Ugh boak nails and burnt cake just what you want in a food writer. How can the squiggles not see this? She is also a really tit writer. You dust a cake with icing sugar. However corpses are dredged up from slop swamps.
Jack Monroe #119 She says lots of things, many of which are false
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I know why that miserable 'Christmas' pile of nihilism on a plate bothers some fraus.
It's the meanspirited half effort made by the ex mother in law on the day you were informed that you had to go there rather than have your own Christmas 'Because visiting family is what middleclass families do'.
You aren't allowed to give the kids all their presents to wake up with, as it's not the done thing, so they've had three each. You've been told that because you'll be eating Dinner soon, you're not to let them have anything more than toast or a bowl of cereal at 8.30am, rather than making a proper Christmas Breakfast accompanied by a Bucks Fizz or boozy coffee as he's going to be driving, so you aren't allowed either. 11.30am comes and you dutifully wrangle children into acceptable clothing when they just want to play with toys and watch Christmas movies. You drive in silence to deepest Suburbia, past houses full of giggling children and cycling lessons in the streets and parks.
Once you arrive, you notice just how little has been decorated. There's a thirty year old and dusty like a long dead Aunt decoration on the inside porch door - no putting a wreath on the outside, as somebody said once that wreath mean 'All Welcome' and nobody wants that. The Christmas Tree lights are off 'because it's not Christmas Eve any more'. It's either deathly silent or the father in law is going through his 27 CD collection of Christmas carols as performed by a synthesizer orchestra from the early 70s as per A Clockwork Orange . The dogs have been shut out in the garden and the washing still stands on an airer in the conservatory.
Three hours later, the other sibling and spouse turn up. MIL now goes into firefighting mode as there are SIX people in the house. Dinner is nearly ready, apparently, not that you can smell anything. The children are allocated a plastic table in the conservatory next to the FIL's Y fronts in case they giggle. You assemble hopefully, thinking that it can't really all be ready from the two saucepans you've seen boiling for the last hour in the kitchen. You've offered to help, but this has been turned down.
And then the plates arrive. You have one small slice of white/grey meat, skin removed. There are two pieces of slightly greasy, yellowish potato about the size of a Jersey Royal. Three strips of carrot. A piece of greying broccoli in its own puddle of cold cooking water. And about a tablespoon of chicken Oxo. That's it. You're sitting there in silence, feeling vaguely jealous of the dogs in the garden who have been given their own Turkey leg each as part of their raw feeding regime. The kids come back from the pants drying area to see where the rest of the food is. There is no more food; she's already slightly miffed that they expected more than one potato each. MIL declares that she is simply full to the brim and won't eat again today as everybody has had so much to eat already as she picks up the plates and goes to wash up, refusing your offer to help/escape from the silence, punctuated by a soundtrack you associate with beating somebody to death with a giant china phallus.
Then it's Present Time. You all have to sit down and take turns in opening the things you never wanted, including the 18 months out of date biscuits that FIL retrieved from a skip next door to his workplace. This goes on for so long that it's getting dark. But you're obliged to stay until after even the smaller shops have closed. The TV never goes on. Eventually, you leave after being offered a tablespoon of Christmas Pudding. There is no ice cream or anything the kids would have liked. Even a single cup of tea is accompanied by the instruction to use the secondhand teabag on the side as 'You can get two cups of tea from a teabag, you know'.
You take your bottle of £2 bubblebath, regifted diary and packet of biros from the Pound Shop (because middleclass families 'don't waste money on fancy presents'), get home and go back to a home that would have been warm, bright and comfortable. The food would have been joyful and filled with colour and flavour, the kids would have played and relaxed and eaten and watched a film cuddled up on the sofa in their new pyjamas whilst you finished the evening with the warm and fuzzy glow of a couple of drinks. And you think 'I am never, ever doing that again'.
It's the meanspirited half effort made by the ex mother in law on the day you were informed that you had to go there rather than have your own Christmas 'Because visiting family is what middleclass families do'.
You aren't allowed to give the kids all their presents to wake up with, as it's not the done thing, so they've had three each. You've been told that because you'll be eating Dinner soon, you're not to let them have anything more than toast or a bowl of cereal at 8.30am, rather than making a proper Christmas Breakfast accompanied by a Bucks Fizz or boozy coffee as he's going to be driving, so you aren't allowed either. 11.30am comes and you dutifully wrangle children into acceptable clothing when they just want to play with toys and watch Christmas movies. You drive in silence to deepest Suburbia, past houses full of giggling children and cycling lessons in the streets and parks.
Once you arrive, you notice just how little has been decorated. There's a thirty year old and dusty like a long dead Aunt decoration on the inside porch door - no putting a wreath on the outside, as somebody said once that wreath mean 'All Welcome' and nobody wants that. The Christmas Tree lights are off 'because it's not Christmas Eve any more'. It's either deathly silent or the father in law is going through his 27 CD collection of Christmas carols as performed by a synthesizer orchestra from the early 70s as per A Clockwork Orange . The dogs have been shut out in the garden and the washing still stands on an airer in the conservatory.
Three hours later, the other sibling and spouse turn up. MIL now goes into firefighting mode as there are SIX people in the house. Dinner is nearly ready, apparently, not that you can smell anything. The children are allocated a plastic table in the conservatory next to the FIL's Y fronts in case they giggle. You assemble hopefully, thinking that it can't really all be ready from the two saucepans you've seen boiling for the last hour in the kitchen. You've offered to help, but this has been turned down.
And then the plates arrive. You have one small slice of white/grey meat, skin removed. There are two pieces of slightly greasy, yellowish potato about the size of a Jersey Royal. Three strips of carrot. A piece of greying broccoli in its own puddle of cold cooking water. And about a tablespoon of chicken Oxo. That's it. You're sitting there in silence, feeling vaguely jealous of the dogs in the garden who have been given their own Turkey leg each as part of their raw feeding regime. The kids come back from the pants drying area to see where the rest of the food is. There is no more food; she's already slightly miffed that they expected more than one potato each. MIL declares that she is simply full to the brim and won't eat again today as everybody has had so much to eat already as she picks up the plates and goes to wash up, refusing your offer to help/escape from the silence, punctuated by a soundtrack you associate with beating somebody to death with a giant china phallus.
Then it's Present Time. You all have to sit down and take turns in opening the things you never wanted, including the 18 months out of date biscuits that FIL retrieved from a skip next door to his workplace. This goes on for so long that it's getting dark. But you're obliged to stay until after even the smaller shops have closed. The TV never goes on. Eventually, you leave after being offered a tablespoon of Christmas Pudding. There is no ice cream or anything the kids would have liked. Even a single cup of tea is accompanied by the instruction to use the secondhand teabag on the side as 'You can get two cups of tea from a teabag, you know'.
You take your bottle of £2 bubblebath, regifted diary and packet of biros from the Pound Shop (because middleclass families 'don't waste money on fancy presents'), get home and go back to a home that would have been warm, bright and comfortable. The food would have been joyful and filled with colour and flavour, the kids would have played and relaxed and eaten and watched a film cuddled up on the sofa in their new pyjamas whilst you finished the evening with the warm and fuzzy glow of a couple of drinks. And you think 'I am never, ever doing that again'.
Exactly. I would advise readers to keep it simple, if on a tight budget. Roast or steam veggies but don't over do them, roast some chicken breasts (cheaper and easier to get hold of turkey at the moment), or have a veggie alternative. Do some roast potatoes. Then, either use Bisto (that'll do for me
. ) or make gravy Then, if budget stretches to stuffing and some pigs in blankets then pop them in the oven. Voila! Simple Sunday roast, basically. All ingredients still taste nice, no waste or disappointment. If feeling FANCY, a dollop of jarred cranberry sauce on the side.Pudding?
If budget doesn't stretch to mince pies, yule logs, pannetones etc, make a home made crumble. A handful of apples chopped, sugar, cinnamon, some flour (and optional addition, some oats) for the topping, and chosen fat (hopefully not lard).
All constituent parts of the meal are simple, affordable in the sense you are not buying processed stuff that goes off before Christmas Day, and you can use any leftovers in other meals. As long as you watch timings nothing needs to be burned.
Jacks looks like it's been recooked 3 times.
She has a really Dickensian era attitude to poverty, Scrooge himself would have been proud of the veg peel monstrosity before the ghost of Christmas slop visited him and opened his eyes to the wonders of texture.
The express donated to her sideboard fund so she had to.
Slightly off-topic but I saw this tweet the other day and thought of you, fraus. I’m sure you remember.
Jack hanging out of the window of the bungalow
'you there, boy! Fetch me your smallest most jaundiced chicken! Hurry now, the gravy is curdling!'
'you there, boy! Fetch me your smallest most jaundiced chicken! Hurry now, the gravy is curdling!'
‘But Ms Monroe it’s Christmas Day!’
‘So what! You don’t expect me to get it meeeself with me crippling arthritis and COVID do ya? Now hurry, or I’ll be making you eat some when I’m done burning it to hell and back.’
No.543 of things I hate about Jack. How, when she's ill, she always has the worst symptoms, pain, exhaustion, ouchy ooh aahs. Does my head in. So it's no surprise she will be milking this for all it's worth (has she even had a positive test?).
And "very focused and precise work" - just duck off Jack. No-one is demanding this body of work from you, but creating recipes is what you do, so it shouldn't be that difficult to write a recipe for a bloody roast dinner. I could do it now and by done by 10am.
She is everyone's less favourite colleague, the one off sick all the time and then complaining of being too busy when they are in.
And "very focused and precise work" - just duck off Jack. No-one is demanding this body of work from you, but creating recipes is what you do, so it shouldn't be that difficult to write a recipe for a bloody roast dinner. I could do it now and by done by 10am.
She is everyone's less favourite colleague, the one off sick all the time and then complaining of being too busy when they are in.
Someone PLEASE make this make sense.
Jack’s Timeline
14th December
Jack tweets about the school having to have Jonny isolate because of his teacher having Covid. But she doesn’t need to - however presents 100 reasons as to why she does. No mention of Louisa having Covid. However Louisa has since deleted her tweet about ‘testing positive’
15th December
The BIG ANNOUNCEMENT. As everyone on Tattle predicted, Jack used the tale of SB and her multiple reasons for isolating as to why she couldn’t fulfil any posting obligations ‘incase her handling and signing goods means some catches something from her’. Which she doesn’t know if she has or not? When challenged, she doesn’t reply.
16th December
The slop! A late contender for the sloppies. The tweets with the foul Christmas dinner appears - along with multiple hints at how poorly she is and being under a weighted blanket. How has she cooked this stuff if so poorly? Why has Louisa deleted the tweet?
So in the space of 48 hours, Jack has gone from making up she has to isolate because of her son being in contact with someone having Covid at school, to then Louisa tweeting she has it and deleting it, to then creating a tonne of slop to suddenly insinuating she has Covid.
SOMEONE PLEASE MAKE IT MAKE SENSE.
Jack’s Timeline
14th December
Jack tweets about the school having to have Jonny isolate because of his teacher having Covid. But she doesn’t need to - however presents 100 reasons as to why she does. No mention of Louisa having Covid. However Louisa has since deleted her tweet about ‘testing positive’
15th December
The BIG ANNOUNCEMENT. As everyone on Tattle predicted, Jack used the tale of SB and her multiple reasons for isolating as to why she couldn’t fulfil any posting obligations ‘incase her handling and signing goods means some catches something from her’. Which she doesn’t know if she has or not? When challenged, she doesn’t reply.
16th December
The slop! A late contender for the sloppies. The tweets with the foul Christmas dinner appears - along with multiple hints at how poorly she is and being under a weighted blanket. How has she cooked this stuff if so poorly? Why has Louisa deleted the tweet?
So in the space of 48 hours, Jack has gone from making up she has to isolate because of her son being in contact with someone having Covid at school, to then Louisa tweeting she has it and deleting it, to then creating a tonne of slop to suddenly insinuating she has Covid.
SOMEONE PLEASE MAKE IT MAKE SENSE.
There have been reports of very few sightings of sideboards in the wild recently. It’s is believed that a big game hunter has ensnared them and has corralled them at a secret location hoping to start their own breeding program
Surely all the cooking was done in the lead up to the express article? I think she probably made a couple of meals to get it right over a couple of days, took pics of both, and the hard work she has just done now since Covid is upload a few photos and change the Express recipe slightly for her blog when she realised she hadn’t been forensic enough.
Louisa hasn't deleted the tweet, and I very much doubt that Jack made anything from that Christmas menu this week, she'll be using photos from the Express shoot.
You just know this "focussed and precise work" will be full of typos and different sized text
Louisa’s tweet is still there @BeautifulTrauma. I searched her name plus “positive result” and it came up. It’s in a reply to someone else.
I’m more concerned about how you can go from lying about your need to isolate because of your son to then developing fully blown symptoms in the space of 48 hours.
She is bamboozling all the squiggles with multiple issues so they’re not connecting the dots about her faking illness! And I cannot find the Louisa tweet anywhere on her Twitter account strangely.
She is bamboozling all the squiggles with multiple issues so they’re not connecting the dots about her faking illness! And I cannot find the Louisa tweet anywhere on her Twitter account strangely.
here is louisa’s tweet right now (I am 4 hours into the future in the Middle East 
)
)
Sorry for harking back to the Christmas dinner abomination but thinking about the dessert, surely if you were Jack, you'd look at that picture and think "hang on, that bit there looks like a beetle. Those horrible ninnies on Tattle will see that and mock me mercilessly about it, I know, I'll facetune it out". She loves us talking about her, even though it's nearly always less than complimentary. She's a strange fish who hates the poors and vegans and wants to punish them by making them eat beetles and sawdust.
Maybe the teacher story was a cover for BB/Louisa, or everything all worked out coincidentally that just as SB’s teacher tested positive for COVID forcing him to isolate, so does BB which means Jack and BB do too. OR it’s all crap and Jack got herself in a tangle when the Squiggles pointed out the errors. It doesn’t make sense.
Nailed it. Is it even likely that BB is there? Imagine this: You're a high flying tv exec working in London and you've caught covid, do you a) Go back to your bachelor pad to self isolate and get better or b) Go to your girlfriends house, who by all accounts is high risk and who has a son at risk too, just for the comfort of eating awful food and to sleep in someone else's spare room. If she has gone for option b, well that's irresponsible and just plain weird. if it's option a, then Monroe is lying (again). They make a great, imbecilic couple, them two.
I also have a permeant open Tupperware of skins and things it's called the compost tub that I empty into a great big compost bin in our garden.
Has the interview with Marcus Rashford's Mum been mentioned already? - interesting..
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