She may have been referring Sali Hughes after the dreadful way Sali treated her on Twitter. Many people interpreted Esther's article on Narcissism to be about Sali.
Giles Coren - offensive, diminutive, entitled
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Bloody outstanding Owen, outstanding
And that's from someone who tends to hide behind a cushion whenever I hear him talk as I'm scared about what's going to come out of his mouth
Oh god, I loathe Owen Jones but he is right on this one.
I disagree with Little Owen Jones about pretty much everything but calling Giles Coren a “pitiful excuse for a human being” is good enough for me. Well done Owen!
Bloody outstanding Owen, outstanding
And that's from someone who tends to hide behind a cushion whenever I hear him talk as I'm scared about what's going to come out of his mouth
What did Sali Hughes do to Esther on Twitter? Isn’t Sali Hughes BFFs with India Knight?
Esther wrote an article for Space NK magazine. It wasn’t well received by some and Sali Hughes took her hounds along when she discussed it.
And Sali Hughes also said she felt sorry for their children having them as parents.
But she then had an absolute hissy fit saying people here talked about her children. Which is a lie as they are never ever discussed.
@Jelly Bean
I’m new to Tattle. I’ve barely even heard of Sali Hughes.
It must be difficult for Esther and Giles to play the privacy card when they both write about their children so much e.g. In addition to writing the super creepy review of his holiday with Kitty, Giles called Sam a “fat little bastard” and a “chubby fucker” in an article about having a fat son. Also there is the fact that Giles has broken a superinjunction previously and Tweeted libellous gossip about Prince William and Kate Middleton.
I’m new to Tattle. I’ve barely even heard of Sali Hughes.
It must be difficult for Esther and Giles to play the privacy card when they both write about their children so much e.g. In addition to writing the super creepy review of his holiday with Kitty, Giles called Sam a “fat little bastard” and a “chubby fucker” in an article about having a fat son. Also there is the fact that Giles has broken a superinjunction previously and Tweeted libellous gossip about Prince William and Kate Middleton.
Sali’s a liar, she’s not as awful as Coren so that’s a blessing.
Bit bitter sweet wasn’t it, he seriously took Sali to task over the Freaky Friday video but he’s totally odious so 
I know. Gutting.Bit bitter sweet wasn’t it, he seriously took Sali to task over the Freaky Friday video but he’s totally odious so
A bit like the problematic Julie Burchill being the only celeb to regularly confront the awfulness of India Knight and Eric Joyce. Tumbleweed from everyone else.
A company called Hair Story Studio had an advert in my stories quoting India Knight as loving one of their products. It’s a New York based company. I presume they know nothing about Eric Joyce.
Maybe Julie B will speak up about GC.
Here is a link to the video of Giles complaining about Sali Hughes criticising his and Esther’s parenting:https://limegoss.com/sali-hughes-trolling/Bit bitter sweet wasn’t it, he seriously took Sali to task over the Freaky Friday video but he’s totally odious so
Can he possibly have any grounds to complain about the treatment of his children when he uses them as fodder for his completely vile copy?
Well, he's absolutely correct in one instance - he's not a nice person. His sister seems to have some measure of him.
One of his ‘look I’m so rich I bought a big house in the countryside’ articles talked about how they drive around with the kids either in the boot or sharing the front seat, without seatbelts. Because apparently no one dies in the countryside. If there was a story in the news about someone driving like that round a council estate, the Corens would be writing a his and hers column about how they look at their little angels’ faces and cry thinking about ever endangering them like that
That’s what we did in the 80s. When the volvo estate was overloaded we fought to be in the boot with the dogs. Rich people in the country drive Range Rovers or X5s with a line of car seats and a dog cage. Occasional sports car with a car seat in the front passenger side. They wear seatbelts. He hasn’t a clue.
My friend who is Jewish also says she finds some of the stuff Giles says about Judaism really self-hating and disturbing, especially when you think he also created the anti-Semitic sock puppet to abuse himself with. I mean I know it’s hyperbole but …
www.esquire.com
The Eighties boarding school anti-Semites may have got to me but that shouldn't give them a victory over my unborn son. Indeed, should he pass 6ft 6ins and 16 stone (as he rather promises to do), I'd quite like him to go and seek the motherfuckers out and butt-rape them to death with his giant, circumcised Jewish schlong.
No, I'm not Jewish by practice. But if my son chooses to be in later life, then he'll need the right cock to gain entry. (Although who has ever chosen to be a Jew?)
For all my private education and class airs and graces, I am the descendant and modern manifestation of a long line of grubby urban Jews, flung from ghetto to ghetto across Europe and finally, in the last years of the 19th century, into the East End of this great capital, where I have remained ever since, give or take a mile or two. Because this is where I feel safe, welcome and relevant.
…
For all my having done OK in town, having a house and a car and a job and a bit of telly exposure and not being a virgin anymore, I labour under the deepest, deepest shame that I am not the 14th Earl of Somewhereshire.
…
The cunts. Why can't I have that? Because I come from the ghetto is why. Whereas 90 per cent of you lot don't. You come from here. And if you come from here then at some point you came from there. You weren't necessarily posh. Your people might have been emaciated tenant farmers, traditionally raped on the eve of their marriage (lucky boys) by the evil squire and doomed to die of rickets in their thirties. But at least there is a green place somewhere that you can claim. And you can feel deep down a right of eventual return.
Not me. I'm an urban grunt from some Middle Eastern cesspit by way of Hungary, Russia, Poland and the gas. No wonder you don't invite me to your houses for the weekend to eat kedgeree for breakfast and sleep by the fire under a giant dog and have a go on your gun. You know I'd shoot your bleeping face off.
So, when I decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and buy a place of my own, and start something now, for my descendants to be wankerish about in 1,000 years, I had to pick an area at random. The North is easy to get to from my place because I'm five minutes from the start of the A1. But the North is a bleeping pisshole. Sussex is nice but you have to go either round the M25 or through Croydon to get there. And it's full of City commuters. We country types abhor commuters.
I decided on the Cotswolds. I was at university in Oxfordshire, so I know the way, and as long as the North Circular is clear I can do the journey in 90 minutes, wearing a stocking mask and carrying my wife's driving licence. Best of all, AA Gill famously hates the Cotswolds. So I knew Uncle Dysfunctional wouldn't be coming round to tap up my daughter on her wedding night. We started buying Country Life for the property section, but all the places I liked the look of were ten million quid, and the "girls in pearls" were very rarely worth a wank, so we scratched that and hired a property finder called Frank whom we met over lunch in Chelsea for an initial briefing.
On the way I told my wife that we should be prepared to consider anything, from a big Georgian rectory to a Victorian folly. Or possibly a handsome Queen Anne pile, but with no more than 16 chimneys, and only if it was in good nick. We'd want some parkland, ideally a lake…
"In the area you're looking at," Frank said genially, "and with the budget you've given me, and your desire to not be anywhere near a village because 'it will probably be full of dreary old racist shits with silly accents', what you're looking at is a barn conversion."
"Sorry. What?"
"A barn conversion."
"You mean a building originally intended for chickens?"
"Well, not usually chickens."
"Usually what?"
"Usually grain, hay, straw. Sometimes cattle. Occasionally pigs."
"Well, I didn't drag myself out of the ashes of the Holocaust to go and live in a cunting pig sty," I said. "I want something beautiful. I want history. I want character. I want mullioned windows, stone floors, oak panels. I want a priest hole. I want a bloody ha-ha. I don't want a bleeping cattle shed."
"You might get lucky," said Frank. "Other things do come up. I'll keep you posted."
That was back in May last year and as the country house market wound up to full steam over the summer, Frank took us to see quite a few pretty, old houses with well-kept lawns and mature herbaceous borders, just like I wanted. But they always had some small downside or another. Like the noise of the eight-lane motorway that separated the house from the garden, or the vibrations from the express line into Paddington going through the kitchen. Or the smell of the sewage treatment facility next door. Or being in the middle of Milton Keynes.
And then he told us to meet him at a recently converted ox barn in the middle of the middle of nowhere. It took an hour to find from Stow-on-the-Wold despite being no more than six or seven miles away (Stow-on-the-bleeping-Wold! Turns out it's an actual place!) and sat at the end of a long, tree-lined drive through its own six acres of paddocks and stables. It was on top of a hill, protected on two sides by mixed woodland, and from the front opened out onto a view that seemed to stretch forever across a vast patchwork of fields down into a wooded valley, then up the other side and on forever until it hit the pale blue, cloudless sky.
The only drawback was the house itself.
"It's a bleeping Barratt home!" I said.
"It is indeed a recent conversion," said Frank. "It's two late 18th-century cattle barns, one of which was taken down and replaced brick by brick, joined with modern additions and completed in 2002."
"2002," I repeated. "Wow. From those walls, 670 weeks of history gaze down upon us. It's awe-inspiring."
"But at least the heating will work," said my wife. "And the windows will close and there will be hot water and level floors and proper plumbing and the roof won't leak and…"
"But I don't want those things," I said. "It's all very well for you, you're Welsh. Your mother grew up on a hill farm with a dirt floor and sheep for in-laws. Your family has had wonky windows and leaky roofs and draughty corridors and water from a well and kettles boiled on an open fire and all that marvellous old tit. But the Corens have never had that. The Corens had mansion flats. If people come here and it's all warm and comfy and modern and convenient then they'll… they'll… they'll KNOW!"
"Know what?" said Frank.
"That he's a Jew," said my wife.
And she was dead right.
Man & Boy: Giles Coren On 'The Foreskin Dilemma'
The Esquire columnist on making an important early life decision for his son
The Eighties boarding school anti-Semites may have got to me but that shouldn't give them a victory over my unborn son. Indeed, should he pass 6ft 6ins and 16 stone (as he rather promises to do), I'd quite like him to go and seek the motherfuckers out and butt-rape them to death with his giant, circumcised Jewish schlong.
No, I'm not Jewish by practice. But if my son chooses to be in later life, then he'll need the right cock to gain entry. (Although who has ever chosen to be a Jew?)
For all my private education and class airs and graces, I am the descendant and modern manifestation of a long line of grubby urban Jews, flung from ghetto to ghetto across Europe and finally, in the last years of the 19th century, into the East End of this great capital, where I have remained ever since, give or take a mile or two. Because this is where I feel safe, welcome and relevant.
…
For all my having done OK in town, having a house and a car and a job and a bit of telly exposure and not being a virgin anymore, I labour under the deepest, deepest shame that I am not the 14th Earl of Somewhereshire.
…
The cunts. Why can't I have that? Because I come from the ghetto is why. Whereas 90 per cent of you lot don't. You come from here. And if you come from here then at some point you came from there. You weren't necessarily posh. Your people might have been emaciated tenant farmers, traditionally raped on the eve of their marriage (lucky boys) by the evil squire and doomed to die of rickets in their thirties. But at least there is a green place somewhere that you can claim. And you can feel deep down a right of eventual return.
Not me. I'm an urban grunt from some Middle Eastern cesspit by way of Hungary, Russia, Poland and the gas. No wonder you don't invite me to your houses for the weekend to eat kedgeree for breakfast and sleep by the fire under a giant dog and have a go on your gun. You know I'd shoot your bleeping face off.
So, when I decided it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and buy a place of my own, and start something now, for my descendants to be wankerish about in 1,000 years, I had to pick an area at random. The North is easy to get to from my place because I'm five minutes from the start of the A1. But the North is a bleeping pisshole. Sussex is nice but you have to go either round the M25 or through Croydon to get there. And it's full of City commuters. We country types abhor commuters.
I decided on the Cotswolds. I was at university in Oxfordshire, so I know the way, and as long as the North Circular is clear I can do the journey in 90 minutes, wearing a stocking mask and carrying my wife's driving licence. Best of all, AA Gill famously hates the Cotswolds. So I knew Uncle Dysfunctional wouldn't be coming round to tap up my daughter on her wedding night. We started buying Country Life for the property section, but all the places I liked the look of were ten million quid, and the "girls in pearls" were very rarely worth a wank, so we scratched that and hired a property finder called Frank whom we met over lunch in Chelsea for an initial briefing.
On the way I told my wife that we should be prepared to consider anything, from a big Georgian rectory to a Victorian folly. Or possibly a handsome Queen Anne pile, but with no more than 16 chimneys, and only if it was in good nick. We'd want some parkland, ideally a lake…
"In the area you're looking at," Frank said genially, "and with the budget you've given me, and your desire to not be anywhere near a village because 'it will probably be full of dreary old racist shits with silly accents', what you're looking at is a barn conversion."
"Sorry. What?"
"A barn conversion."
"You mean a building originally intended for chickens?"
"Well, not usually chickens."
"Usually what?"
"Usually grain, hay, straw. Sometimes cattle. Occasionally pigs."
"Well, I didn't drag myself out of the ashes of the Holocaust to go and live in a cunting pig sty," I said. "I want something beautiful. I want history. I want character. I want mullioned windows, stone floors, oak panels. I want a priest hole. I want a bloody ha-ha. I don't want a bleeping cattle shed."
"You might get lucky," said Frank. "Other things do come up. I'll keep you posted."
That was back in May last year and as the country house market wound up to full steam over the summer, Frank took us to see quite a few pretty, old houses with well-kept lawns and mature herbaceous borders, just like I wanted. But they always had some small downside or another. Like the noise of the eight-lane motorway that separated the house from the garden, or the vibrations from the express line into Paddington going through the kitchen. Or the smell of the sewage treatment facility next door. Or being in the middle of Milton Keynes.
And then he told us to meet him at a recently converted ox barn in the middle of the middle of nowhere. It took an hour to find from Stow-on-the-Wold despite being no more than six or seven miles away (Stow-on-the-bleeping-Wold! Turns out it's an actual place!) and sat at the end of a long, tree-lined drive through its own six acres of paddocks and stables. It was on top of a hill, protected on two sides by mixed woodland, and from the front opened out onto a view that seemed to stretch forever across a vast patchwork of fields down into a wooded valley, then up the other side and on forever until it hit the pale blue, cloudless sky.
The only drawback was the house itself.
"It's a bleeping Barratt home!" I said.
"It is indeed a recent conversion," said Frank. "It's two late 18th-century cattle barns, one of which was taken down and replaced brick by brick, joined with modern additions and completed in 2002."
"2002," I repeated. "Wow. From those walls, 670 weeks of history gaze down upon us. It's awe-inspiring."
"But at least the heating will work," said my wife. "And the windows will close and there will be hot water and level floors and proper plumbing and the roof won't leak and…"
"But I don't want those things," I said. "It's all very well for you, you're Welsh. Your mother grew up on a hill farm with a dirt floor and sheep for in-laws. Your family has had wonky windows and leaky roofs and draughty corridors and water from a well and kettles boiled on an open fire and all that marvellous old tit. But the Corens have never had that. The Corens had mansion flats. If people come here and it's all warm and comfy and modern and convenient then they'll… they'll… they'll KNOW!"
"Know what?" said Frank.
"That he's a Jew," said my wife.
And she was dead right.
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That’s vile. And reads as anti-Semitic to me although I’m not Jewish so I don’t think I can judge.
I don’t personally agree with circumcision because I don’t think any part of a baby should be cut off. We outlaw FGM and I think baby boys should also be protected by law.
I don’t personally agree with circumcision because I don’t think any part of a baby should be cut off. We outlaw FGM and I think baby boys should also be protected by law.
He's obsessed with rape, it's disturbing.
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