Collie comber - how perfectly the epithet 'frizzy haired loon' befits our heroine!!
Wonderful stuff!
Incidentally, just returned from my annual trek to my beloved Yorkshire Dales where I visited Reeth. I can tell you I was very relieved that I didn't to bump into our Lizzie and her wizened and ageing paramour!!
There's a reason you went to Southend Tech and then London College of Printing instead of Oxford, Liz - you don't have the requisite language skills or, I'd hazard, the necessary IQ.
This weeks Dreary is the dreariest yet. Beginning to think she really is writing for clickbait. Whatever, she is without doubt one of the worst journalists in the UK media today. I'm sure the two establishments mentioned above are even now erasing any trace of her from their archives.
There's a reason you went to Southend Tech and then London College of Printing instead of Oxford, Liz - you don't have the requisite language skills or, I'd hazard, the necessary IQ.
This weeks Dreary is the dreariest yet. Beginning to think she really is writing for clickbait. Whatever, she is without doubt one of the worst journalists in the UK media today. I'm sure the two establishments mentioned above are even now erasing any trace of her from their archives.
^ This ^
Agree a truly dire and dreadful Dreary today. Of course, most of it is probably made-up but it beggars belief that she is paid good money to produce this bilge.
Lots of negative comments from Wail readers on today's' offering - which will no doubt disappear later. *Sigh*
For once, I'm speechless (almost). IF The Baker really sent messages like that to his poor ex girlfriend (and the Lizard didn't make them up - hmmmm) then there's one word to describe him: Judas.
As for that mysterious 'rock star' .. if he does in fact exist (doubtful) then my money's on one of the Bay City Rollers - though on second thoughts, they're all far too young for her.
I suspect you could insert the name of any "cheap" shampoo there - Lizard looks down on those who don't spend £26,000 on hair products in the same way as she looks down on those who shop in Next. I think she thinks she's being funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.
Oh, I know, but I'm sure it was Nescafe in the original article (which seems to have myteriously vanished), perhaps that's why she was so angry with the child.
Liz: 'You can't beat that donkey!'
Somalian boy: 'Thank you nice, plump, white lady, but I know where you can get another nearly as good. Here's your coffee...'
I think we should all buy a bottle of the stuff and send it to the Lizard, c/o The Daily Wail.
Too good for her . Washing up liquid does the same job, if a little harsh. (I'm a chemist).
Amikolaichek, loved the parody. Dominodarling, thanks for the heads up, great to hear the other side.:)
You know, it's not unusual to bitch privately about your partner's ex. With close friends, in very discreet surroundings. It's not even that unusual to do it WITH your partner, though it's pretty stink for him/her to be dissing their ex to you and a fairly good indication that your shampoo choices will be similarly mocked to another lover in future.
But to do it in a column in a national newspaper that is distributed worldwide on the internet is *unspeakably rank*.
For God's sake, Liz has "won". He's "in love" with her, he "goes out" with her, he's not "with" his ex, with whom he'd split before he started seeing Liz. The ex does not figure. Who cares if she said something negative about Liz once upon a time? And yet the ignorant half a mil a year-earning bill-shirker is crowing and slavering and bitching and mocking in her damn column every other week, obsessed with this woman and obsessed with putting the buttery soft knife in.
Also, I cannot imagine any man who doesn't seem to know or care anything about products sending texts that involve the words "Garnier Fructis", let alone ones giggling bitchily about a woman using it on her hair. What is he. a 13 year old girl?
Next week she'll be whining about how insecure she is again, you watch.
Oh, what fresh hell is this? Bad enough that I’ve been stuck in this godawful house in some place called ‘Yorkshire’ for weeks – but now SHE is giving me real evils, like she’d like to kick me with those pointy shoes with red bottoms that she’s always tottering around in.
To think I once Had It All - nice, frowsty, comfy little flat with my ‘dad’ David and my lovely ‘mum’, his girlfriend. We’d all snuggle in bed together, eating big fatty bacon sandwiches and oozing cream cheese 'n lox bagels and slopping around big mugs of Nescafé and no-one minded if grease and coffee got all over the nylon sheets or the British Home Stores polyester duvet. I could go out and roam around London – and I’d wander to the local butcher and he’d give me the odd bit of liver and a nice stroke.
But here! For a bloody start, the other seventeen cats are all sodding snobs, always poncing around boasting about their holistic vet and line caught ethically sourced organic Waitrose prawns. Now, I don’t mind the odd prawn myself, but the seventeen buggers won’t let me near them and SHE doesn’t stop them hogging the lot, just glares at me and throws a lump of organic vegan dog food at me, hard.
Ah yes, the dogs … that Michael the Hearing Dog is horrible. He tries to shag anything that moves and anything that doesn't, including me and the chickens, the Thai silk covered ottomon from Abigail Alherne ... and HER leg. But he’d better watch it – ‘cause I KNOW where he’s hidden that mauled dead lamb he dragged back the other day and if he’s not careful I’ll dob him in to the angry farmer who came round with a shotgun and shouted at HER. There’s another dog, from Romania or somewhere – poor thing just sits in a corner and shivers in terror if one of the seventeen cats menaces her. I try to be friendly – after all, we’re captive comrades in arms, so to speak, but I don’t miaow Romanian and she can’t talk because of her infected jaw.
And the evenings – God, give me strength - the evenings! Endless repeats of Sex and the City, while SHE sits there watching entranced, every so often shouting stuff like ‘That’s Armani. That’s Dior. That’s McQueen …’. Worst of all, it’s compulsory to be there with her – all seventeen cats and yours truly plus the dogs. I’d think she’d even get the horses in too, if they didn’t crap everywhere and make dirty marks on her pristine floors with their ‘paws’.
I’ve tried hard, when I go out, to socialise with the locals, but once they know where I live, they aren’t at all friendly. They say things to me like ‘Tell the old [lady dog – I do not believe in Bad Language] that we don’t stock Sickly coffee or whatever the [another bad word] it’s called and if Nescafé is good enough for everyone else, it’s good enough for her’ and when I once wandered into a local hair and beauty salon they threw a couple of wire curlers at me and shouted that did I know their waxing technician was on sick leave with a nervous breakdown because of HER?
I do try to keep out of HER way, not just because the sight of me seems to make her so angry but also because she smells funny. Always rubbing stuff on herself and muttering about ‘Bliss Softening Socks’ and ‘oily baths’ and ‘buttery soft buttocks’ She has REALLY scary hair, all crackly and hard and witchy, not like my lovely mum’s soft, beautiful hair that she used to let me chew because it smelled so nice of Garnier Fructus shampoo - David (I can't call him 'Dad' any more, not after he dumped me here) used to say he adored her lovely hair and that Garnier Fructus shampoo was his very favourite ever smell and he'd never, ever forget how much he loved it and how much the scent of Garnier Fructus meant to him and he never ever wanted her to use anything other than Garnier Fructus shampoo because the gorgeous scent of Garnier Fructus was something he'd enjoy smelling for ever and ever. Ah yes - Garnier Fructus, I know David still dreams of its lovely aroma ...
Oh dear, how times change. When David visits he doesn’t dare stroke me or invite me on his lap but give him his due, when SHE’S not watching, he does give me sympathetic glances and once smuggled in a tin of Lidl sardines but that wasn’t any good because SHE doesn’t own a tin-opener and anyway, she found the tin when she was rifling through his things looking for his phone while he was having a compulsory shower and fingernail trimming session and there was a bit of a scene because the sardines weren’t line caught, ethically sourced, organic, free range vegan sardines and she thought it was in any case a funny present for him to bring her, when he ought to buy her a bottle of Prosecco.
All this has been bad, really bad, but right now, I am terrified. SHE has been stalking around doing those txt thingies on her i-Twad or whatever the frock the thing is called, and getting angrier and angrier, muttering to herself. She sounds quite worryingly bonkers as a box of frogs. It is apparently something to do with my lovely mum and David and the wonderful, loving happy times we three used to spend together.
So earlier today, she suddenly got all nice. I’ve noticed she does get like that, on a Sunday morning when something called her ‘Dreary’ has appeared, so what she’s written in it obviously makes her happy. She called me over. I tried to ignore her but she kept on and on … ‘Dear little puddy-wuddy-pussykins’, she cried in that silly, high voice of hers. ‘Shall we go on a lovely walk, out of my beautiful house, down my sloping lawns to the pristine river that rushes past, bearing all in it down, down to the sea, never, never to be seen again …?’
Hmmm. I smelled a rat and not one of her organic muesli fed rats. For a start, she was carrying an old sack over one arm and over the other arm was an Hermès soft buttery leather tote she got when she was editor of Mary Scare or something, and it bulged – almost … almost ... as if it contained a load of large stones. So I scarpered fast and went and hid behind the Romanian dog, who sportingly spread herself out the better to conceal me. I could hear HER calling, calling me, in between muttering ‘I’ll give the cow ‘excuses’ to txt him about that bleeding cat ..’.
I’m outa here. Back to The Smoke. Dick Whittington and his cat did it and I can do it too, alone. So if you’re driving along the M1 and you see a cat waving a Bliss Softening Sock at you from the hard shoulder, stop and gissa a lift.
You know, it's not unusual to bitch privately about your partner's ex. With close friends, in very discreet surroundings. It's not even that unusual to do it WITH your partner, though it's pretty stink for him/her to be dissing their ex to you and a fairly good indication that your shampoo choices will be similarly mocked to another lover in future.
But to do it in a column in a national newspaper that is distributed worldwide on the internet is *unspeakably rank*.
For God's sake, Liz has "won". He's "in love" with her, he "goes out" with her, he's not "with" his ex, with whom he'd split before he started seeing Liz. The ex does not figure. Who cares if she said something negative about Liz once upon a time? And yet the ignorant half a mil a year-earning bill-shirker is crowing and slavering and bitching and mocking in her damn column every other week, obsessed with this woman and obsessed with putting the buttery soft knife in.
Also, I cannot imagine any man who doesn't seem to know or care anything about products sending texts that involve the words "Garnier Fructis", let alone ones giggling bitchily about a woman using it on her hair. What is he. a 13 year old girl?
Next week she'll be whining about how insecure she is again, you watch.
Absolutely spot on, Suzy_Cat. It's an utter disgrace that she's given this platform to be so vile about 'lover boy's' ex girlfriend ... and just about everyone else in his life. I note that many comments under this week's Dreary point this out. Makes you wonder just how low the MoS is prepared to sink. Ghastly woman. And he's no better - selling his soul for what I suppose he sees as a cushy billet if he plays his cards right, even if this means betraying all those he once loved. Horrible, just horrible.
The address/the place explains the rather curious reference to her NEW CAR (of which I suppose we'll hear an awful lot, although it might - just might - not actually be registered in her name) lurking in the "basement" beneath the very shabby/cheap Cupboard. Something which is usually referred to as an underground car park. Probably with valet parking.
The address/the place explains the rather curious reference to her NEW CAR (of which I suppose we'll hear an awful lot, although it might - just might - not actually be registered in her name) lurking in the "basement" beneath the very shabby/cheap Cupboard. Something which is usually referred to as an underground car park. Probably with valet parking.
Her NEW CAR? You mean the CONVERTIBLE MERCEDES that she never mentions?
I'm not a Londoner (country bumpkin!) and googled this to see what this building was like. Clicking on a rightmove link advertising a 2 bed flat in this building, I was horrified at the price per month to rent! £2817!! No wonder she had money issues.
Oh, what fresh hell is this? Bad enough that I’ve been stuck in this godawful house in some place called ‘Yorkshire’ for weeks – but now SHE is giving me real evils, like she’d like to kick me with those pointy shoes with red bottoms that she’s always tottering around in.
To think I once Had It All - nice, frowsty, comfy little flat with my ‘dad’ David and my lovely ‘mum’, his girlfriend. We’d all snuggle in bed together, eating big fatty bacon sandwiches and oozing cream cheese 'n lox bagels and slopping around big mugs of Nescafé and no-one minded if grease and coffee got all over the nylon sheets or the British Home Stores polyester duvet. I could go out and roam around London – and I’d wander to the local butcher and he’d give me the odd bit of liver and a nice stroke.
But here! For a bloody start, the other seventeen cats are all sodding snobs, always poncing around boasting about their holistic vet and line caught ethically sourced organic Waitrose prawns. Now, I don’t mind the odd prawn myself, but the seventeen buggers won’t let me near them and SHE doesn’t stop them hogging the lot, just glares at me and throws a lump of organic vegan dog food at me, hard.
Ah yes, the dogs … that Michael the Hearing Dog is horrible. He tries to shag anything that moves and anything that doesn't, including me and the chickens, the Thai silk covered ottomon from Abigail Alherne ... and HER leg. But he’d better watch it – ‘cause I KNOW where he’s hidden that mauled dead lamb he dragged back the other day and if he’s not careful I’ll dob him in to the angry farmer who came round with a shotgun and shouted at HER. There’s another dog, from Romania or somewhere – poor thing just sits in a corner and shivers in terror if one of the seventeen cats menaces her. I try to be friendly – after all, we’re captive comrades in arms, so to speak, but I don’t miaow Romanian and she can’t talk because of her infected jaw.
And the evenings – God, give me strength - the evenings! Endless repeats of Sex and the City, while SHE sits there watching entranced, every so often shouting stuff like ‘That’s Armani. That’s Dior. That’s McQueen …’. Worst of all, it’s compulsory to be there with her – all seventeen cats and yours truly plus the dogs. I’d think she’d even get the horses in too, if they didn’t crap everywhere and make dirty marks on her pristine floors with their ‘paws’.
I’ve tried hard, when I go out, to socialise with the locals, but once they know where I live, they aren’t at all friendly. They say things to me like ‘Tell the old [lady dog – I do not believe in Bad Language] that we don’t stock Sickly coffee or whatever the [another bad word] it’s called and if Nescafé is good enough for everyone else, it’s good enough for her’ and when I once wandered into a local hair and beauty salon they threw a couple of wire curlers at me and shouted that did I know their waxing technician was on sick leave with a nervous breakdown because of HER?
I do try to keep out of HER way, not just because the sight of me seems to make her so angry but also because she smells funny. Always rubbing stuff on herself and muttering about ‘Bliss Softening Socks’ and ‘oily baths’ and ‘buttery soft buttocks’ She has REALLY scary hair, all crackly and hard and witchy, not like my lovely mum’s soft, beautiful hair that she used to let me chew because it smelled so nice of Garnier Fructus shampoo - David (I can't call him 'Dad' any more, not after he dumped me here) used to say he adored her lovely hair and that Garnier Fructus shampoo was his very favourite ever smell and he'd never, ever forget how much he loved it and how much the scent of Garnier Fructus meant to him and he never ever wanted her to use anything other than Garnier Fructus shampoo because the gorgeous scent of Garnier Fructus was something he'd enjoy smelling for ever and ever. Ah yes - Garnier Fructus, I know David still dreams of its lovely aroma ...
Oh dear, how times change. When David visits he doesn’t dare stroke me or invite me on his lap but give him his due, when SHE’S not watching, he does give me sympathetic glances and once smuggled in a tin of Lidl sardines but that wasn’t any good because SHE doesn’t own a tin-opener and anyway, she found the tin when she was rifling through his things looking for his phone while he was having a compulsory shower and fingernail trimming session and there was a bit of a scene because the sardines weren’t line caught, ethically sourced, organic, free range vegan sardines and she thought it was in any case a funny present for him to bring her, when he ought to buy her a bottle of Prosecco.
All this has been bad, really bad, but right now, I am terrified. SHE has been stalking around doing those txt thingies on her i-Twad or whatever the frock the thing is called, and getting angrier and angrier, muttering to herself. She sounds quite worryingly bonkers as a box of frogs. It is apparently something to do with my lovely mum and David and the wonderful, loving happy times we three used to spend together.
So earlier today, she suddenly got all nice. I’ve noticed she does get like that, on a Sunday morning when something called her ‘Dreary’ has appeared, so what she’s written in it obviously makes her happy. She called me over. I tried to ignore her but she kept on and on … ‘Dear little puddy-wuddy-pussykins’, she cried in that silly, high voice of hers. ‘Shall we go on a lovely walk, out of my beautiful house, down my sloping lawns to the pristine river that rushes past, bearing all in it down, down to the sea, never, never to be seen again …?’
Hmmm. I smelled a rat and not one of her organic muesli fed rats. For a start, she was carrying an old sack over one arm and over the other arm was an Hermès soft buttery leather tote she got when she was editor of Mary Scare or something, and it bulged – almost … almost ... as if it contained a load of large stones. So I scarpered fast and went and hid behind the Romanian dog, who sportingly spread herself out the better to conceal me. I could hear HER calling, calling me, in between muttering ‘I’ll give the cow ‘excuses’ to txt him about that bleeding cat ..’.
I’m outa here. Back to The Smoke. Dick Whittington and his cat did it and I can do it too, alone. So if you’re driving along the M1 and you see a cat waving a Bliss Softening Sock at you from the hard shoulder, stop and gissa a lift.
PLEASE. PLEASE. SAVE PRUDENCE.
This and the diary are absolutely fantastic - the Mail should give you the job and get rid of LJ !
Comments
Collie comber - how perfectly the epithet 'frizzy haired loon' befits our heroine!!
Wonderful stuff!
Incidentally, just returned from my annual trek to my beloved Yorkshire Dales where I visited Reeth. I can tell you I was very relieved that I didn't to bump into our Lizzie and her wizened and ageing paramour!!
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-2649626/Liz-Joness-Diary-In-David-makes-feel-guilty.html Erm, now ??
Agreed, ..& Me too ..
This weeks Dreary is the dreariest yet. Beginning to think she really is writing for clickbait. Whatever, she is without doubt one of the worst journalists in the UK media today. I'm sure the two establishments mentioned above are even now erasing any trace of her from their archives.
^ This ^
Agree a truly dire and dreadful Dreary today. Of course, most of it is probably made-up but it beggars belief that she is paid good money to produce this bilge.
Lots of negative comments from Wail readers on today's' offering - which will no doubt disappear later. *Sigh*
As for that mysterious 'rock star' .. if he does in fact exist (doubtful) then my money's on one of the Bay City Rollers - though on second thoughts, they're all far too young for her.
I suspect you could insert the name of any "cheap" shampoo there - Lizard looks down on those who don't spend £26,000 on hair products in the same way as she looks down on those who shop in Next. I think she thinks she's being funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.
You don't mean that.. it's... a... lie? *swoons*
Just send it to
EA Jones,
Ziggurat Building
60-66 Saffron Hill
London EC1N 8QX
Amikolaichek, loved the parody. Dominodarling, thanks for the heads up, great to hear the other side.:)
But to do it in a column in a national newspaper that is distributed worldwide on the internet is *unspeakably rank*.
For God's sake, Liz has "won". He's "in love" with her, he "goes out" with her, he's not "with" his ex, with whom he'd split before he started seeing Liz. The ex does not figure. Who cares if she said something negative about Liz once upon a time? And yet the ignorant half a mil a year-earning bill-shirker is crowing and slavering and bitching and mocking in her damn column every other week, obsessed with this woman and obsessed with putting the buttery soft knife in.
Also, I cannot imagine any man who doesn't seem to know or care anything about products sending texts that involve the words "Garnier Fructis", let alone ones giggling bitchily about a woman using it on her hair. What is he. a 13 year old girl?
Next week she'll be whining about how insecure she is again, you watch.
Oh, what fresh hell is this? Bad enough that I’ve been stuck in this godawful house in some place called ‘Yorkshire’ for weeks – but now SHE is giving me real evils, like she’d like to kick me with those pointy shoes with red bottoms that she’s always tottering around in.
To think I once Had It All - nice, frowsty, comfy little flat with my ‘dad’ David and my lovely ‘mum’, his girlfriend. We’d all snuggle in bed together, eating big fatty bacon sandwiches and oozing cream cheese 'n lox bagels and slopping around big mugs of Nescafé and no-one minded if grease and coffee got all over the nylon sheets or the British Home Stores polyester duvet. I could go out and roam around London – and I’d wander to the local butcher and he’d give me the odd bit of liver and a nice stroke.
But here! For a bloody start, the other seventeen cats are all sodding snobs, always poncing around boasting about their holistic vet and line caught ethically sourced organic Waitrose prawns. Now, I don’t mind the odd prawn myself, but the seventeen buggers won’t let me near them and SHE doesn’t stop them hogging the lot, just glares at me and throws a lump of organic vegan dog food at me, hard.
Ah yes, the dogs … that Michael the Hearing Dog is horrible. He tries to shag anything that moves and anything that doesn't, including me and the chickens, the Thai silk covered ottomon from Abigail Alherne ... and HER leg. But he’d better watch it – ‘cause I KNOW where he’s hidden that mauled dead lamb he dragged back the other day and if he’s not careful I’ll dob him in to the angry farmer who came round with a shotgun and shouted at HER. There’s another dog, from Romania or somewhere – poor thing just sits in a corner and shivers in terror if one of the seventeen cats menaces her. I try to be friendly – after all, we’re captive comrades in arms, so to speak, but I don’t miaow Romanian and she can’t talk because of her infected jaw.
And the evenings – God, give me strength - the evenings! Endless repeats of Sex and the City, while SHE sits there watching entranced, every so often shouting stuff like ‘That’s Armani. That’s Dior. That’s McQueen …’. Worst of all, it’s compulsory to be there with her – all seventeen cats and yours truly plus the dogs. I’d think she’d even get the horses in too, if they didn’t crap everywhere and make dirty marks on her pristine floors with their ‘paws’.
I’ve tried hard, when I go out, to socialise with the locals, but once they know where I live, they aren’t at all friendly. They say things to me like ‘Tell the old [lady dog – I do not believe in Bad Language] that we don’t stock Sickly coffee or whatever the [another bad word] it’s called and if Nescafé is good enough for everyone else, it’s good enough for her’ and when I once wandered into a local hair and beauty salon they threw a couple of wire curlers at me and shouted that did I know their waxing technician was on sick leave with a nervous breakdown because of HER?
I do try to keep out of HER way, not just because the sight of me seems to make her so angry but also because she smells funny. Always rubbing stuff on herself and muttering about ‘Bliss Softening Socks’ and ‘oily baths’ and ‘buttery soft buttocks’ She has REALLY scary hair, all crackly and hard and witchy, not like my lovely mum’s soft, beautiful hair that she used to let me chew because it smelled so nice of Garnier Fructus shampoo - David (I can't call him 'Dad' any more, not after he dumped me here) used to say he adored her lovely hair and that Garnier Fructus shampoo was his very favourite ever smell and he'd never, ever forget how much he loved it and how much the scent of Garnier Fructus meant to him and he never ever wanted her to use anything other than Garnier Fructus shampoo because the gorgeous scent of Garnier Fructus was something he'd enjoy smelling for ever and ever. Ah yes - Garnier Fructus, I know David still dreams of its lovely aroma ...
Oh dear, how times change. When David visits he doesn’t dare stroke me or invite me on his lap but give him his due, when SHE’S not watching, he does give me sympathetic glances and once smuggled in a tin of Lidl sardines but that wasn’t any good because SHE doesn’t own a tin-opener and anyway, she found the tin when she was rifling through his things looking for his phone while he was having a compulsory shower and fingernail trimming session and there was a bit of a scene because the sardines weren’t line caught, ethically sourced, organic, free range vegan sardines and she thought it was in any case a funny present for him to bring her, when he ought to buy her a bottle of Prosecco.
All this has been bad, really bad, but right now, I am terrified. SHE has been stalking around doing those txt thingies on her i-Twad or whatever the frock the thing is called, and getting angrier and angrier, muttering to herself. She sounds quite worryingly bonkers as a box of frogs. It is apparently something to do with my lovely mum and David and the wonderful, loving happy times we three used to spend together.
So earlier today, she suddenly got all nice. I’ve noticed she does get like that, on a Sunday morning when something called her ‘Dreary’ has appeared, so what she’s written in it obviously makes her happy. She called me over. I tried to ignore her but she kept on and on … ‘Dear little puddy-wuddy-pussykins’, she cried in that silly, high voice of hers. ‘Shall we go on a lovely walk, out of my beautiful house, down my sloping lawns to the pristine river that rushes past, bearing all in it down, down to the sea, never, never to be seen again …?’
Hmmm. I smelled a rat and not one of her organic muesli fed rats. For a start, she was carrying an old sack over one arm and over the other arm was an Hermès soft buttery leather tote she got when she was editor of Mary Scare or something, and it bulged – almost … almost ... as if it contained a load of large stones. So I scarpered fast and went and hid behind the Romanian dog, who sportingly spread herself out the better to conceal me. I could hear HER calling, calling me, in between muttering ‘I’ll give the cow ‘excuses’ to txt him about that bleeding cat ..’.
I’m outa here. Back to The Smoke. Dick Whittington and his cat did it and I can do it too, alone. So if you’re driving along the M1 and you see a cat waving a Bliss Softening Sock at you from the hard shoulder, stop and gissa a lift.
PLEASE. PLEASE. SAVE PRUDENCE.
Absolutely spot on, Suzy_Cat. It's an utter disgrace that she's given this platform to be so vile about 'lover boy's' ex girlfriend ... and just about everyone else in his life. I note that many comments under this week's Dreary point this out. Makes you wonder just how low the MoS is prepared to sink. Ghastly woman. And he's no better - selling his soul for what I suppose he sees as a cushy billet if he plays his cards right, even if this means betraying all those he once loved. Horrible, just horrible.
The address/the place explains the rather curious reference to her NEW CAR (of which I suppose we'll hear an awful lot, although it might - just might - not actually be registered in her name) lurking in the "basement" beneath the very shabby/cheap Cupboard. Something which is usually referred to as an underground car park. Probably with valet parking.
Her NEW CAR? You mean the CONVERTIBLE MERCEDES that she never mentions?
Based on sketchy information, I think that's the one. With alloy wheels. Which got scratched. While being taken to "visit a castle".
I'm not a Londoner (country bumpkin!) and googled this to see what this building was like. Clicking on a rightmove link advertising a 2 bed flat in this building, I was horrified at the price per month to rent! £2817!! No wonder she had money issues.
This and the diary are absolutely fantastic - the Mail should give you the job and get rid of LJ !
Which are going to cost £1,000s to replace.
Nope, still there. For now...