wtffashionshark

Hallo Readers,

It has all gone quiet on Prime Ministerial Putsch, the UK’s favourite TV game show – that is, at least until the new edition of Celebrity Traitors starts again. Andy Burnham is busy fighting the by-election which he hopes will return him to Westminster as the new MP for Makerfield. Where’s Streeting has declared his willingness to stand for the new leadership, but has not yet forced a contest – does he even have the votes to force a contest? As for Keir Starmer, he is busy pretending that it is business as usual, and is studiously ignoring his colleagues’ suggestions to lay down a timetable for building his own guillotine. In any event, Parliament is on the Whitsun break. Our lawmakers are sunning themselves in their constituencies or, more likely, stretched out on a beach in some European idyll, pretending to be interested in their kids and reading the latest Jack Reacher novel. It was therefore something of a surprise when the woodwork creaked and out crawled none other than former Prime Minister Sir Tony Blair. Blair walked away from Downing St in 2007, and went on to make a shitload of money in various capacities as a public speaker, an author, a business consultant and other such. He also acquired a property portfolio that might put Vladimir Putin to shame. Most recently, he was appointed a trustee of the Rancid Kumquat’s so-called Board of Peace. This is a sort of shysters’ United Nations, membership of which is obtained  by the countries concerned paying $1 billion each. Where that money is, and to what the purposes it will be put, remains a mystery. As for bringing peace to Gaza….

Be that howsoever it may be, this week Blair produced  a 7,500-word article in which he stuck the knife into Starmer’s government for having no overall strategy, for committing itself to net zero emissions and for failing to work more closely with the Rancid Kumquat. To which most people’s reaction was that Blair could fuck right off. Frankly, whatever he might have achieved in office, his legacy is dragging us kicking and screaming into the Iraq War, although he still cannot see that he is more toxic than our ordure-filled seas, lakes and reservoirs. Nevertheless, he had a point. It is all very well wanting to be Prime Minister. It is all very well wanting to oust the current Prime Minister. But either way, you need to have some actual policies other than being better than your predecessor. How are you going to create wealth? How are you going to distribute wealth? How are you going to make peoples’ lives better, cheaper and less bloody miserable? What will Where’s Streeting and Andy Burnham DO, other than not be Keir Starmer? But here is where Blair did not have a point. If the British people agree about anything, which is doubtful, it is their contempt for the corrupt, ignorant, war-mongering moron who occupies the White House. They do not want to be closer to him. And they do not wish to be dragged into another ludicrous conflict with no discernable exit strategy and an indifference to human suffering, both in Iran and among consumers paying the price in increased petrol and suddenly-unaffordable holidays. Cozying up to George W. Bush was a horrible mistake. Whatever Starmer’s many shortcomings, his determination not to climb on board the Iran ship of shame was absolutely correct.

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We start our review of the week’s clothing calamities at the Frick Museum in New York with Cate Blanchett wearing Louis Vuitton Cruise.

Cate is often praised for taking a risk. But there is taking a risk and there is “yikes, what the hell is she wearing?”. This fits firmly into the second category. Think of the late Queen Elizabeth as a slip of a girl going riding, only HRH, as she then was, wore a riding jacket rather than a dead badger on her chest.

Now we go to the American Music Awards in Las Vegas, where we happen upon a couple of sartorial shockers. First, a newcomer to these pages, singer Melanie Martinez, wearing – something.  The designer has wisely opted for anonymity. Good call. 

Like a bedraggled and be-ribboned Victorian doll rescued from the attic of Miss Haversham’s house.  

And another newcomer, singer Esty. The designer of this nonsense has skipped town on a forged passport.

What even IS this? It appears to be the remants of an old crew-neck jumper and the fur of a deceased show poodle, worn with a couple of egg cozies as tit covers. Rank.

The rest of the fashion nonsense comes from the last knockings of the Cannes Film Festival. First up is actor John Travolta.

No one knows why John has taken to appearing everywhere wearing berets. This time, it was a white one, worn at a jaunty angle, as if he were guest-starring in an episode of ‘Allo ‘Allo.

Next, we have actor Ruth Wilson wearing Dior Haute Couture.

Ruth is wearing a shapeless silk sack with a couple of hanging comedy tits made out of coconut matting. It puts WTF in mind of the scene from the splendid musical movie South Pacific, in which Mitzi Gaynor (what do you mean, who?) and Ray Walton (what do you mean, who?) entertained the troops with a rendition of Honey Bun. And if you haven’t seen it, then you should.

Here is one of the Cannes Jury Panel, actor Demi Moore, wearing Balenciaga.

Demi is, of course, looking gorgeous, having subjected herself to extensive interference with the workings of nature. However, WTF is a lot less keen on her apparel. The emerald green dress is fine, but it has been teamed with a couple of massive pale blue airbags and a pair of long white gloves. Admittedly, this outfit is a car crash, so perhaps the airbags are a good idea after all….

And finally, singer Lizzo at the amFAR Gala, wearing Robert Wun.

Yurgle. This gives a new meaning to the term nipple hooks.

This week’s It’s Got to Go comes from WTF aficionado WTF of Islington, who remains up in arms about tickets for the Champions League final on Saturday night, in which PSG face WTF’s beloved Arsenal. Arsenal were allocated some 16,500 tickets which went into the ballot at €950, €650 and €160; they were all snapped up. Except that loads of those tickets are up for sale on ticket websites for £2,500 upwards, even for the crappiest seats. UEFA, the inept fools who run the competition, say that tickets should not be resold except through their own website (which is impossible to access), where they cream off commissions from both buyer and seller. WTF has long since given up on going to Budapest, even if she could get there without hijacking an aircraft or packing herself into a cargo crate. Instead, she is going to watch the Final on a giant screen at the Arsenal ground for £15, which will be fun (unless we get thrashed, in which case, it will not be fun, not even at all), but it is not the same as watching the game in person. 

But here’s the thing. Who are these people who are selling their Arsenal tickets in the first place? And why are they even allowed to do so? Real fans should be able to go to their biggest game in the last twenty years without getting fleeced closer than a ewe in an Aussie sheep shearing competition. Greedy bastards. The law needs changing. Down with capitalism! It’s Got to Go.

OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. Keep sending in your top comments and your excellent suggestions for It’s Got to Go. UP THE GUNNERS!!!!! Let us meet again next Friday. Be good x