The official LIZ JONES thread

I could only cope with reading half of that at this delicate time of the day, but AMAZING. She really is completely fucking mental. I do hope the Mail don't fire her for openly admitting that she was married to a foreign person.

And aren't pretty much all condoms covered in spermicide? Silly barren Liz.
 
How desperate is that woman?? her boyfriend refused to sleep with her and that husband :D ridiculous.
 
Liz turned down IACGMOOH :o http://www.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/f...Jones-pulled-Higher-Being-understand-why.html

That might have made it actually worth watching :(
 
GUTTED!

But at least now Dougie from McFly can sleep safely knowing that the lessened threat of JIZZ THEFT.
 
The Mail have done a feature on pictures of women first thing in the morning. Liz, obviously, is one of the volunteers. It looks like she still had time to paint her eyebrows on and arrange her straps in an enticing off-the-shoulder fashion though. :D

As always though, it's the prose that provides the most laughs. ORGANIC RAINWATER, LIZ? "John Lewis, TOP OF THE RANGE"!

Liz Jones, 53, lives in Somerset. She says:

This is why I don’t live with a man. I look like a corpse that has been left too long in the hot sun. Any man unfortunate enough to wake up next to this is likely to place a mirror in front of my mouth to check for vapours.

In my head, I believe I resemble Jennifer Connolly. In reality, having looked at the photo I took on my iPhone moments after waking, I resemble a blow fish.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/08/article-2098507-119BCB6A000005DC-25_306x423.jpg

No one's perfect: Despite a face lift and an extensive pre-bed beauty regime, Liz Jones still hates her appearance in the morning, left

In theory, because of all my nocturnal rules and rituals, I shouldn’t look like this. I always remove make-up before I go to bed and apply three skin creams (eye, night and lip), as well as gloopy cream rubbed into hands, feet, knees and elbows.

I drink organic rainwater before I go to sleep, and am propped up by four pillows (John Lewis, top of the range), like a Victorian consumptive. This is supposed to stop me becoming puffy, as fluid should drain towards my feet.

I use only bedlinen with an 800-plus thread count: cheap sheets can be as bad for your skin as the sun because they are abrasive. I sleep with a window open, even in mid-winter, as this, too, is supposed to be good for your skin. And I lay on my back: laying on my side is bad for the filler in my face and can cause wrinkles.

Seven months ago, I had a facelift — but look at me! Blotchy skin and a mouth like an ancient tortoise: I have morphed into Ralph Fiennes in The English Patient. After the plane crash.

Take heart, all ye who believe Rachel Weisz really looks like her L’Oreal advert. No one looks like that. It’s important you know this. That is why I had this picture taken. Not to frighten small children, but to let young girls know no one’s perfect.
Click to expand...

http://www.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/f...-We-challenged-bravest-writers-just-that.html
 
"That is why I had this picture taken. Not to frighten small children, but to let young girls know no one’s perfect."

Yes, we all thought you were perfect before now, Liz :D
 
"in my head i resemble jennifer connelly" :D that alone sums up liz's COMPLETE DELUSIONAL STATE
 
She looks like the 'after' shot on one of those "Faces of Meth" awareness pictures like this
meth-addict-20.jpg
 
Just so many GEMS in there

"This is why I don’t live with a man"

Right... nothing to do with you being a LOON!
 
OH MY GOD

http://www.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/f...-happened-Mail-transformed-Liz-Jones-OAP.html

The day I faced my fear of growing old

She's spent a fortune trying to hold back the years. So what happened when the Mail transformed LIZ JONES into an OAP?

Anyone watching would see I am struggling, yet no one rushes to my aid.

I’m in Sole Trader, a shoe shop in Kensington, West London, attempting to place my stockinged feet in a pair of trainers.

I try lining up the trainer by poking it with my walking frame. I lift my leg, fail, then lift again.

I’ve managed to slip off my wide-fit Comfort Plus pumps, but now need help. Even looking around is hard, as my neck is bent over, so I have to twist my whole body.

I glimpse a sales assistant a few feet away. An older male customer comes to my rescue. ‘I think the lady needs help,’ he says.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119F2018000005DC-984_306x833.jpghttp://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119C82D5000005DC-946_306x833.jpg

The lumpen young assistant’s feet hove into view.

‘Hello, dear,’ I say. ‘I thought trainers might make me more mobile.’

‘You don’t need trainers, you need physio,’ he says, not smiling.

‘If I could just get them on. I need something that will make me feel safe on the ice.’

Reluctantly, he bends down. He opens the shoe, waiting for me to lift my foot. I fail. He gingerly moves the shoe towards my foot, avoiding any contact. He is recoiling. Perhaps he thinks I smell?

He does up the laces roughly, and the tongue is bent and uncomfy, but I don’t say anything. I ask how much they are, and when he tells me I exclaim: ‘36 pounds!’ in the voice of Mrs Richards in Fawlty Towers.

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t help me get the trainers off, or offer an arm to get me to my feet. I am clearly an Untouchable.

Today, I am no longer my 53-year-old self. With the help of a make-up artist, hairdresser and the Classics range at Marks & Spencer (if this stuff is meant for old people, why make fastenings so fiddly?), I have been fast-forwarded 30 years.

Latex has been used to give me wrinkles where they would later be — if not for the facelift I had last year — so that my skin now has the consistency of crepe paper. Tram lines have been drawn with purple pencil from nose to mouth, which has been blotted out with foundation. I now have no lips — just a gaping maw.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119F416A000005DC-484_634x541.jpg

Fai Archer, the make-up artist, has put dry shampoo in my over-dyed hair to make it silver, and my eyes recede into their sockets, courtesy of more purple shadow.

My ears and nose, Fai told me cheerfully, will apparently continue to grow as I age, taking on ‘a life of their own!’ Great. Something else to look forward to. For now, they have been coarsened with more latex.

The results? I have the face of my 92-year-old mum. But while she always had a twinkle in her pale blue eyes before she descended into dementia, I just look miserable. Angry. As well I might.

As part of my transformation, I’ve been shown how to walk like an old woman by Niamh McKernan, an acting coach, who tells me I must move as though I’m protecting myself, and have to concentrate on where I place my feet.

At 83, I will have less muscle strength, so will have to shift to move my weight. And, ooh, I will be smaller, too — another blow after a lifetime of wearing 6in Louboutins.

All I can think is: yes, the physical disintegration is depressing, but the worst thing is I know that when I reach old age, I will also be alone. Worse off than my mum. At least, having had seven children, she’s leaving something behind.

And the reason for this experiment? To show me the error of my profligate ways — to demonstrate that, no matter how much cosmetic surgery I have, I will become old. It’s inevitable.

People have called me vain, what with my addiction to Botox and fillers, but my quest for youth is actually the opposite of vanity. It’s because I’ve not achieved enough.

While a woman might feel comfortable to show her wrinkles and grey hair because she has teenage children, and people who love her, I’ve never reached the stage where I can say: ‘Well done, Liz. Now you can relax, and grow old gracefully.’

Add to that the fact I will probably have arthritis — my mum, and all three of my older sisters have it — while a brother has just had to have his knee joints replaced.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119F4BE7000005DC-210_634x675.jpg

I will also be penniless, as I have no pension or savings and spend my income faster than it comes in. This is worse than the arthritis.

But how will my facelift fare? Will the white veneers on my teeth look too shockingly bright in a puckered mouth? Will the tattooed eyebrows, denuded of hair, look like strange purple arcs?

Will the laser eye surgery I had five years ago hold good? Will a lifetime of dieting be etched in my bones, making them as desiccated as straw?

Will I even be able to look at my newly ancient face when you consider that I have never felt positive about my looks. I cast my mind back to the day I turned 25 and my dad exclaimed: ‘A quarter of a century! You’re positively ancient!’ In that moment I immediately felt past my best and wanted to hide.

My entire life has been about holding back the years: anorexic from the age of 11, I tried to delay puberty, so scared was I of boys. There’s a photo of me aged 14 — having read in Honey magazine that the sun would age me, like a prune — on the beach at Sidmouth: denim from head to toe; Molton Brown Parasol protecting my hair from dangerous rays; a scarf over my face with a tiny breathing hole cut in.

When I got the job as editor of Marie Claire aged 40, I shaved five years off my age to anyone who asked. I only told my husband my real age on the eve of our wedding, after failing to find someone to forge a new birth certificate. I have always feared being thought of as old.

So what does it feel like actually to be old? Back to the experiment. After Sole Trader, I creep into Zara, fearing the frayed floor will trip me up. I’m drawn to the sequins — even in my 80s I won’t succumb to Per Una at Marks & Spencer. After a long wait, a young sales assistant comes over.

‘I need to go to a party, would this suit me?’ I ask. The garment is sheer. ‘I don’t see why not, but this spangled cardigan might be better,’ she advises me. ‘Shall I take them to the changing room for you?’

While kind, she doesn’t offer me a seat, or shepherd me to the fitting rooms.

But, strange though it is, I feel more respected as an 80-year-old than I do when I’m here normally as a 53-year-old, marching about demanding things. Perhaps I could learn from my mum’s generation, and try to be polite for a change.

In Space NK, an upmarket apothecary where I’ve spent a fortune over the years, I am cheered. I stand outside, unable to open the heavy door as I have my stick in one hand, my bag in the other. A young woman leaps to open it.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’d like a night cream, please.’

‘What skin type do you have?’

I imagine she finds it hard to go off piste.

‘I’m a husk, dear. Do you have anything under £20?’

To her credit, she returns with a cream costing £21.

‘What do you use to remove make-up?’ she asks.

‘It wears off,’ I reply, which is what my mum always said. ‘And I use Imperial Leather.’

‘We have some nice soap,’ she says, but I wish she’d offer me a chair, and some free samples.

My biggest surprise comes at a busy bus stop. People gesture for me to get on first, and when I tell the driver I don’t have a pass, he waves me on board: ‘Hold tight!’

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119F3F31000005DC-83_634x461.jpg
Click to expand...
 
But my triumph comes in the Carphone Warehouse. I get my Blackberry and iPhone from my bag, much to the amusement of the two young Asian assistants.

‘I can never hear anyone,’ I say, which is true, even for the ‘young’ me.

‘Let me fix that,’ one says, and he fiddles with both.

He calls my iPhone. ‘You have to press answer!’ he laughs.

‘That’s so much better, thank you,’ I say, and they help me to the door.

Back from my day out and the latex starts to dissolve. The young-ish me emerges once more. I am so relieved — it’s as though, like Scrooge, I’ve been given a second chance.

I haven’t been treated too badly today, but I suppose it’s one thing being old in the upmarket borough of Kensington. What’s it like to be old on a bleak housing estate, or in a care home? Could I walk among gangs of children?

The next night, back home in Somerset, mindful I will likely grow old here, I don the Marks Classic clothes and walk the three miles to the shops at dusk. I adopt my old lady gait, and lean on my stick.

There is no path, so I’m terrified. It’s snowing. But no one stops to offer me a lift. How on earth would I carry shopping home? Alone in the dark, I sob for the first time. How do these old women (because it’s mostly women) bear it? How do they cope with the red tape, the rudeness, the cost?

If a child were out alone, cold and frightened, questions would be asked in Parliament. But when this happens to an old person, we think it’s normal. Their lot. Their fault.

It’s then I realise that my mum is the bravest woman I know. More beautiful than I will ever be. She has lived with constant pain — even in her 50s, she had a pronounced limp. In her 80s, when still able to get out of a chair, she was always on the brink of falling over. But I never once heard her complain, or leak self-pity.

One particularly painful memory springs to mind. When she was staying with me in London, I was walking her to the loo and she started to sink. I tried to hold her up, screaming for my husband, anyone, for help.

Unable to hold her any longer, I let her slide to the floor, undignified, knickers showing. She was crying, I was crying and all she said was: ‘I’m so sorry, dear. I’m a silly. Just leave me.’

There were times I’d been embarrassed to be around my mum. Times I left her on the loo, unaided, when I should have stayed. When I asked my Harley Street dentist to come and look at her sore gums, I put my hands behind my back, repulsed when he tried to hand me her dentures.

On another occasion, when I got an ambulance to take her back to her empty house and succession of Eastern European carers, I complained about the tram lines left by her wheelchair on my Georgian floor.

‘How will I get those out?’ I spat at my then husband, who had suggested she live with us. Like the boys in the phone shop, he had respect for old people, something we in the West have mostly lost. He started to hate me then. I started to hate me, too.

The experiment has given me newfound respect for my late father as well.

Aged 82, and riddled with cancer, he had still walked with that old Army gait, his shoes so shiny you could see your face in them. He had discipline, and it stood him in good stead. He was a proud man, and hated being ill. ‘Tell the little girls I’m sorry,’ he said to my mum as he died.

This exercise was supposed to be about how society treats the old, but of course it became about me. Now I see I should have reached out to my mum, not recoiled like the surly youth in Sole Trader. But I withdrew from her because she became a mirror of how I will end up.

On news bulletins about the problems of caring for our burgeoning elderly population, we are always shown a pair of hands nestled in a soft lap: crepey fingers turning ancient gold wedding bands like worry beads. But we shouldn’t look at old people as passive and needy.

Just as I saw ‘me’ re-emerge as my disguise was removed, so too should we look at the elderly — seeing them for what they are: former soldiers, mums, teachers, lovers, ballet dancers, friends.

I’ve had the ultimate reality check. I’ve learned that my generation won’t be as good at being old as the last. They had backbone. My spine will be weak, in more ways than one.

A fifth of women in the UK will now reach 100, and the likelihood is I will be incontinent, dependent, senile. That’s a challenge I’m ill-equipped to face.

I vow to visit my mum more often, before it’s too late. I decide I want to set up a free taxi service for the elderly in my local village, as daily shopping with them could prove to be a real joy and a jaunt.

And from this point on, I’m going to make more friends, not spa appointments . . .

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/02/13/article-2100285-119F1D3B000005DC-512_306x520.jpg
Click to expand...

I am ACTUALLY AGOG
 
Clearly everyone was avoiding and mocking her not because she looked realistically old but because she's a FUCKING FREAK :D

They must have seen her coming a mile off.
 
but my quest for youth is actually the opposite of vanity. It’s because I’ve not achieved enough.

While a woman might feel comfortable to show her wrinkles and grey hair because she has teenage children, and people who love her, I’ve never reached the stage where I can say: ‘Well done, Liz. Now you can relax, and grow old gracefully.’
Click to expand...

:D!

As if anyone's going to feel SYMPATHY for the mad old bitch.
 
Last edited:
In Space NK, an upmarket apothecary where I’ve spent a fortune over the years, I am cheered. I stand outside, unable to open the heavy door as I have my stick in one hand, my bag in the other. A young woman leaps to open it.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’d like a night cream, please.’

‘What skin type do you have?’

I imagine she finds it hard to go off piste.

‘I’m a husk, dear. Do you have anything under £20?’
Click to expand...

TOTALLY realistic old person dialogue there Liz. :D

I'd give anything to be a fly on the wall. I bet she put on a really stupid voice too. (if indeed this isn't just TOTAL FICTION).
 
Last edited:
On another occasion, when I got an ambulance to take her back to her empty house and succession of Eastern European carers, I complained about the tram lines left by her wheelchair on my Georgian floor.
Click to expand...

She really is the gift that keeps on giving.
 
Well that's a waste of her FACELIFT.

I just love that the Daily Mail think up increasingly ridiculous ways to humiliate her.

Next week; Liz Jones joins back end of 12-man Human Centipede.
 
"Liz Jones: How I faced my fear of foreigners by browning up and joining the Hezbollah"
 
Oh my lord. There are NO WORDS. :D

I really must invest in "How a Single Girl Got Married", the year before her divorce re-defined batshit insane.
 
AS IF any of that actually happened.

FUNNY how the shoe shop salesman didn't notice the FUCKING HUGE CAMERA taking a picture of this VILE WITCH get her feet stuffed into a pair of Nikes. And if Hollywood can't perfect ageing make up with the best cinematographers and lighting designers in the world, I'm pretty sure Foot Locker on Oxford Street can't either.

What a STUPID STUPID UNPLEASANT STUPID IDIOTIC UNPLEASANT bitch she is. It actually makes me quite angry.
 
Christian said:
AS IF any of that actually happened.

FUNNY how the shoe shop salesman didn't notice the FUCKING HUGE CAMERA taking a picture of this VILE WITCH get her feet stuffed into a pair of Nikes.
Click to expand...

My thought precisely! It's all BOLLOCKS- she plays up to it cause she KNOWS there are threads like this kicking off about her...
 
It's the way she keeps asking for a FUCKING CHAIR. Not that she in anyway needs it but she just expects people to be walking around with a fold out camp chair should an UNSUSPECTING OLD WOMAN turn up.

And she then ventures OUT IN THE SNOW where there is no path. Most people wouldn't have even bothered no matter how able they are.
 
Clearly feeling threatened by hot new up and comer Samantha Brick, Liz has once again RAISED THE BAR.

Help, I'm turning into Kate!

She's 20 years older and prides herself on being at fashion's cutting edge. But LIZ JONES says even she's unconsciously fallen victim to the Kate effect

Monday morning started much like any other. I had been photographed for this newspaper’s Life & Style section wearing a long split skirt. I was meant to be copying Angelina Jolie’s split-skirted look at the Oscars. But it seems my aim misfired. Spectacularly.

The long snake of comments below my story on the Mail’s website and the emails that popped into my inbox all said the same thing — I’d been transformed into none other than the Duchess of Cambridge.

‘All you need is a giant sapphire!’ typed my best friend. ‘What has happened to you: the big hair, the tiny legs, the even smaller waist?’ wrote another. ‘Wow!’ was the one-word email from another friend.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/04/article-2125187-12783102000005DC-506_306x779.jpghttp://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/04/article-2125187-1278311A000005DC-155_306x779.jpg

Wow indeed. If I have morphed into a Middleton, then there are a lot worse things I could be. Kate is unbelievably beautiful. She is 20 years my junior. She exudes from every tiny pore a wholesome niceness. She is not a flirt, a la Carla Bruni; she is not sexy or ridiculously demure and shy, like a young Diana.

She is not boisterous and horsey, or impossibly, off-puttingly posh. No, our Kate is resolutely middle-class. She is hard-working. I can sniff her gimlet-eyed ambition.

I hadn’t realised it before, but we are shockingly alike in our approach to life. We both want nice things. We want to escape our ordinary past (mine, Chelmsford, Essex; hers, Bucklebury, Berkshire). We believe in fairytale romance.

So, yes, I might have Kate’s morals and determination, but do we really look alike? Have I unwittingly aped her style: all low-heeled patent pumps, jersey wrap dresses and long, Dallas-worthy locks?

I had thought I was much more edgy than super-safe Kate: I have long favoured low-slung hipster trousers and dangerous Prada heels, not neat coat dresses and LK Bennett. I have long railed at Kate for not spending enough money on clothes: she is resolutely middle market (Hobbs, Jaeger) rather than high end, which is the murky water I swim in, trying to keep my mouth above water as I juggle my credit cards.

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/04/article-2125187-12783172000005DC-55_306x816.jpghttp://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/04/article-2125187-0CCEEFC800000578-211_306x816.jpg

But her power of persuasion, the way she has quietly crept under all our skins almost unnoticed, has meant an increasing number of women, young and, ahem, not so young, feel it is more important to look smart, appropriate and pretty rather than turn up, as Stella McCartney did for the Olympics kit launch, in print pyjamas.

Kate has transcended trends to shoot straight to classic — which is something I favour, too. Those of us without the desire or the inclination to look like Alexa Chung have our very own head girl.

But (and you knew there would be a but) there is a dangerous, rather more worrying side to the fact we all, me included, want to look like Kate.

Like Samantha Cameron and Victoria Beckham — two other glossy, high-achieving brunettes — Kate seems to have bought into the idea that being in the public eye, being photographed from every angle, means being incredibly thin.

I’d wager she is smaller than I am, which is a size eight (she’s also a couple of inches taller). Word has it Sarah Burton, who designed her bridal gown, had to take in the waist again and again as the wedding hovered nearer.

Why is Kate’s enviable tiny waist worrying? Because impressionable women, those not protected by a great family, love or self-esteem, will have looked at Kate in those skinny jeans as she played hockey in flats the other day and thought: ‘I want to look like that.’

http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/05/article-2125187-1278304B000005DC-919_306x996.jpghttp://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/04/04/article-2125187-12783047000005DC-429_306x996.jpg

The problem is that Kate’s beauty is so down-to-earth, so natural (unlike mine, please see below), that women think it’s attainable.

Heck, we can even afford to buy what she wears, given she shops in places like Hobbs, which is why everything she wears sells out.

I think Kate is potentially more dangerously seductive than Diana, than Grace Kelly, than Kate Moss, than Alexa Chung, simply because her beauty and style seem so attainable. She is one of us.

Hell, if even an old cynic like me can be seduced so effortlessly, so subliminally, then what hope the anxious, directionless teen poised on the brink of adulthood?

Yes, copy Kate’s niceness, the fact she is quick to smile. But please leave the dieting, grooming and credit-card bashing to insane doppelgangers like me.
Click to expand...
 
http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/05/11/article-2143147-130801CF000005DC-612_306x730.jpg
http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/05/11/article-2143147-13080290000005DC-929_306x423.jpg
http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/05/11/article-2143147-13080411000005DC-274_306x423.jpg
http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/05/11/article-2143147-13080320000005DC-712_634x400.jpg
http://i.STOP FUNDING HATEco.uk/i/pix/2012/05/11/article-2143147-130803DC000005DC-17_634x685.jpg
 
What does any of this actually achieve? She's a fucking idiot.
 
Someone put this dire woman out of her misery now :evil:

I'm presuming every view of this thread just adds to the Mail's web stats as those pictures are direct links.

Which means I'm part of the problem now too :(
 
Christian said:
I'm presuming every view of this thread just adds to the Mail's web stats as those pictures are direct links.

Which means I'm part of the problem now too :(
Click to expand...

I don't think so? Unless things have changed. If anything using their bandwidth to show pictures here without giving them a page impression is BETTER.

You wouldn't pay for ad placement on a site where people are only viewing the pictures elsewhere and would never see the ad.
 
Last edited:
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 1 (members: 0, guests: 1)
Back
Top Bottom