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Liz Jones - YOU magazine (Part 4) |
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#2101 |
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Quote:
Good news: this Sunday's Dreary is here already!
IN WHICH I REALISE THAT LOVE HURTS … Well, David came up to my beautiful house at the weekend, with its verdant, lush lawns sloping down to the pristine river. You will remember I wrote that last time he didn’t even bring me a bottle of Prosecco. This time he said he’d got a present for me. He handed me a Tesco carrier with four cans of extra strong lager and a two litre bottle of cheap cider – he said he’d drunk the other two cans on the way to Yorkshire but still plenty of stuff left to make ‘Snakebite’ aperitifs That evening I’d arranged for us to eat at a vegan restaurant where the brussel sprout egg-free omelettes are legendary. David pulled a bit of a face and said to the waitress that he actually fancied a nice steak, with plenty of chips cooked in beef dripping and for a few minutes we were in danger of being thrown out of the place but I said to the waitress did she know who I was and she said no and she didn’t bloody care either, but then I told her to call the manager and I told him one of my friends was the restaurant critic of the Wail on Sunday and I had her on speed dial, so he let us stay. I made David eat the omelette – I hope no-one spat in it or worse, you never know. I had some organic vegan fizzy water and a sprig of organic free range watercress, as I’d already eaten a quarter of a tomato that morning. I had been looking forward the next day to taking David from my beautiful house down my sloping lawns to admire the pristine river but I was a bit upset because he had been farting all night in my lovely bed with its ten million thread Egyptian cotton sheets and it smelled even worse than when Michael my Hearing Dog lets rip and every one of my seventeen cats had got off the bed in disgust and stalked out during the night. We had Words about this and David said it was my fault for making him eat the Brussels sprout eggless omelette but I said it was probably the other four cans of extra strong lager and half the cider he’d necked while I was getting ready for bed - putting on my Bliss softening socks, gloves, knee pads and knickers and applying my oily hair mask and doing the tooth whitening procedure, bleaching my toenails and vacuuming my ears and nostrils, plus a quick pluck of stray hairs that had popped up here and there. Anyway, reader, the day didn’t go well. I took David out for a ride in my new convertible Mercedes with its alloy wheels (I had to have them replaced after Nic scraped them; I’ve taken the cost off her wages). As a surprise, I’d booked David into a lovely holistic spa for its complete ‘He-Man-Tenance Treatment’ – carbolic bath, massage with special Calcutta sourced mud, Swarfega facemask, complete plucking to remove all body hair, high colonic irrigation for inner pristine cleansing, manicure and pedicure, all over fake mahogany tan, the services of a Personal Stylist and Colourist who would tell David his best ‘colours’ using swathes of lovely genuine polyester silk in different shades and give him advice on fashion, a makeup lesson from a Beauty4Men consultant and three hours of strenuous weight training; the lovely pampering day ending up with his chakras being stimulated simultaneously with piping hot rocks and acupuncture needles, while a holistic healer chanted yogic mantras and played whale music on a zither. But David refused to go. In fact, there was quite a scene and he actually SHOUTED at me that I was a controlling old hag and he’d had enough and when I reminded him of ALL that I’d done for him, he threw his gold Dunhill lighter at my head, ripped a sleeve right off his N. Peal charcoal grey cashmere sweater and then stormed out. Of course, we made up. It’s what lovers do and anyway, he had no transport to get to the train station if I didn’t take him in my convertible Mercedes with new alloy wheels, as his old car, the ONE HE TRIED TO GIVE ME WHEN IT NEEDED REPAIRS, was back in London, having failed its MOT. That night, he was especially tender to me, told me I am definitely the only person he has ever loved and on reflection, he'd realised that after all he hadn't even loved the ex girlfriend who’d died and he especially loved that I had the body of a teenager and he was sorry he’d thrown the gold Dunhill lighter at me and by the way, did I know that it seemed to be irretrievably broken as a result and he really didn’t think he could go back to using those 25p. plastic disposable lighters now that he'd got used to a gold Dunhill lighter. Reader, I felt so loved – at last, at last, after all those years of dreaming, of yearning for him, for my True Love, my David … but suddenly, I felt a pain, such a terrible pain of the sort I’ve never experienced before, not even when I was assuming the pretzel position in the Herod’s Beauty Salon and the stupid girl from some Eastern European hovel, on minimum wage, dripped hot wax where hot wax hurts most .. . but this agony was far far worse. ‘Ow! OW!’ I screamed. ‘David, David, help, help, what’s happening to me …?’ But David just went ‘Aiwa orse eeeehh iiih oouw aaaah …’ Reader, then I realised. His dentures had come out and were embedded in my bottom. I can’t go on. I really can’t. Oh, wait... Cheeky. Nearly had me going there.
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#2102 |
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Join Date: Jul 2012
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Amikolaicheck - you are a genius. I bow to you
![]() 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!! |
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#2103 |
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Join Date: Apr 2014
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'Now I’m the prize bitch'
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/...el-guilty.html Erm, now ?? |
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#2104 |
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Join Date: Apr 2014
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Quote:
Amikolaicheck - http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/...el-guilty.html you are a genius. I bow to you
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#2105 |
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Join Date: May 2014
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And the ex doesn't use garnier fructis. Mmmmm.
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#2106 |
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Join Date: Aug 2006
Location: SW Surrey
Posts: 2,328
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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. |
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#2107 |
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Join Date: Jul 2012
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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. 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* |
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#2108 |
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Join Date: Apr 2011
Location: Islington, London
Posts: 460
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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. |
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#2109 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Sep 2005
Posts: 4,792
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Quote:
And the ex doesn't use garnier fructis. Mmmmm.
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#2110 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Nov 2012
Posts: 124
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Quote:
And the ex doesn't use garnier fructis. Mmmmm.
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#2111 |
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Join Date: Nov 2012
Posts: 3,275
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I may use Garnier fructis on my hair when it's on special offer but at least I can pay my gas and leccy bills Liz my dear.
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#2112 |
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Join Date: Apr 2011
Location: Islington, London
Posts: 460
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I think we should all buy a bottle of the stuff and send it to the Lizard, c/o The Daily Wail.
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#2113 |
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Join Date: Nov 2012
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I think we should all buy a bottle of the stuff and send it to the Lizard, c/o The Daily Wail.
EA Jones, Ziggurat Building 60-66 Saffron Hill London EC1N 8QX |
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#2114 |
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Join Date: Nov 2013
Posts: 51
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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...' Quote:
I think we should all buy a bottle of the stuff and send it to the Lizard, c/o The Daily Wail.
Amikolaichek, loved the parody. Dominodarling, thanks for the heads up, great to hear the other side.
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#2115 |
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Join Date: Mar 2014
Posts: 505
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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. |
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#2116 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Apr 2011
Location: Islington, London
Posts: 460
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PRUDENCE THE CAT’S DIARY
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. |
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#2117 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: May 2014
Posts: 31
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The cat and the car belonged to his ex.
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#2118 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Apr 2011
Location: Islington, London
Posts: 460
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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. |
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#2119 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Feb 2008
Posts: 460
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Quote:
Just send it to
EA Jones, Ziggurat Building 60-66 Saffron Hill London EC1N 8QX |
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#2120 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Sep 2005
Posts: 4,792
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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.
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#2121 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Feb 2008
Posts: 460
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Her NEW CAR? You mean the CONVERTIBLE MERCEDES that she never mentions?
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#2122 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Dec 2009
Posts: 299
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Quote:
Just send it to
EA Jones, Ziggurat Building 60-66 Saffron Hill London EC1N 8QX 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. |
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#2123 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Jul 2006
Location: Pembrokeshire,Wales
Posts: 475
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Quote:
PRUDENCE THE CAT’S DIARY
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. |
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#2124 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: Sep 2005
Posts: 4,792
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Based on sketchy information, I think that's the one. With alloy wheels. Which got scratched. While being taken to "visit a castle".
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#2125 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: May 2014
Posts: 31
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All 100 comments have now been removed from the daily mail ?
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