The sudden appearance of a long-lost cat-from-the-past who conveniently materialises just as she's about to move (anyone else unable to find any reference to this cat, who apparently she told us all about ("if you remember") just before she left London? Bellagio, we need you!)
I enjoyed the sympathetic comments about poor Leo-Cat's life on the run coming to an abrupt end after five years. It's not unlike Slipper of the Yard's discovery of Ronnie Biggs living in Rio :cool:
I read her article and it screams at me she should not have moved to the "countryside" she was looking through things with rose tinted glasses, not a scooby about rural life at all and I suspect the villagers were glad to see the back of her. The things she describes are part of every day rural life, its very harsh, can be very cruel and absolutely wonderful. Many people and families have lived in the village for generations.
She should not be insulting these people, but thanking them for putting up with her rediculous column (not that they would read it) and insulting them on what is everyday life to them
Despicable decision. What kind of numpties voted for this worthless award? She's the worst borderline journalist EVER, as well as a deeply offensive human being. :mad:
Could I please get a link to this Facebook stuff people keep mentioning? I am so nosy I just have to see.
Liz Jones boils my blood like few things do. There is something so vile about her I can't bear to even think of her most of the time. Looks like I'm in good company here!
Could I please get a link to this Facebook stuff people keep mentioning? I am so nosy I just have to see.
Liz Jones boils my blood like few things do. There is something so vile about her I can't bear to even think of her most of the time. Looks like I'm in good company here!
It looks like regular readers of The Press Gazette are as gobsmacked by the news as we are... > BSME awards - winners. And the number of comments under the original Shortlist announcement has increased since LJ's "bacon-eating surrender monkeys" rant at her critics. To recap:
Just last week, I was reading in the journalists’ trade paper about my nomination as Columnist of the Year in the British Society of Magazine Editors awards (I’m not blowing my own trumpet, by the way, I’m about to make a point) and there, at the bottom, was outrage I should be nominated, people aghast at my salary.
The old me would have cared, resigned, run away, self-harmed, but now me and my tattoo say to the world: I’ve worked hard for what I have. I put two children through school in Bangladesh and my salary supports 113 animals.
So shove it. You vile, jealous people probably eat steak, and feed your ghastly brood bacon. I bite my thumb at you, or at least give you the cold shoulder. Which is now decorated, a permanent mark that I have turned a corner. I am branded braver now..
Did anyone get the impression that Sunday's Dreary sounded like a swansong with all that nonsense at the end? I've managed to get hold of some copy for the next instalment.
So. I'm back where I belong, in my beloved good old London town. Earlier today, I put on my faithful Pradas and hit the streets, the strains of 'Hey there, Georgie girl' swirling through my mind. Gaily swinging my handbag, I smiled at my reflection in shop windows. Why, I couldn't even pass a pavement cafe without hordes of my friends hailing me. 'Liz Jones!' they would call, and insist that I join them in gay repartee and skinny lattes. 'How's XXXX?' they kept asking. 'Oh, don't mention Him!' I snapped. 'Why, he didn't even bother to let me know he was in London the other week. No, he went for dinner with some groupies instead.'
Which brings me back to the Cupboard. When I got back from my mad, social whirl of socialising and fending off random men who tried to press their numbers into my hand, He was waiting outside the door, and I noticed he had a massive bulge in his pocket. 'Darling girl. Where have you been all day? I have been waiting for hours for your return.' (He texts and speaks in the same vein.) 'Oh, here and there. Why, what do you want?' I replied in a bored fashion.
'I have got something for you.' He said, and reached into his pocket to relieve Himself of the bulge. He brought forth a velvet box. 'I want us to get married,' He said, 'because you are my darling girl and it has taken me thirty years to realise that you are the One.'
'Get out!' I hissed. 'I don't need you or your tawdry diamond. Why, I'll probably need to upgrade it to something more worthy of me, just like I had to do with my ex-husband's earrings! You didn't let me know you were back in London the other week and that's a good enough reason to 'write' you out of my life. You know where the door is.'
With sagging shoulders and moist eyes, He went out the Cupboard door and my life forever.
Anyway, Lizzie's front paws have been oozing pus and I called the vet out to apply poultices.
Erm, did I mention I'd sold the farm? I'm sure I did.
Did anyone get the impression that Sunday's Dreary sounded like a swansong with all that nonsense at the end? I've managed to get hold of some copy for the next instalment.
So. I'm back where I belong, in my beloved good old London town. Earlier today, I put on my faithful Pradas and hit the streets, the strains of 'Hey there, Georgie girl' swirling through my mind. Gaily swinging my handbag, I smiled at my reflection in shop windows. Why, I couldn't even pass a pavement cafe without hordes of my friends hailing me. 'Liz Jones!' they would call, and insist that I join them in gay repartee and skinny lattes. 'How's XXXX?' they kept asking. 'Oh, don't mention Him!' I snapped. 'Why he didn't even bother to let me know he was in London the other week. No, he went for dinner with some groupies instead.'
Which brings me back to the Cupboard. When I got back from my mad, social whirl of socialising and fending off random men who tried to press their numbers into my hand, He was waiting outside the door, and I noticed he had a massive bulge in his pocket. 'Darling girl. Where have you been all day? I have been waiting for hours for your return.' (He texts and speaks in the same vein.) 'Oh, here and there. Why, what do you want?' I replied in a bored fashion.
'I have got something for you.' He said, and reached into his pocket to relieve Himself of the bulge. He brought forth a velvet box. 'I want us to get married,' He said, 'because you are my darling girl and it has taken me thirty years to realise that you are the One.'
'Get out!' I hissed. 'I don't need you or your tawdry diamond. Why, I'll probably need to upgrade it to something more worthy of me, just like I had to do with my ex-husband's earrings! You didn't let me know you were back in London the other week and that's a good enough reason to 'write you out of my life. You know where the door is.'
With sagging shoulders and moist eyes, He went out the Cupboard door and my life forever.
Anyway, Lizzie's front paws have been oozing pus and I called the vet out to apply poultices.
Erm, did I mention I'd sold the farm? I'm sure I did/
What a prime load of old testicles.
The amount of times she's said she 'has no friends' so where have these mythical mates who hail her from pavement caffs come from? The RS makes an appearance -well he would, wouldn't he - brandishing a ring. She tells him to get lost because he went for dinner with another mythical person, ignoring her.. .....Cue reason to write the imaginary boyfriend out of her life for good.
ETA - I think you're extracting the urine. It's a spoof.
Did anyone get the impression that Sunday's Dreary sounded like a swansong with all that nonsense at the end? I've managed to get hold of some copy for the next instalment.
So. I'm back where I belong, in my beloved good old London town. Earlier today, I put on my faithful Pradas and hit the streets, the strains of 'Hey there, Georgie girl' swirling through my mind. Gaily swinging my handbag, I smiled at my reflection in shop windows. Why, I couldn't even pass a pavement cafe without hordes of my friends hailing me. 'Liz Jones!' they would call, and insist that I join them in gay repartee and skinny lattes. 'How's XXXX?' they kept asking. 'Oh, don't mention Him!' I snapped. 'Why, he didn't even bother to let me know he was in London the other week. No, he went for dinner with some groupies instead.'
Which brings me back to the Cupboard. When I got back from my mad, social whirl of socialising and fending off random men who tried to press their numbers into my hand, He was waiting outside the door, and I noticed he had a massive bulge in his pocket. 'Darling girl. Where have you been all day? I have been waiting for hours for your return.' (He texts and speaks in the same vein.) 'Oh, here and there. Why, what do you want?' I replied in a bored fashion.
'I have got something for you.' He said, and reached into his pocket to relieve Himself of the bulge. He brought forth a velvet box. 'I want us to get married,' He said, 'because you are my darling girl and it has taken me thirty years to realise that you are the One.'
'Get out!' I hissed. 'I don't need you or your tawdry diamond. Why, I'll probably need to upgrade it to something more worthy of me, just like I had to do with my ex-husband's earrings! You didn't let me know you were back in London the other week and that's a good enough reason to 'write' you out of my life. You know where the door is.'
With sagging shoulders and moist eyes, He went out the Cupboard door and my life forever.
Anyway, Lizzie's front paws have been oozing pus and I called the vet out to apply poultices.
Erm, did I mention I'd sold the farm? I'm sure I did.
Thanks Mommie Dearest. I wrote it just to prove that practically anyone can write a whole load of b******s. I just wish I was on a six figure salary like the Lizard. Actually, I'm on no salary at all, having been made redundant last July. Oh, poor, poor me. Why does it always happen to me? I must race off to Haiti, business class of course, to visit a Shamen to lift the curse. Oh, and buy a voodoo doll of India Knight to stick pins in. How dare she insinuate that about the cat!
Love your work there, coldcomfort, but there are a few schoolboy errors in there!
The handbag should be 'buttery soft leather Michael Kors';
She has 'snapped' and 'hissed' but not 'barked' in the entire episode;
and 'called the vet out to apply poultices'?? Are you mad?! Surely she'd ring the Holistic Vet, who would refuse to come out until her previous bills (totalling £26,000) had been settled. Cue rant about selfish vet, nobody loves animals more than Liz, this would never have happened if she was a posh man :D
Agreed Fatsia. I'm still kicking myself that I didn't put the vet's bill in at 26 grand. BTW, how is LJ now going to explain how her Cupboard in London will house 99 cats, several collies, a wool mountain of sheep, nasty, biting horses and millions of muesli-fed rats? It's all very well her and dog-husband Michael cuddling up on her DHS sofa, watching boxed sets of Sex and the City, but are we really expected to believe that she'll do a round trip of about 600 miles to Richmond, Yorkshire, to tend to them all if they aren't ensconsed in London? We should ask Nic. Oh, soz, I forgot; she's probably become another ex-friend as she dared to snare a boyfriend. The harlot!
Thanks Mommie Dearest. I wrote it just to prove that practically anyone can write a whole load of b******s. I just wish I was on a six figure salary like the Lizard. Actually, I'm on no salary at all, having been made redundant last July. Oh, poor, poor me. Why does it always happen to me? I must race off to Haiti, business class of course, to visit a Shamen to lift the curse. Oh, and buy a voodoo doll of India Knight to stick pins in. How dare she insinuate that about the cat!
Just wondering cold comfort, if you bought Lizs farm, would you call it Cold Comfort Farm? (sorry if this has been said before but I am not brave or stupid enough to trawl a Liz thread, no offence to the posters but I am sure you know what I mean.)
Comments
It's very lively over there!
I enjoyed the sympathetic comments about poor Leo-Cat's life on the run coming to an abrupt end after five years. It's not unlike Slipper of the Yard's discovery of Ronnie Biggs living in Rio :cool:
She should not be insulting these people, but thanking them for putting up with her rediculous column (not that they would read it) and insulting them on what is everyday life to them
Very stupid woman
Ewwwww
Terrifying. The Croydon facelift... The 'borderline anorexic' curvaceous figure... Nearly lost my breakfast
Liz Jones boils my blood like few things do. There is something so vile about her I can't bear to even think of her most of the time. Looks like I'm in good company here!
Columnist of the year
Crying doesn't even begin to cover it. Neither does
I just...HOW!!!
After you pm me or someone on the group yes they will.
more on Liz in the Graun...
Victoria Wright - Liz Jones Exclusive!* Why, after five terrible years, I'm leaving the country and won't come back!
So. I'm back where I belong, in my beloved good old London town. Earlier today, I put on my faithful Pradas and hit the streets, the strains of 'Hey there, Georgie girl' swirling through my mind. Gaily swinging my handbag, I smiled at my reflection in shop windows. Why, I couldn't even pass a pavement cafe without hordes of my friends hailing me. 'Liz Jones!' they would call, and insist that I join them in gay repartee and skinny lattes. 'How's XXXX?' they kept asking. 'Oh, don't mention Him!' I snapped. 'Why, he didn't even bother to let me know he was in London the other week. No, he went for dinner with some groupies instead.'
Which brings me back to the Cupboard. When I got back from my mad, social whirl of socialising and fending off random men who tried to press their numbers into my hand, He was waiting outside the door, and I noticed he had a massive bulge in his pocket. 'Darling girl. Where have you been all day? I have been waiting for hours for your return.' (He texts and speaks in the same vein.) 'Oh, here and there. Why, what do you want?' I replied in a bored fashion.
'I have got something for you.' He said, and reached into his pocket to relieve Himself of the bulge. He brought forth a velvet box. 'I want us to get married,' He said, 'because you are my darling girl and it has taken me thirty years to realise that you are the One.'
'Get out!' I hissed. 'I don't need you or your tawdry diamond. Why, I'll probably need to upgrade it to something more worthy of me, just like I had to do with my ex-husband's earrings! You didn't let me know you were back in London the other week and that's a good enough reason to 'write' you out of my life. You know where the door is.'
With sagging shoulders and moist eyes, He went out the Cupboard door and my life forever.
Anyway, Lizzie's front paws have been oozing pus and I called the vet out to apply poultices.
Erm, did I mention I'd sold the farm? I'm sure I did.
What a prime load of old testicles.
The amount of times she's said she 'has no friends' so where have these mythical mates who hail her from pavement caffs come from? The RS makes an appearance -well he would, wouldn't he - brandishing a ring. She tells him to get lost because he went for dinner with another mythical person, ignoring her.. .....Cue reason to write the imaginary boyfriend out of her life for good.
ETA - I think you're extracting the urine. It's a spoof.
loving your work!
The handbag should be 'buttery soft leather Michael Kors';
She has 'snapped' and 'hissed' but not 'barked' in the entire episode;
and 'called the vet out to apply poultices'?? Are you mad?! Surely she'd ring the Holistic Vet, who would refuse to come out until her previous bills (totalling £26,000) had been settled. Cue rant about selfish vet, nobody loves animals more than Liz, this would never have happened if she was a posh man
Just wondering cold comfort, if you bought Lizs farm, would you call it Cold Comfort Farm? (sorry if this has been said before but I am not brave or stupid enough to trawl a Liz thread, no offence to the posters but I am sure you know what I mean.)
Love your posts, keep em coming.:D
And thanks to Fatsia for the additions:)
Are we Yorkshire folk safe now? Has she bogged off back to London?