Originally Posted by newbaby:
“Sounds gripping. In a non man-made-fibre way.”
“Sounds gripping. In a non man-made-fibre way.”
Buttery soft leathery?
Liz Jones - YOU magazine (Part 4)
44 of 251
Originally Posted by sunstone:
“Ooo, interesting. Is this coming from twitter or something?”
“Ooo, interesting. Is this coming from twitter or something?”
No, other social networks are available. With photos.
Originally Posted by vampyre:
“No, other social networks are available. With photos.”
“No, other social networks are available. With photos.”
Ah, it's that one I refuse to join on principal then.
Originally Posted by sunstone:
“Ah, it's that one I refuse to join on principal then.”
“Ah, it's that one I refuse to join on principal then.
”
I share your principle on the subject. I just inhabit the sub atomically tiny little bit that "discusses" Lizard and no more.
Originally Posted by vampyre:
“I share your principle on the subject. I just inhabit the sub atomically tiny little bit that "discusses" Lizard and no more.”
“I share your principle on the subject. I just inhabit the sub atomically tiny little bit that "discusses" Lizard and no more.”
I have been tempted for that bit, but nah. Maybe some kind techy person will put a link to pics up here eventually.
Originally Posted by vampyre:
“No, other social networks are available. With photos.”
“No, other social networks are available. With photos.”
Oh! I'll have a nosey later. Havent signed into anything "social networky" for a few weeks (often take a break in the summertime) but am always up for a laugh at her expense
Originally Posted by Sarah Soreen:
“Oh! I'll have a nosey later. Havent signed into anything "social networky" for a few weeks (often take a break in the summertime) but am always up for a laugh at her expense”
“Oh! I'll have a nosey later. Havent signed into anything "social networky" for a few weeks (often take a break in the summertime) but am always up for a laugh at her expense
”
You will be well rewarded for your logging in.
Originally Posted by vampyre:
“You will be well rewarded for your logging in.”
“You will be well rewarded for your logging in.”
<~~~~ off to have a look
Originally Posted by Bellagio:
“jersyporter - to be fair to astor, she did say no, she didn't condone plagiarism... then entirely undermined herself by stating that what Jones was doing wasn't plagiarism. Much in the same way, I suspect, that the sun doesn't set in the west in the evening.
She really is a very, very silly woman.
”
“jersyporter - to be fair to astor, she did say no, she didn't condone plagiarism... then entirely undermined herself by stating that what Jones was doing wasn't plagiarism. Much in the same way, I suspect, that the sun doesn't set in the west in the evening.
She really is a very, very silly woman.
”
I know astor sort of 'danced around' the plagiarism issue, but they then, as you say, did a kind of 'about face' in the same post! But the fact remains that astor plays with words, trying to appear clever whilst avoiding answering questions or addressing issues directly, which is something that really gets my goat!
Oh well, even with the plagiarism issue 'sort of' addressed (you are more generous in your definition of that than I am
) astor still has the other questions to give straight, one word answers to... can't be that hard, surely, to give one word answers to simple questions?!Then again, when one idolises someone who twists words, facts and events for a living... someone who appears, to all intents and purposes, to have absolutely no realisation (or shame, whichever is closer to the truth) about how those words are perceived, or any self of how she herself is perceived...
Originally Posted by jerseyporter:
“I know astor sort of 'danced around' the plagiarism issue, but they then, as you say, did a kind of 'about face' in the same post! But the fact remains that astor plays with words, trying to appear clever whilst avoiding answering questions or addressing issues directly, which is something that really gets my goat!
Oh well, even with the plagiarism issue 'sort of' addressed (you are more generous in your definition of that than I am) astor still has the other questions to give straight, one word answers to... can't be that hard, surely, to give one word answers to simple questions?!
Then again, when one idolises someone who twists words, facts and events for a living... someone who appears, to all intents and purposes, to have absolutely no realisation (or shame, whichever is closer to the truth) about how those words are perceived, or any self of how she herself is perceived... ”
“I know astor sort of 'danced around' the plagiarism issue, but they then, as you say, did a kind of 'about face' in the same post! But the fact remains that astor plays with words, trying to appear clever whilst avoiding answering questions or addressing issues directly, which is something that really gets my goat!
Oh well, even with the plagiarism issue 'sort of' addressed (you are more generous in your definition of that than I am
) astor still has the other questions to give straight, one word answers to... can't be that hard, surely, to give one word answers to simple questions?!Then again, when one idolises someone who twists words, facts and events for a living... someone who appears, to all intents and purposes, to have absolutely no realisation (or shame, whichever is closer to the truth) about how those words are perceived, or any self of how she herself is perceived...
”
I like you jerseyporter. That is all.
Another spectacular Liz fail at the Mail today.....today she's took aim at Kate Moss for being ''saggy'.
Originally Posted by Habibti:
“A particularly catty / nasty analysis of Kate Moss's flaws, even by DM standards”
“A particularly catty / nasty analysis of Kate Moss's flaws, even by DM standards”
What amazes me is that one of 'her proudest achievements' is using healthier models whilst at Marie Claire only to rip to shreds Kate Moss for having a tummy roll and a saggy bum.
At least Kate Moss's Rock Star is real.
Originally Posted by Habibti:
“A particularly catty / nasty analysis of Kate Moss's flaws, even by DM standards”
“A particularly catty / nasty analysis of Kate Moss's flaws, even by DM standards”
Jealousy is a curse. The problem, of course, is not that Kate Moss sags/drags/droops but that the bottom-of-the-barrel oracle is enraged that KM looks quite normal en plein air without airbrushing.
I can't flipping stand Kate Moss. because of the drugs thing. However LJ's insults are ridiculous.
"Kate made millions by making US try to emulate her" , Crumbs LJ, did you really try to emulate someone who is 15 years younger than you? You sad woman.
Message to Liz, we all age differently. LJ's arms must be in ageing overdrive now , how long ago was that bliddy awful tat? I thought it was less than a year . now she says " tattoos can stretch and distort with loss of skin tone. as I've discovered with the rearing stallion on my upper arm,which is now a cart horse."
Show me a bikini bottom that doesn't droop when you get out of the water, these are pap shots not a fashion shoot, dopey.
With regards the "low slung breasts" Haha! ( being lanky and flat chested,tankini is sooo not a good look.)
Croydon face lift? Eh ? What would anyone with longer hair do on the beach except tie it up?
Ps. There are some lovely padded bikinis out there,just don't make my mistake of putting a shirt over while still wet. You may be accused of lactating.
"Kate made millions by making US try to emulate her" , Crumbs LJ, did you really try to emulate someone who is 15 years younger than you? You sad woman.
Message to Liz, we all age differently. LJ's arms must be in ageing overdrive now , how long ago was that bliddy awful tat? I thought it was less than a year . now she says " tattoos can stretch and distort with loss of skin tone. as I've discovered with the rearing stallion on my upper arm,which is now a cart horse."
Show me a bikini bottom that doesn't droop when you get out of the water, these are pap shots not a fashion shoot, dopey.
With regards the "low slung breasts" Haha! ( being lanky and flat chested,tankini is sooo not a good look.)
Croydon face lift? Eh ? What would anyone with longer hair do on the beach except tie it up?
Ps. There are some lovely padded bikinis out there,just don't make my mistake of putting a shirt over while still wet. You may be accused of lactating.
Originally Posted by lotty27:
“Thanks CollieComber! No doubt we can expect one of her 'in-depth', well written (ahem!) articles about it soon.
Here's the link for Meridian news.
http://www.itv.com/news/meridian/
You have to scroll right down to the article near the bottom titled: Live Exports Campaigners March In London. She appears in all her 'glory' for a few seconds about 1min 20 in. Scary! No wonder she's banned from some fashion shows, though I'm sure she'll be quick to tell us that it's 'designer' scruff and the exact price of the combats and sloppy grey jumper
”
“Thanks CollieComber! No doubt we can expect one of her 'in-depth', well written (ahem!) articles about it soon.
Here's the link for Meridian news.
http://www.itv.com/news/meridian/
You have to scroll right down to the article near the bottom titled: Live Exports Campaigners March In London. She appears in all her 'glory' for a few seconds about 1min 20 in. Scary! No wonder she's banned from some fashion shows, though I'm sure she'll be quick to tell us that it's 'designer' scruff and the exact price of the combats and sloppy grey jumper
”
I think the woman with her is Isobel Davies (Izzy Lane),with whom she is/was in a business partnership. Liz now lives somewhere near her, in the Richmond area.
http://www.dumbofeather.com/conversa...-entrepreneur/
I got this rancid missive from my agent.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.
CC there are simply no words suffient to praise your latest offering, thank you and well done. I really hope you are doing something about those novels you have written. Brilliant!
Wow that Kate Moss article is mean even for DM standards. The Daily Mail hates women, and Liz is clearly their henchman.
The thing she doesn't understand about Kate Moss is the fact that she does not really care about people like Liz Jones think it's acceptable is what makes her so appealing. Cool celebrities people do not blow dry their hair to go to the beach and do not pose in strategic places where the paparazzi can get the best angle.
The thing she doesn't understand about Kate Moss is the fact that she does not really care about people like Liz Jones think it's acceptable is what makes her so appealing. Cool celebrities people do not blow dry their hair to go to the beach and do not pose in strategic places where the paparazzi can get the best angle.
Originally Posted by coldcomfort:
“I got this rancid missive from my agent.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.”
“I got this rancid missive from my agent.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.”
Just brilliant. That is all
Originally Posted by coldcomfort:
“I got this rancid missive from my agent.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.”
“I got this rancid missive from my agent.
'I'm cutting straight to the chase!' it began, without preamble. 'Your book sales have been an unmitigated disaster, reviews have been worse than dreadful and it appears it's the memoir nobody in their right mind actually does want to read. Basically, it's f**king rubbish and I'm getting it in the neck from high up that after all the hoo-ha it's sunk without trace! No, scratch that - it's probably lining cat shitters up and down the country by now! I hope you haven't spent the f**king advance yet?!!!'
The stupid idiot! Does he not know me at all? Of course I've spent it! How could my doggie pack survive without hand-sewn meerkat pelt bootees? And Lizzie, my rescued racehorse, simply wouldn't have been able to go on without the full bodycon suit made from buttery-soft Thomson's gazelle skins, cunningly crafted by mountain gorillas in misty conditions, now would she?
I've taken flak from every quarter these last few weeks; my family, for one, should be devoted and loyal to me. But no. They have been despicable as always, sending me nasty and hurtful emails, akin to poison pen in my opinion, and attacking my integrity. And for what? For buying them garden sheds? Providing them with my hospitality and catering for their every whim? For buying one particular bullying piece of work a house? All I've ever done is give and give again and never, ever, mentioned to a living soul how selfless I've been. No-one in the whole world except me knows that I bought a house for a bully, for example. I've never done anything wrong in my entire hard-working, important and self-effacing life.
So, bearing these superb qualities in mind, I decided to go on a retreat, a sabbatical if you will, to escape all the jealousy and bitterness directed at me from jealous and bitter busybodies. I decided to become a nun for a day, as they don't have sex either, so I fitted all the criterion.
After contacting Marrick Priory, quite near to my beautiful, rented, grade two listed house, complete with my very own waterfall, I gained an audience with the Mother Superior at 2 o' clock on the dot on Monday.
But what to wear? I didn't think six-inch Loubs would be practical for treading the cloisters, so emailed Philip Treacy, commisioning a wimple in silk, and then a jewellers in Hatton Garden to fashion me a mother-of-pearl rosary. Real pearl, mind. I'm still waiting to hear from either as I type.
Whatever. On the Monday of my 'interview', I strode into Mother Superior's office and smiled warmly at her. She looked startled and recoiled. 'Don't grimace at me child!' she gasped, 'We are a very private people and strangers are not often granted entry into our humble home. Tell me, what do you wish to gain from your visit today?'
Well, apart from letting on that it would make good column fodder, what with all the plain-Janes wandering around the place and her looking like Zelda from Terrorhawks, I told her I was looking to find peace and succour from all the horrible people who were out to make my life a total misery. She nodded sagely and, rising from her chair, told me to kneel. Placing her gnarled hand upon my frizzy head, she told me I would now be known as Sister Lizardine, and told me to pray for all the wonderful things that would make my awful life bearable.
'Dear God,' I began. 'I have been told to pray for a better life than the intollerable one I am forced to lead now. Here goes. I pray my bank manager will advance me a mortgage on my rented grade two listed house, and I pray Prince will come into my life and give me a real pearl necklace, and I pray that Victoria Beckham will stop being nasty to me and invite me to her next collection, and I pray that your Son will resurrect Davy Jones and send him to my house, and I pr . . .'
'No, no, no, Sister Lizardine!' she snapped. 'That's not what I meant at all! Why, those are the things people with loose scruples and no ambition would want for themselves. Tut tut! I wanted you to ask for the simple things in life. Attainable things that make people happy. Tell me, what are your favourite things?' Looking at Mother Zelda's wizened face (she really ought to do Botox) I scrabbled around for an answer. All the above are my favourite things. Then, inspiration! Looking coyly up through my false lashes at Mother Zelda, I replied, 'Um . . . whiskers on kittens? Err . . . warm woollen mittens?'
'Get out!' she told me, unceremoniously.
So there you have it, dear reader. Even women of the cloth turn against me. I really don't know how long I can carry on. I really don't.”
On a day when I thought it would be impossible to laugh, it's happened. Thank you. (goes away singing "raindrops on roses" on a loop)
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