The official LIZ JONES thread

Then I discovered everything in the countryside is more expensive: you have to drive miles to even find a shop. Dinner for two is still about £70 and if you tell the waiter you are vegetarian, you are stared at, incredulously, as if you are black.
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AGOG

When I learned a local councillor had donned a black wig and bought a tin of Illy coffee to impersonate me on a float for the annual carnival, I put my house on the market.
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:D
 
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The rudeness was staggering. Once, my sister, who lives nearby, was giving a party for her young son in my garden. After tea, all the mums came to pick up their children. And not one even bothered to acknowledge my existence, let alone exclaim how lovely my garden was.
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Those MONSTERS!
 
Liz%20Jones%20Cover.jpg
 
I follow the photographer from that shoot on Twitter, and he made the rather telling comment that she was by far the most submissive person he'd ever shot. She'd literally agree to anything with no complaints.
 
The disgusting cunt was in Metro today defending what she said and plugging her book. Argh! She also gave off the impression she was very bitter as she's now alone with no friends. OH WELL
 
She recently did an article about the horrors of having to care for her elderly mother for half a day. I only saw a snippet, but she managed to call her infirm, 98 year old mother fat in the first few lines :(
 
Isn't she always slagging off her mum? I remember an article where she mentioned her mum had been confined to a wheelchair and MOANED about the tracks its wheels made on her OAK FLOOR.
 
"I think the misconception about me is that people imagine I’m nastier than I actually am. Because I’m not actually Jan Moir, I’m not nasty about individuals."

:basil: Way to bitch about your colleague, Liz
 
"the STOP FUCKING HATE wouldn’t let me do I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here or Celebrity Big Brother"

DAMN YOU STOP FUCKING HATE

She really is quite a tragic figure, it's hard not to pity her.
 
Her Stylist interview made me feel quite sorry for her. Whether or not that was her intention is another matter though. :D
 
Saying that, this made me laugh out loud

What would you like your life to look like in 10 years’ time?

I’d like to be dead. It’s too exhausting being me.
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I can almost forgive her all her faults for naming her book after a Morrissey B-side :)
 
loomer said:
Ha! I saw that and did wonder... David Cameron is a fan too. :)
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It warmed my heart to see Morrissey and Marr coming together to agree that David Cameron IS NOT ALLOWED to like The Smiths.
 
A really brutal book review cum character assassination from Suzanne Moore

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/jul/10/liz-jones-girl-least-likely-review?CMP=twt_gu

The last time I saw Liz Jones was at a small leaving do when we worked at the same newspaper. I was fully aware that almost everything about me must revolt her. My breasts, my flesh, my lack of grooming, my love of alcohol, my desire for a good time, my general bad behaviour. At dinner, I ate my editor's bread roll, as I'm still never quite sure whose plate is whose. So not only had I eaten carbohydrates, which is illegal in Liz world. I had also eaten my boss's food.

She had not consumed even the tiny "vegan canapés" that had been prepared for her. If there is anything more despairing than these blobs of non-food, I don't know what it is. She looked oddly amazing, with eyelash extensions, huge heels, Towie tan. We chatted and shared a cab home; I couldn't see the point in being rude to someone so tragic. Dropping her off in expensive Clerkenwell, though, I felt I'd been had. I recalled the columns she had written in which she had claimed poverty. Let's just say no salary guesstimated in interviews comes close to what she really earns.

So now there's this book, marketed as the anti-Caitlin Moran. Where Moran spreads joy, Jones glories in self-hatred and regret. Unlike most misery memoirs, however, the misery here is almost entirely self-inflicted. Her family were not that poor. She had riding lessons. Her parents' marriage was happy, though she paints her dad as impossibly handsome and her mum as a doormat with a core of inner steel. Jones certainly inherited that.

She is, when she wants to be, a clever and powerful writer; her humour is like being rubbed raw with sandpaper. She uses her deafness to explain her awkwardness and alienation, but I don't buy this at all.

What this book really describes is life with an eating disorder, a disorder that comes from deep rage and the need to control. Writing is always about control and once you read Jones telling her own, highly contradictory, story you realise it is threaded through with clues that speak of delusion; a narrative dysmorphia abounds.

Culturally, we still remain fairly ignorant about so–called "fasting". While everyone screamed drugs when Amy Winehouse died, the fact is she had made herself so tiny that her body could no longer take the abuse. She loved showing her skinny frame. To this day, Jones tells us she loves to feel her ribs. She is proud to fit into the same skinny jeans that Kate Middleton wears.

Anorexics cannot age normally, in a fight against or a flight from womanhood, so Jones's latest bout of self–mutilation/improvement – a facelift – is part of the trajectory of a woman who cannot grow old because she could not grow up.

She had no periods until she was 18; she was then given steroids, hospitalised, and had her "pendulous breasts" cut off at 29, finally delighted to be as flat as a board even as the blood seeped through the bandages. Yet all of this is contradicted by the pictures in the book. She was a very pretty girl indeed.

The compulsive self-laceration in her columns ensures that her "fans" must hear ever more intimate and dreadful stories about her loneliness and failure with men. The quest for perfection that she blames on magazines is idiotic. Much of the time she is in the throes of a disorder played out in public with no duty of care from her editors. Perhaps it was fun when she was writing about her failing marriage, her OCD "lifestyle", his adultery. Perhaps there was something real there.

But when allowed in her column to roam over subjects such as murder or depression, she inevitably turns the subject back to herself in a way that is frankly irresponsible. She seems to hate the female form, yet neither that nor her claim that the fashion industry destroyed her life has stopped her from becoming the fashion editor of the STOP FUCKING HATE, a position that allows her to pass judgment on other women.

It is well known that the STOP FUCKING HATE gets women to write its most misogynistic pieces. Jones, I feel, always worked well for them as an example of the dread "career woman": you end up childless, having endless "procedures", living in a barn with cats, bats and raddled horses.

The fact remains, however, that Jones is super-successful and hard-working, and has access to glamour of which most people could only dream. She simply chooses to display her self-inflicted pain rather than seek treatment for it.

When I first set eyes on her, in 2000, she was editor of Marie Claire and was holding a "body summit" about the portrayal of women by the fashion industry. Tessa Jowell was there in full social worker mode, as was Susie Orbach, whom I admire. But it didn't work. I remember saying to Orbach: "It's not just about images, but the way the words frame them." This was long before the Mail's infamous online sidebar of shame; before phrases such as "enviable", "flaunting her curves", "bikini body" and all the other twaddle that now exists. The crack force of the cellulite police had yet to arrive.

Jones was anorexic long before any of this, and her obsession with the bodies of certain models at points made me wonder if her sexual "problem" is merely that she is gay.

Who this book is for I cannot quite tell. Are we to emulate her misery or learn from it? She appears to have learned nothing. The self-pity is monotonous; endless disappointments with men, a quest for perfection, the boring details of the hyper-grooming, the classic ambivalence towards femininity itself. She finds periods and body hair, never mind maternity leave, rebarbative. She saves her empathy for animals; the more diseased they are, the more she feels for them. Yet we are to feel sorry for her?

Perhaps once I did. It's hard to keep a column going. For the confessional columnist, a huge part of it is self-revelation, a weekly dose of brutal honesty. Jones's USP is always Too Much Information.

Shot through this book, though, is the pure anger she has always felt and never dealt with. There are clues, if you look, about how she lies and deceives. She learned to lie very young, at 11. Anorexics do. They control their hunger and the world by lying about it. The habit, she says, became a lifetime one.

At heart you see she is an operator, a manipulator, a liar. I don't care if she has made up a rock star boyfriend or not, I don't believe her at all any more. I don't believe she regrets everything and it is only her kindness that gets her into trouble. The truth she sells is that you can monetise damage if you are clever enough. You can never be too rich or too thin? Then look … Some things are a choice. Jones is scarily proud of her ability to manipulate. And to disturb. I won't take away her fearsome lonely achievement.

She stands alone, eager to show her wasted flesh and wasted anger. In another life, she could have expertly deconstructed the work of femininity and its constraints; she could have been a whistleblower, she could have been a contender.

But she would have had to let herself go. And that's the thing about the tainted love of narcissism. No one knows more than Liz Jones that narcissism is always unrequited love. The love that kills your soul.
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wow, I wish we had journalism like that here, it'd be much more fun to read newspapers
 
I drunkenly bought the Kindle version the other night. I couldn't find it illegally anywhere :(

The full colour photos in t'middle are, as expected, amazing.
 
I love the idea that she's a big LESLEY, sitting alone every night gusset-typing over pictures of Rihanna in her rape-inducing outfits.
 
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Suzanne Moore is the one with very dubious friends who hate trans people, right?
 
She made a comment about women aspiring to the body of a 'Brazillian transsexual' which offended a few Trans people. I don't think she meant any harm but she didn't handle the fallout from it well at all.
 
She was on Radio 4 this morning whilst I was on my way to work (I was late, OK?) BANGING ON about how she had lots of work done to her face to stop other people from having it done and how she wanted to walk on a women's march in Bosnia in high heels

It was all QUITE BIZARRE
 
To be honest I find the concept of writing a big long article trying to out a peer as both anorexic and possibly gay to be a bit callous and decidedly non-fabulous.
 
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I thought that the point was how baffling her obsession and disgust at the female form is, but I don't disagree when it's put like that.
 
Jark said:
Suzanne Moore is the one with very dubious friends who hate trans people, right?
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Julie Birchill, who hates trans people, the Irish and Islam, but don't use the word chav around her because that's really mean.
 
'Inane, vain and terminally moronic': The pathetic reality of life in CBB house revealed as Liz Jones delivers a deliciously barbed verdict on her toughest assignment yet

I don't do nude. Earlier in the day I’d watched, aghast, as Sam, a 23-year-old reality TV ‘star’, took a long, soapy shower in her bikini, leaving the glass door propped wide for all the world, or at least up to 3.8 million primetime viewers, to see. Sam Faiers, who I did not know until January 3, the day I staggered into the Celebrity Big Brother house, appears on ITV2’s The Only Way Is Essex, a programme on which she apparently broke off her engagement to a young man who has DayGlo teeth and who is unable to tell the time.

Not for the first moment in my two-and-a-half weeks in the house did I wonder what on earth I was doing allowing myself to be surrounded by mirrors, cameras and microphones when I cannot bear my own image or the sound of my voice.

I was also surrounded by celebrities so stupid that when I said to housemate Lee Ryan, a boy band member, that I couldn’t open the loo door with my bare hands because of a germ phobia, he said: ‘Oh, you have an ATM.’

I corrected him, saying, No, I have OCD, and of course he retorted with that old celebrity rejoinder, high-fiving me and declaring: ‘Yeah, well, babe. I’m dyslexic.’


I’d decided to enter the house because I needed the rest (!), because some ‘easy’, silly money wouldn’t go amiss, and because I felt that simply ignoring reality TV, now it has reached saturation point, would make me not only arrogant, but hopelessly out of touch with the secretaries, supermarket till operatives and hair salon creatives for whom shows such as Made In Chelsea are a distraction from their own lives.

Above all, though, I felt I should do it because for the past 14 years I’ve written reality journalism. A camera might not have been zooming in on my orange-peel thighs, but my pen has speared my depression, my chronic shyness, my loved ones . . . You name it, I’ve exposed it via a metaphorical open shower door.

I’ve made my living, too, eviscerating ‘stars’, especially the type who never went to RADA, delivering my verdict after spending an hour with them, or never having even met them.

So, two days before entering the house, I was picked up by a people-carrier and carted off to Elstree. I’d been given a codename, ‘Lettuce’ (the CBB production team had been emailed a list of my eating requirements, hence the epithet), so news of my confinement wouldn’t leak.

I was told to wear a beanie and dark glasses so that when I arrived at the ghastly budget hotel, the sort of place that dispenses foam from an appliance nailed to the wall, I wouldn’t be rumbled.

My phones, laptop and book were wrestled from my sweaty palms and, after corridors and lifts were ‘swept’ by young women whispering into walkie talkies, for all the world like CIA operatives, I was shut in a room for two days with a young man who was to be my chaperone, an aspiring actor called Jonny. There was no minibar, no TV, no landline, no escape.

I was dreading 9pm on launch night, my only comforting thought that at least I’m so deaf I wouldn’t be able to hear the boos. As the hour approached, I was blindfolded, giant headphones placed over my ears, so that when I was steered into a waiting line of limos I would not glimpse the other 11 famous people heading inside. They shouldn’t have worried.

When I emerged onto the CBB red carpet through that giant Orwellian eye, to be told I would be handcuffed to a young man so small he could have been a charm on a bracelet and wearing trousers so low slung he resembled a toddler with a filled nappy, I had no idea he was a pop star called Dappy.

Worse was to follow.

As I stood with Dappy, at the bottom of those famous stairs, he was forced to become my human Google: ‘Pop star or footballer?’ I would hiss as I met my fellow housemates. It was going to be a very long three weeks indeed.

And, at first, my housemates didn’t disappoint. An American actress-slash-model called Jasmine immediately got drunk (not one night went by without cheap alcohol), missed parking her bony arse on a gilt chair, and crashed to the floor. She cut her leg, but when given a plaster in the Diary Room, stuck it randomly above the wound.

There was a pneumatic young woman from Essex who, on a long, wet afternoon, when asked to name an English city, would say hopefully, ‘Cornwall?’, a Nolan sister, light entertainment legend Lionel Blair, four-times heavyweight boxing champion Evander Holyfield, who never lost his look of bewilderment, never once changed his sheets or towel and had never seen the show so he thought he could go to Bond Street shopping every day, and comedian Jim Davidson. I had to concentrate very hard not to call him Freddie, mixing him up with his hamster-eating colleague in comedy.

Nobody liked me. I told each one I am profoundly deaf, but ironically they didn’t hear me, as they only wanted to talk about themselves.

Ollie, who made his name in Made In Chelsea, became so brown over the next few days he reminded me of Peter Sellers playing an Indian character in The Party (a film I doubt he’s seen).

When forced to express an opinion by Big Brother, who would boom at us at all hours of the day and night, Ollie was so traumatised at the possibility of not being liked by someone somewhere, a tear snaked down his face, leaving a white snail’s trail.

I became more and more alienated, bored with the inane chatter. Even the so-called ‘other’ intelligent woman, Apprentice runner-up Luisa Zissman, who never failed to tell us of her three businesses, and the fact her new man bought her a Birkin bag for Christmas, was as hyperactive as a bee in a jam jar, and kept asking me if I’d ever had a threesome. ‘I’m lucky if I ever get a twosome,’ I told her drily.

At the dining table after yet another meal (these people could eat for England!), they were all talking about the perils of fame, having to pose in other people’s selfies in the street and so forth, so I butted in nervously: ‘I get no benefit from being well-known at all.’

‘That’s because you’re not famous,’ said Jim, prompting me to wail in the Diary Room (I never pressed the ‘eye’ bell for admission, only entering when summoned): ‘I have millions of readers! If I were in a wheelchair they would have to be nice to me!’
 
Didn't take her long.

As I said before, the printed persona does not match up with the real life person. Truly an odd woman.
 
That's quite tame. Her 'reading' on the BB talent show was more fun and we didn't even get to hear her line about Linda's clothes on that broadcast.
 
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