And. Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has chicken pox. I was watching the puppies frolicking in the snow, the glistening white turning a toxic yellow as they rough and tumbled, when my BlackBerry beeped. It was the RS*. 'My love,' he had typed. 'I am at the end of your lane now. I will be with you in minutes.' Whaaaaat?!!! Nooooooo! He knows he must give me a full month's notice before he sees me. I must be waxed, polished and thoroughly valeted before a liasion! What to do, dear God, what to do? I dashed into my bedroom and pulled my robe over my onesie before scurrying to my front door. Curse him! He climbed out of his brand new Merc and his face lit up when he saw me.
'Lizzie, hen. It's been a long drive and ah'm burstin' tae use yer lavvy!' He shot past me to my cloakroom, throwing his phone onto my couch before slamming the door behind him. Charming! Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has a double hernia and tennis elbow. I must call out my midwife to tend to her immediately. I panicked as the enormity of the situation hit me. 'Put toilet paper on the seat!' I screamed through the door at him, beads of sweat forming on my botoxed brow. Now I'd have to get my team of industrial cleaners in to decontaminate the whole house. More expense! Several minutes passed. What on God's earth was he doing in there? Then I heard him crooning.
'She's a real a laydeee,
Drivin' me a crayzeee.
Horse a called a Lizeee,
Paws 'n' eyes all weepeee. Yeah, yeah.'
Beautiful. He must have penned that especially for me.
Then I remembered he'd left his phone for me to inspect. Snatching it up, I hurriedly checked it for signs of his infidelity. Hmmm. An appointment at the Auchtermuchty Gout Clinic on March 14th, a haggis tasting exhibition in Drumchapel on the 16th (Disgusting!) and a sporran workshop on the 19th. All fairly innocuous, I thought, until I found THIS!!! A cordial invite to the Lorraine Kelly Boobies Appreciation Society on the 21st. Aaaagggghhhh!!! I knew it! I just knew he was ogling other women! Incandescent with rage, I hammered on the cloakroom door. 'Out, damned Scot! Out, I say!' The door opened and his anxious, pudding face stared back at me. 'Lizzie, hen! I nae ken what ah'v doon wrooong.' I grabbed his Prada T-shirt and yanked him to my front door. 'Don't you? Don't you?' I bellowed. 'This!' I spat as I shoved his phone into his face. 'You plan to leer at Lorraine Kelly's bloody boobies, you fat, hairy bastard! I never want to see you again!'
I watched as he drove off, his moon face looking back at me forlornly. Loser! He clearly didn't appreciate what a great catch I am. Well, good riddance you sweaty oaf! Then an horrific thought hit me. Racing to my cloakroom, the evidence was right before my lasered eyes . . . he hadn't fashioned my toilet roll back into a perfect, hotel standard 'V'. Sinking to my unplucked knees, I groaned. My life is an endless spiral of misery and despair and I can see no way out of my situation, not ever. Oh, woe is me, me, me . . .
And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has gone down with laminate flooring.
And. Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has chicken pox. I was watching the puppies frolicking in the snow, the glistening white turning a toxic yellow as they rough and tumbled, when my BlackBerry beeped. It was the RS*. 'My love,' he had typed. 'I am at the end of your lane now. I will be with you in minutes.' Whaaaaat?!!! Nooooooo! He knows he must give me a full month's notice before he sees me. I must be waxed, polished and thoroughly valeted before a liasion! What to do, dear God, what to do? I dashed into my bedroom and pulled my robe over my onesie before scurrying to my front door. Curse him! He climbed out of his brand new Merc and his face lit up when he saw me.
'Lizzie, hen. It's been a long drive and ah'm burstin' tae use yer lavvy!' He shot past me to my cloakroom, throwing his phone onto my couch before slamming the door behind him. Charming! Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has a double hernia and tennis elbow. I must call out my midwife to tend to her immediately. I panicked as the enormity of the situation hit me. 'Put toilet paper on the seat!' I screamed through the door at him, beads of sweat forming on my botoxed brow. Now I'd have to get my team of industrial cleaners in to decontaminate the whole house. More expense! Several minutes passed. What on God's earth was he doing in there? Then I heard him crooning.
'She's a real a laydeee,
Drivin' me a crayzeee.
Horse a called a Lizeee,
Paws 'n' eyes all weepeee. Yeah, yeah.'
Beautiful. He must have penned that especially for me.
Then I remembered he'd left his phone for me to inspect. Snatching it up, I hurriedly checked it for signs of his infidelity. Hmmm. An appointment at the Auchtermuchty Gout Clinic on March 14th, a haggis tasting exhibition in Drumchapel on the 16th (Disgusting!) and a sporran workshop on the 19th. All fairly innocuous, I thought, until I found THIS!!! A cordial invite to the Lorraine Kelly Boobies Appreciation Society on the 21st. Aaaagggghhhh!!! I knew it! I just knew he was ogling other women! Incandescent with rage, I hammered on the cloakroom door. 'Out, damned Scot! Out, I say!' The door opened and his anxious, pudding face stared back at me. 'Lizzie, hen! I nae ken what ah'v doon wrooong.' I grabbed his Prada T-shirt and yanked him to my front door. 'Don't you? Don't you?' I bellowed. 'This!' I spat as I shoved his phone into his face. 'You plan to leer at Lorraine Kelly's bloody boobies, you fat, hairy bastard! I never want to see you again!'
I watched as he drove off, his moon face looking back at me forlornly. Loser! He clearly didn't appreciate what a great catch I am. Well, good riddance you sweaty oaf! Then an horrific thought hit me. Racing to my cloakroom, the evidence was right before my lasered eyes . . . he hadn't fashioned my toilet roll back into a perfect, hotel standard 'V'. Sinking to my unplucked knees, I groaned. My life is an endless spiral of misery and despair and I can see no way out of my situation, not ever. Oh, woe is me, me, me . . .
And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has gone down with laminate flooring.
I'd pay to read that every week, neigh (see what I did there?) every day.
Excellent work, as always, coldcomfort! Have you considered submitting some of your work to the DM for slightly less than £250,000 pa? You could be on to something!
I think the DM is an agency for professional trolls. Re-reading LJ's work just highlights it more and more. Do any real people have such thoughts and opinions?
Great stuff, coldcomfort. It's entertaining and vastly superior to the tripe Liz Jones churns out. :)
RS* strumming his guitar and singing:
Oh, Lizzie, hen, come share ma but an' ben.
Ah'll quit oglin' Lorraine's boobies
An' instead Ah'll buy ye rubies.
Ye'll mairry me somehoo.
Juist say "Och aye, the noo".
Thank you, folks, for the generous comments. Morecowbell, I accept your proposal. Do you think you could stretch to a bespoke antique Cartier, perhaps?
May I be the first to bestow upon you both a totally inappropriate wedding gift - say a shed, or an 18-piece set of Michael Kors fairy-skin luggage - and mention it every time our paths cross in the future?
May I be the first to bestow upon you both a totally inappropriate wedding gift - say a shed, or an 18-piece set of Michael Kors fairy-skin luggage - and mention it every time our paths cross in the future?
Grovelling thanks for the offer of fairy-skin luggage, Fatsia. I presume it will cost you 26K? The shed would be handy to banish morecowbell to when she/he clamps her/his meaty thighs around my very rare spider-spun bedding. I've filed divorce papers against Michael as from this morning. Reason? He dry humps the window cleaner's ladder and stalks unsuspecting pullovers on hooves.
Bellafiga and all you other wonderful posters - give us one of your spoofs please. They highlight my unemployed days. :)
ColdComfort, I've read a lot of Liz spoofs but nothing has come close the pure genius of your latest send up. The stark fact that you are unemployed and Liz is raking in a fortune for recycled drivel is absolutely criminal. My very best wishes for the employment situation, you really should be a professional writer.
In the aftermath of Mr. Piggy Eyes' (aka the RS*) obsession with Lorraine Kelly's boobies, I have had a truly dreadful time.
Michael knocked over my laptop, completely wrecking it, Mini Puppy ran off with my Blackberry and hid it, Grace Kelly stress-wee'ed over my designer carpets which cost £26,000, my 17 cats have ripped my cashmere duvet to shreds and Lizzie is ill once again. Why does all this bad stuff happen to
meeee?
Unable to cope with the stress, I sent for Madame Lazonga, the psychic animal behaviourist, who told me: "The animals are disturbed by your stressful negative vibes. Just chill out and all will be well. That'll be £1,000, please."
I told her to bill me for her advice. She'll have to wait for her payment. After all, a girl must get her priorities right. I'll have to buy that Victoria Beckham dress first.
Taking her advice, I booked a pampering session in London.
My roots were retouched, forehead Botoxed, teeth steam cleaned, Brazilian wax done (ouch!) legs waxed and finally I had a pedicure.
Feeling completely relaxed, I returned to Yorkshire. Imagine my surprise when, within two hours of my return, the Rock Star's roadie turned up at my door. Apparently the RS* was heartbroken and wanted forgiveness for his misdemeanour. He'd bought an estate in the Highlands of Scotland and wanted me to inspect it. I decided to give him another chance (and possibly write a few articles about him) so I e-mailed him to come and see me.
The following day he turned up in a huge, flashy, American motor home. This was to be our mode of transport and, worse still, he wanted to go camping in it - the very idea! I told him I would accompany him on condition that we ate out in the finest restaurants and stopped at five star hotels. His pudgy face crumpled but he eventually agreed. I packed loads of Louis Vuitton suitcases and my Michael Kors tote bag
and then we set off.
The first day was bliss. He promised me that he would become a vegetarian and, better still, he'd stop ogling Lorraine Kelly's boobies.
Things went dreadfully wrong on the second day. That evening while relaxing in a luxurious oily bath at our five star hotel, I heard the door of our room slam shut and realised he'd sneaked out. I dried myself and went to look for him without success.
Fifteen minutes later I noticed a light was on in his motor home. As I approached it, I heard him shout: "Gaun yersel', hen"! I wrenched the door open and discovered his sordid secret. He was stuffing his fat face with haggis and chips which he must have bought in town - so much for being a vegetarian! Worse still, he'd an expression of ecstacy on his face because he was watching Lorraine Kelly's boobies on his TV. Beside him was a large bottle of Irn Bru, a deep-fried Mars Bar and an empty DVD case entitled: "Recordings of the Lorraine Kelly Show". The swine! I threw his haggis and chips over him and trampled his deep-fried Mars Bar into his carpet.
Sobbing and wailing, I returned to the hotel, packed my Louis Vuitton suitcases and Michael Kors tote bag and checked out.
I hailed a taxi to take me to the airport and went to my cupboard in London where I opened a large bottle of Chardonnay.
The RS* has repeatedly phoned me but I have told him I never want to see him again. (However, I'll let him grovel as it'll come in handy for some column fodder when I run out of ideas).
Oh, Lizzie, hen, come share ma but an' ben.
Ah'll quit oglin' Lorraine's boobies
An' instead Ah'll buy ye rubies.
Ye'll mairry me somehoo.
Juist say "Och aye, the noo".
^With due apologies to The Proclaimers: for a few seconds I thought that the FRS could be them, operating secretly on a jobshare basis :cool:
.. I wrenched the door open and discovered his sordid secret. He was stuffing his fat face with haggis and chips which he must have bought in town - so much for being a vegetarian! Worse still, he'd an expression of ecstacy on his face because he was watching Lorraine Kelly's boobies on his TV. Beside him was a large bottle of Irn Bru, a deep-fried Mars Bar and an empty DVD case entitled: "Recordings of the Lorraine Kelly Show"...
^:D:D:D^ LK needs to rescue the FRS/arrange an intervention - asap! Many thanks, B]AH[/B, for giving your fellow harpies something decent to read on a Sunday. Which makes a nice change.. :cool:.. BTW, I wonder how many thousand people might agree that this week's Dreary 'crisis' about Lizzie's Poorly Paw never actually happened [silly question, I know].
Blinding post AH :D:D:D and I agree with Becky - something witty and amusing to read on a dull Sunday. LJ made out that it took her four hours to write about her tangoing shenanigans. Rollocks! Fifteen to twenty mins tops I bet.
Thanks for your comments, Becky Sharpe and Cold Comfort.
Here's the latest episode:-
In which there's one humungous crisis.
Something was afoot, dear reader, because the RS* hadn't sent me any grovelling text messages for the past few days.
Taking a slight break from my 80 hour working week, I decided to see for myself what his fascination with Lorraine Kelly's boobies was so, against my better judgement, I switched on to watch her TV show.
At first, so far so bland. There was some chit-chat and then fashion news from the High Street. Of course it couldn't compare with my vast knowledge of designer fashion.
I wondered how many men had tuned in just for the opportunity of leering at her ample cleavage which she was flaunting quite shamelessly.
Another guest walked in and droned on. I was almost tempted to switch off but continued to watch out of curiosity.
When she announced her next guest, I almost fell off my £10,000 Terence Conran chaise longue. It was the RS*.
I was, as they say in vulgar parlance, gobsmacked. So this was why the utter swine had stopped grovelling. He must have been so overwhelmed at being invited onto her show that he'd lost all sense of proportion.
To my horror, she announced she was a great fan of his music. He was like a child in a sweet shop - beaming all over his sweaty face. Perhaps it was the heat from the studio lights but I thought it had more to do with his lustful thoughts - down boy! His eyes were on stalks - locked onto her vast cleavage.
"Ah'm fair pleased ye appreciate ma music, Lorraine, because Ah've goat three tickets tae ma next gig fur yersel', yuir man an' young Rosie". I felt like vomiting - it was like a mutual admiration society.
Thanking him profusely, she enquired about his love-life and he replied he was unsure if he was still in a relationship. The nerve of the man! He told her he had this relationship with a
famous fashion journalist but kept quiet about my name although that was the only thing he kept quiet about. The disgusting brute discussed that disastrous trip to Scotland and the reason why I'd flung his haggis and chips over him and trampled on his deep-fried Mars Bar, adding: "Ah'd yin helluva joab gettin' that motor home carpet clean".
At this point that woman and the entire studio audience howled with laughter. Wiping away tears of mirth when the laughter subsided, she said: "What a waste of a good haggis supper" and, believe it or not, they both went on to extol the virtue of haggis and chips.
I was shaking with rage by now and my face was beetroot-red with anger and humiliation.
Then came the bombshell. She said it sounded like I was only using him and that I must be a bit neurotic. To add insult to injury, she told him that, being a famous Rock Star, he could have his pick of whoever he wanted.
I couldn't believe my ears - he agreed. His actual words were:
"Aye, come tae think o' it, she's a bit o' a heidcase - in fact a right bampot".
Hyperventilating, wailing and uttering profanities, I shook as I reached for the remote control to switch off: otherwise I would have flung my £1,800 Christian Louboutin shoe boots through my £15,000 state of the art television screen.
Recalling Mme. Lazonga's good advice about chilling out, I booked a week's rest at a world-famous spa for pampering my bruised ego and loads of de-stressing.
Totally brilliant, AH! As has been said by a previous poster, everyone on this thread can do a better job than the Lizard and it's a shame the DM can't give her the boot and ask us to write guest columns instead. I'm sure our imaginary RS*s would be a bigger feature than a crumbling nag. Now I must dash to my Space NK for some Eve Lom intimate cobweb removal gel at only £3,250 per pot.
Here's the latest episode:-.. I decided to see for myself what his fascination with Lorraine Kelly's boobies was so, against my better judgement, I switched on to watch her TV show.
At first, so far so bland. There was some chit-chat and then fashion news from the High Street. Of course it couldn't compare with my vast knowledge of designer fashion....
< applause > The above reminded me that IRL LJ already has burnt her bridges, re: lucrative daytime telly appearances, by writing that nasty article about Holly Willoughby's entire anatomy. You really can see Liz getting into a psychotic froth about LK :eek:
Comments
'Lizzie, hen. It's been a long drive and ah'm burstin' tae use yer lavvy!' He shot past me to my cloakroom, throwing his phone onto my couch before slamming the door behind him. Charming! Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has a double hernia and tennis elbow. I must call out my midwife to tend to her immediately. I panicked as the enormity of the situation hit me. 'Put toilet paper on the seat!' I screamed through the door at him, beads of sweat forming on my botoxed brow. Now I'd have to get my team of industrial cleaners in to decontaminate the whole house. More expense! Several minutes passed. What on God's earth was he doing in there? Then I heard him crooning.
'She's a real a laydeee,
Drivin' me a crayzeee.
Horse a called a Lizeee,
Paws 'n' eyes all weepeee. Yeah, yeah.'
Beautiful. He must have penned that especially for me.
Then I remembered he'd left his phone for me to inspect. Snatching it up, I hurriedly checked it for signs of his infidelity. Hmmm. An appointment at the Auchtermuchty Gout Clinic on March 14th, a haggis tasting exhibition in Drumchapel on the 16th (Disgusting!) and a sporran workshop on the 19th. All fairly innocuous, I thought, until I found THIS!!! A cordial invite to the Lorraine Kelly Boobies Appreciation Society on the 21st. Aaaagggghhhh!!! I knew it! I just knew he was ogling other women! Incandescent with rage, I hammered on the cloakroom door. 'Out, damned Scot! Out, I say!' The door opened and his anxious, pudding face stared back at me. 'Lizzie, hen! I nae ken what ah'v doon wrooong.' I grabbed his Prada T-shirt and yanked him to my front door. 'Don't you? Don't you?' I bellowed. 'This!' I spat as I shoved his phone into his face. 'You plan to leer at Lorraine Kelly's bloody boobies, you fat, hairy bastard! I never want to see you again!'
I watched as he drove off, his moon face looking back at me forlornly. Loser! He clearly didn't appreciate what a great catch I am. Well, good riddance you sweaty oaf! Then an horrific thought hit me. Racing to my cloakroom, the evidence was right before my lasered eyes . . . he hadn't fashioned my toilet roll back into a perfect, hotel standard 'V'. Sinking to my unplucked knees, I groaned. My life is an endless spiral of misery and despair and I can see no way out of my situation, not ever. Oh, woe is me, me, me . . .
And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, has gone down with laminate flooring.
I'd pay to read that every week, neigh (see what I did there?) every day.
That's hilarious!
If LJ's efforts were as entertaining, this thread wouldn't exist
RS* strumming his guitar and singing:
Oh, Lizzie, hen, come share ma but an' ben.
Ah'll quit oglin' Lorraine's boobies
An' instead Ah'll buy ye rubies.
Ye'll mairry me somehoo.
Juist say "Och aye, the noo".
Grovelling thanks for the offer of fairy-skin luggage, Fatsia. I presume it will cost you 26K? The shed would be handy to banish morecowbell to when she/he clamps her/his meaty thighs around my very rare spider-spun bedding. I've filed divorce papers against Michael as from this morning. Reason? He dry humps the window cleaner's ladder and stalks unsuspecting pullovers on hooves.
Bellafiga and all you other wonderful posters - give us one of your spoofs please.
More please!
In the aftermath of Mr. Piggy Eyes' (aka the RS*) obsession with Lorraine Kelly's boobies, I have had a truly dreadful time.
Michael knocked over my laptop, completely wrecking it, Mini Puppy ran off with my Blackberry and hid it, Grace Kelly stress-wee'ed over my designer carpets which cost £26,000, my 17 cats have ripped my cashmere duvet to shreds and Lizzie is ill once again. Why does all this bad stuff happen to
meeee?
Unable to cope with the stress, I sent for Madame Lazonga, the psychic animal behaviourist, who told me: "The animals are disturbed by your stressful negative vibes. Just chill out and all will be well. That'll be £1,000, please."
I told her to bill me for her advice. She'll have to wait for her payment. After all, a girl must get her priorities right. I'll have to buy that Victoria Beckham dress first.
Taking her advice, I booked a pampering session in London.
My roots were retouched, forehead Botoxed, teeth steam cleaned, Brazilian wax done (ouch!) legs waxed and finally I had a pedicure.
Feeling completely relaxed, I returned to Yorkshire. Imagine my surprise when, within two hours of my return, the Rock Star's roadie turned up at my door. Apparently the RS* was heartbroken and wanted forgiveness for his misdemeanour. He'd bought an estate in the Highlands of Scotland and wanted me to inspect it. I decided to give him another chance (and possibly write a few articles about him) so I e-mailed him to come and see me.
The following day he turned up in a huge, flashy, American motor home. This was to be our mode of transport and, worse still, he wanted to go camping in it - the very idea! I told him I would accompany him on condition that we ate out in the finest restaurants and stopped at five star hotels. His pudgy face crumpled but he eventually agreed. I packed loads of Louis Vuitton suitcases and my Michael Kors tote bag
and then we set off.
The first day was bliss. He promised me that he would become a vegetarian and, better still, he'd stop ogling Lorraine Kelly's boobies.
Things went dreadfully wrong on the second day. That evening while relaxing in a luxurious oily bath at our five star hotel, I heard the door of our room slam shut and realised he'd sneaked out. I dried myself and went to look for him without success.
Fifteen minutes later I noticed a light was on in his motor home. As I approached it, I heard him shout: "Gaun yersel', hen"! I wrenched the door open and discovered his sordid secret. He was stuffing his fat face with haggis and chips which he must have bought in town - so much for being a vegetarian! Worse still, he'd an expression of ecstacy on his face because he was watching Lorraine Kelly's boobies on his TV. Beside him was a large bottle of Irn Bru, a deep-fried Mars Bar and an empty DVD case entitled: "Recordings of the Lorraine Kelly Show". The swine! I threw his haggis and chips over him and trampled his deep-fried Mars Bar into his carpet.
Sobbing and wailing, I returned to the hotel, packed my Louis Vuitton suitcases and Michael Kors tote bag and checked out.
I hailed a taxi to take me to the airport and went to my cupboard in London where I opened a large bottle of Chardonnay.
The RS* has repeatedly phoned me but I have told him I never want to see him again. (However, I'll let him grovel as it'll come in handy for some column fodder when I run out of ideas).
Here's the latest episode:-
In which there's one humungous crisis.
Something was afoot, dear reader, because the RS* hadn't sent me any grovelling text messages for the past few days.
Taking a slight break from my 80 hour working week, I decided to see for myself what his fascination with Lorraine Kelly's boobies was so, against my better judgement, I switched on to watch her TV show.
At first, so far so bland. There was some chit-chat and then fashion news from the High Street. Of course it couldn't compare with my vast knowledge of designer fashion.
I wondered how many men had tuned in just for the opportunity of leering at her ample cleavage which she was flaunting quite shamelessly.
Another guest walked in and droned on. I was almost tempted to switch off but continued to watch out of curiosity.
When she announced her next guest, I almost fell off my £10,000 Terence Conran chaise longue. It was the RS*.
I was, as they say in vulgar parlance, gobsmacked. So this was why the utter swine had stopped grovelling. He must have been so overwhelmed at being invited onto her show that he'd lost all sense of proportion.
To my horror, she announced she was a great fan of his music. He was like a child in a sweet shop - beaming all over his sweaty face. Perhaps it was the heat from the studio lights but I thought it had more to do with his lustful thoughts - down boy! His eyes were on stalks - locked onto her vast cleavage.
"Ah'm fair pleased ye appreciate ma music, Lorraine, because Ah've goat three tickets tae ma next gig fur yersel', yuir man an' young Rosie". I felt like vomiting - it was like a mutual admiration society.
Thanking him profusely, she enquired about his love-life and he replied he was unsure if he was still in a relationship. The nerve of the man! He told her he had this relationship with a
famous fashion journalist but kept quiet about my name although that was the only thing he kept quiet about. The disgusting brute discussed that disastrous trip to Scotland and the reason why I'd flung his haggis and chips over him and trampled on his deep-fried Mars Bar, adding: "Ah'd yin helluva joab gettin' that motor home carpet clean".
At this point that woman and the entire studio audience howled with laughter. Wiping away tears of mirth when the laughter subsided, she said: "What a waste of a good haggis supper" and, believe it or not, they both went on to extol the virtue of haggis and chips.
I was shaking with rage by now and my face was beetroot-red with anger and humiliation.
Then came the bombshell. She said it sounded like I was only using him and that I must be a bit neurotic. To add insult to injury, she told him that, being a famous Rock Star, he could have his pick of whoever he wanted.
I couldn't believe my ears - he agreed. His actual words were:
"Aye, come tae think o' it, she's a bit o' a heidcase - in fact a right bampot".
Hyperventilating, wailing and uttering profanities, I shook as I reached for the remote control to switch off: otherwise I would have flung my £1,800 Christian Louboutin shoe boots through my £15,000 state of the art television screen.
Recalling Mme. Lazonga's good advice about chilling out, I booked a week's rest at a world-famous spa for pampering my bruised ego and loads of de-stressing.
< applause