanwhile those sleeves are the pits, making her look as if someone has attacked her and tried to wrench them off. If they ever make a movie about a young Nicole Kidman, Olivia has the role sewn up. Which is more than one can say for her sleeves…..

Here we have model Gigi Hadid out and about in New York wearing a swimsuit by Frankie’s Bikinis (£220), trousers and a straitjacket.

The question is why? WHY? It is a cute swimsuit. On a beach it would be lovely. But not in NYC with trousers at crotch level and a straitjacket…..

Next up, we have model Natasha Poly wearing Dundas at the amFAR Gala in Cannes.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. She is wearing a hammock. With hammock booties. Why even wear anything at all? Just. Go. Away.

Model Soo Joo Park attended the same gala, wearing Loewe.

Emma Corrin wore a similarly stupid dress at the BAFTAS. First, we had Natasha wearing a hammock and now we have Soo wearing tit goggles. Will our next woman be dressed as an ice cream cone? Stay tuned…

No ice cream cone. Instead, we have very pregnant model Adriana Lima dressed as a belly dancer and wearing Nicolas Lebrun.

And not just a belly dancer, but a belly dancer with groin-a-go-go and built-in fanny flap. This is Adriana’s second appearance in as many weeks. Before that she last appeared in this blog as a contender in the WTF Summer Stinker Poll 2013. So sad. Like an alcoholic lapsing after years of abstinence…..

Away from Cannes, we find actor Sofia Carson wearing Giambattista Valli.

Why is this even happening? If a puffball mushroom went to a fancy dress party as a clown, this is what it would look like.

And finally, we have bolted-out-of-nowhere actor Julia Fox wearing Sia.

Hands up who would like to see Julia in a tee shirt and high rise jeans? WTF has both hands up in the air – and her legs. Admittedly Julia has a banging body, but we’ve seen it. Ad nauseam. There is always so much of it on show, it is simply exhausting. Tits. Midriff. The whole nine yards. On this occasion, Julia has taken a sleeping bag, cut a hole in it, the better to flash her bits and pieces, and called it an outfit. It is time for Julia to stay indoors……

This week’s It’s Got To Go comes from WTF aficionado, WTF from Islington who has fled the country rather than have to endure a weekend of  bollocks from so-called “Royal Experts”. What do you have to do to become a Royal Expert? Apart from reading the trashy press and affecting a posh accent and a knowledge of things you in fact know nothing about?  They know nothing while appearing to know everything, as if any of it even matters. Get them off. It’s Got to Go.

OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Please keep the comments coming, as well as your excellent suggestions for It’s Got To Go. Let us meet again next Friday. Be good x