Discussion in 'Current Affairs & Debate' started by Shirley, Jan 25, 2011.
Who is still linking to this CUNT?
The ULTIMATE in BRAIN DEAD FLAME BAIT
Why won't it just DIE?
Those poor cats.
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.
Her interview with Stylist is here. http://www.stylist.co.uk/people/the-liz-jones-interview
"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."
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.
It's the organic rain water that gets me every time.
Her Stylist interview made me feel quite sorry for her. Whether or not that was her intention is another matter though.
Saying that, this made me laugh out loud
Were we aware of THIS?
Note all the ONE STAR reviews!
I can almost forgive her all her faults for naming her book after a Morrissey B-side
Ha! I saw that and did wonder... David Cameron is a fan too.
The sample they give you to read there is probably one of the bleakest introductions to a book ever
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
wow, I wish we had journalism like that here, it'd be much more fun to read newspapers
It doesn't tell you much about the book, but I LIKE IT
It actually seems very kind.
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.
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
Oh they are ALL just as BAD as each other.
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.
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.
In fairness Liz is entirely open about her anorexia, isn't she?
"Memo to self: exercise care when sharing cab with Suzanne Moore."
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.
Well that's all pretty much as expected
There's loads more but I got bored of copy & pasting. She gets truly slated in the comments.
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.