Jack Monroe #440 Gently navigating the hinterland of plagiarism

[Clarends]

That beach story. She saw that sign one day an thought how do i make this about me being adorably naive and spontaneous didn't she. Then she sat an wrote herself a little fan fiction.

Also its a probably a moot point as there's never been any evidence of friends in 10 years of an overshared life but of course she's the sort of person who'd hear about someone's personal spiritual practice and go im gonna do that but BETTER. Bet she's an absolute leech who people have to hide everything from.

This is odd because seaside residents from my experience are irritated by visitors not understanding the ways of the coast and getting themselves into messes. Jack should know better.

 

[Marmalade Atkins]

I made a nice grid collage of a year of Jack in hats, apart from Shrunken Head Jack when she presumably didn't have a hat small enough to fit x

 

[Cookiecookie]

CHAPTER FIVE of the flexibly-scheduled 'teatime' period drama

GRIFT! AND! GRIFTABILITY!


View attachment 1815721

Spoiler

That Saturday, two gentlemen were to be found in conversation at the ball. They presented a fascinating contrast, for one was as open as the sun, with a bright disposition, while his companion scowled like an approaching storm, and seemed to glower over the entire gathering. They were, of course, Mr Bingley, the new occupant of Netherfield, and his old friend Mr Darcy, a fine figure of a man but one who regarded himself as above this particular society, and glared as though he should rather be anywhere else.



‘Come, Darcy,’ said the cheerful young man, ‘I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing by yourself in this stupid manner.’



‘At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable,’ sneered his friend. ‘You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.’



‘Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!’ declared Mr Bingley, catching the eye of Jane Bennet, who cast her own gaze modestly down. ‘But there are a number of agreeable girls here. Look, there is one of her sisters. She looks almost tolerable.’



‘I am in no mood to entertain the merely tolerable,’ came the retort. ‘Your sisters are occupied, and the girl I have set my mind on is not present. To dance with anyone else would be torture.’



‘But who can you mean, Darcy?’ exclaimed his good-hearted companion.



‘I refer to Miss Monroe, of Sloppington House,’ replied Mr Darcy, curling his lip sexily. ‘She interests me greatly. However, I gather she is away in Bath, and will not be joining the party tonight, rendering the entire evening wasted.’



‘Why, no, my friend, you must be mistaken,’ declared Mr Bingley. ‘The ill weather has closed all roads to Bath. There will be no travel there this week-end.’



‘And if I cannot go to Bath,’ cried a bold voice, ‘I will bring the Bath… to me!’



And with that, the doors were flung open, and those assembled gazed upon an extraordinary sight.



‘Good Lord,’ murmured Mr Darcy, as he beheld Miss Monroe, dressed in humiliating men’s trousers and a white shirt that was fully drenched through and clung to her skin, revealing features of her person that would have put Adam and Eve to shame. To complete the lewk, Miss Monroe sported a pirate eyepatch and brandished a bottle of orange liquid.



‘I just jumped in the lake for a refreshing dip!’ declared the newcomer, draining the bottle. ‘Orange squash, but the total vibe was there.’



‘The lake?’ Miss Bingley gasped. ‘Surely it has not rained so hard that a lake has appeared in the grounds of Meryton Hall.’



‘Lake, sea, pool… I use words with painstaking precision! All bodies of water are interchangeable,’ snapped Miss Monroe.



Her sister, Mrs Hurst, rushed to close the doors against the rain and cold air, peering into the grounds as she did so.



‘I see only the… the Bird-Bath,’ she remarked in puzzlement. ‘Surely, Miss Monroe, you did not climb into a bath for sparrows, fully clothed.’



‘You quiz me as though I were on the Witness-Stand, and as if you wanted to see me walk to the Scaffold,’ exclaimed Miss Monroe, her white cotton blouson still clinging to her and displaying aspects of the female form that most of the gentlemen present had only previously viewed within a Book of Anatomy.



‘Really,’ complained Mr Darcy, ‘This is quite intolerable.’



‘Intolerable, Darcy?’ breathed his friend. ‘No, better say… incredible. If I claimed before that I had seen beauty, may I be struck blind for my foolishness. This creature is surely an Angel fallen to Earth!’



With a ghastly realisation, Mr Darcy recognised that his friend had been awed by the sight of Miss Monroe’s figure so proudly revealed, and was now consumed by a Lust that he, in his innocence, mistook for Love.



‘Miss Monroe,’ said he with stern command, ‘I will not countenance the frivolities of the middle-classes.’



‘Middle-class, Fitz mate?’ the other replied hotly, as a gasp of shock rippled around the assembled guests at such rank impudence. But Miss Monroe drew herself erect like a dandy highwayman, legs akimbo and hands on her hips. ‘I am of humble working stock by way of Ireland, Pit-Sea, the Scottish Lowlands, the ----shire regiment (adjacent), and the mines of Moria. I detest the middle-classes, the Tories, the Whigs, and the entire Monarchy save for the bonny Prince Regent, nnnngh!’ And here she grimaced like an ape with Constipation.



‘This insult cannot be borne,’ muttered Mr Darcy, clenching his fist in a subtle but horny way. ‘Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst. If I may…’ His friend’s two sisters flocked to him like faithful birds returning to their keeper. ‘I believe you recently had the pleasure of travelling to Italy. Perhaps you could regale the Misses Bennett with tales of that nation’s curiosities and sites of interest… in the drawing-room.’



And he beckoned Jane, who rose with her own sister Elizabeth and seemed glad to follow his suggestion, retiring towards the adjoining room away from the alarming sights and sounds of the new arrival.



‘Italy?’ bellowed Miss Monroe, sensing the attention drift from her, and beginning to shiver as the blouson grew chilly against her skin. ‘Been there, done it, written seven and a half cookbooks about it! You haven’t lived unless you’ve visited Vienetta!’



Mr Darcy had grasped a stout ash rod and looked ready to step forward with it raised in a manner that was very patriarchal, undeniably problematic but actually also quite hot, when he was interrupted by the scuttling arrival of another guest, who approached Miss Monroe while brushing oily hair from his high forehead.



‘Miss Monroe,’ he wheedled, ‘If I may introduce myself. My name is Collins. A cousin of the distinguished family you see before you. And if may flatter myself that my overtures are not discouraged… I might venture to, hem, to “pour oil upon troubled waters” and offer what I might describe as an Olive-Branch, rather than the rather more punitive wooden stick now brandished by the estimable Mr Darcy, hem. I propose, dear Miss Monroe, that while I visit this neighbourhood, I shall reside with you for the duration, and trust that this will meet with your favourable approval. I shall require only modest sustenance, hem, breakfast, lunch, dinner and a humble stipend of fifty pounds per week, and I may assure you that Lady Catherine De Bourgh will fully approve of any forthcoming union that may result.’



But by the time he had delivered his speech, Miss Monroe was nowhere to be seen; for there is nothing a grifter fears and detests more than another grifter, and in Mr Collins she quickly recognised one of her own kind.



‘I see that our guest has departed,’ remarked Elizabeth to her sister, with a wry smile, as they turned at the drawing-room door.



‘Oh,’ cried kind-hearted Jane. ‘I hope she has somewhere to go, in this dreadful weather.’



‘I believe she found the ripe fruit of Meryton rather harder to pluck from the vine than she expected,’ mused Elizabeth wittily, ‘and will be on her way, as we speak, towards easier pickings.’ And she seemed to turn towards the camera rather like a Regency Fleabag, her eyes sparkling. ‘I feel quite sure, dear Jane, that Miss Monroe is returning… to Emma.’

Brava!

I've noticed the squinty, forgot my glasses, pooping face is quite popular on the front of men's fitness magazines. Not sure why, it's not in the least bit alluring.

 

[Mendacious Trumpet]

Hey, should we be adding "role" to the list of words Jack doesn't understand?
'Cause going to a costume party is not a "role".
Maybe I'm being too hard on her though. I know that work-related terms can be difficult for our Jack.

 

[Malkiavelli]

Following on from the last thread, everyone is saying Jack looks like she’s straining for a poo in her Homeless Tommy Shelby costume. I actually think she looks like she’s in the middle of an eye test. The optician has asked her whether the picture is clearer with one or two and she’s midway through that panicked moment when you can’t quite decide and don’t want to get it wrong.

View attachment 1815698

Anyone else reckon that the fancy dress party is a cover for her impulse buying a new jacket, cardigan and scarf that she just couldn’t wait to show it all off… as she often does after she’s been shopping.

And I don’t know if I missed it, but what or who is she pretend-grieving for?

 

[People-huv-tae-know]

CHAPTER FIVE of the flexibly-scheduled 'teatime' period drama

GRIFT! AND! GRIFTABILITY!


View attachment 1815721

Spoiler

That Saturday, two gentlemen were to be found in conversation at the ball. They presented a fascinating contrast, for one was as open as the sun, with a bright disposition, while his companion scowled like an approaching storm, and seemed to glower over the entire gathering. They were, of course, Mr Bingley, the new occupant of Netherfield, and his old friend Mr Darcy, a fine figure of a man but one who regarded himself as above this particular society, and glared as though he should rather be anywhere else.



‘Come, Darcy,’ said the cheerful young man, ‘I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing by yourself in this stupid manner.’



‘At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable,’ sneered his friend. ‘You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.’



‘Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!’ declared Mr Bingley, catching the eye of Jane Bennet, who cast her own gaze modestly down. ‘But there are a number of agreeable girls here. Look, there is one of her sisters. She looks almost tolerable.’



‘I am in no mood to entertain the merely tolerable,’ came the retort. ‘Your sisters are occupied, and the girl I have set my mind on is not present. To dance with anyone else would be torture.’



‘But who can you mean, Darcy?’ exclaimed his good-hearted companion.



‘I refer to Miss Monroe, of Sloppington House,’ replied Mr Darcy, curling his lip sexily. ‘She interests me greatly. However, I gather she is away in Bath, and will not be joining the party tonight, rendering the entire evening wasted.’



‘Why, no, my friend, you must be mistaken,’ declared Mr Bingley. ‘The ill weather has closed all roads to Bath. There will be no travel there this week-end.’



‘And if I cannot go to Bath,’ cried a bold voice, ‘I will bring the Bath… to me!’



And with that, the doors were flung open, and those assembled gazed upon an extraordinary sight.



‘Good Lord,’ murmured Mr Darcy, as he beheld Miss Monroe, dressed in humiliating men’s trousers and a white shirt that was fully drenched through and clung to her skin, revealing features of her person that would have put Adam and Eve to shame. To complete the lewk, Miss Monroe sported a pirate eyepatch and brandished a bottle of orange liquid.



‘I just jumped in the lake for a refreshing dip!’ declared the newcomer, draining the bottle. ‘Orange squash, but the total vibe was there.’



‘The lake?’ Miss Bingley gasped. ‘Surely it has not rained so hard that a lake has appeared in the grounds of Meryton Hall.’



‘Lake, sea, pool… I use words with painstaking precision! All bodies of water are interchangeable,’ snapped Miss Monroe.



Her sister, Mrs Hurst, rushed to close the doors against the rain and cold air, peering into the grounds as she did so.



‘I see only the… the Bird-Bath,’ she remarked in puzzlement. ‘Surely, Miss Monroe, you did not climb into a bath for sparrows, fully clothed.’



‘You quiz me as though I were on the Witness-Stand, and as if you wanted to see me walk to the Scaffold,’ exclaimed Miss Monroe, her white cotton blouson still clinging to her and displaying aspects of the female form that most of the gentlemen present had only previously viewed within a Book of Anatomy.



‘Really,’ complained Mr Darcy, ‘This is quite intolerable.’



‘Intolerable, Darcy?’ breathed his friend. ‘No, better say… incredible. If I claimed before that I had seen beauty, may I be struck blind for my foolishness. This creature is surely an Angel fallen to Earth!’



With a ghastly realisation, Mr Darcy recognised that his friend had been awed by the sight of Miss Monroe’s figure so proudly revealed, and was now consumed by a Lust that he, in his innocence, mistook for Love.



‘Miss Monroe,’ said he with stern command, ‘I will not countenance the frivolities of the middle-classes.’



‘Middle-class, Fitz mate?’ the other replied hotly, as a gasp of shock rippled around the assembled guests at such rank impudence. But Miss Monroe drew herself erect like a dandy highwayman, legs akimbo and hands on her hips. ‘I am of humble working stock by way of Ireland, Pit-Sea, the Scottish Lowlands, the ----shire regiment (adjacent), and the mines of Moria. I detest the middle-classes, the Tories, the Whigs, and the entire Monarchy save for the bonny Prince Regent, nnnngh!’ And here she grimaced like an ape with Constipation.



‘This insult cannot be borne,’ muttered Mr Darcy, clenching his fist in a subtle but horny way. ‘Miss Bingley, Mrs Hurst. If I may…’ His friend’s two sisters flocked to him like faithful birds returning to their keeper. ‘I believe you recently had the pleasure of travelling to Italy. Perhaps you could regale the Misses Bennett with tales of that nation’s curiosities and sites of interest… in the drawing-room.’



And he beckoned Jane, who rose with her own sister Elizabeth and seemed glad to follow his suggestion, retiring towards the adjoining room away from the alarming sights and sounds of the new arrival.



‘Italy?’ bellowed Miss Monroe, sensing the attention drift from her, and beginning to shiver as the blouson grew chilly against her skin. ‘Been there, done it, written seven and a half cookbooks about it! You haven’t lived unless you’ve visited Vienetta!’



Mr Darcy had grasped a stout ash rod and looked ready to step forward with it raised in a manner that was very patriarchal, undeniably problematic but actually also quite hot, when he was interrupted by the scuttling arrival of another guest, who approached Miss Monroe while brushing oily hair from his high forehead.



‘Miss Monroe,’ he wheedled, ‘If I may introduce myself. My name is Collins. A cousin of the distinguished family you see before you. And if may flatter myself that my overtures are not discouraged… I might venture to, hem, to “pour oil upon troubled waters” and offer what I might describe as an Olive-Branch, rather than the rather more punitive wooden stick now brandished by the estimable Mr Darcy, hem. I propose, dear Miss Monroe, that while I visit this neighbourhood, I shall reside with you for the duration, and trust that this will meet with your favourable approval. I shall require only modest sustenance, hem, breakfast, lunch, dinner and a humble stipend of fifty pounds per week, and I may assure you that Lady Catherine De Bourgh will fully approve of any forthcoming union that may result.’



But by the time he had delivered his speech, Miss Monroe was nowhere to be seen; for there is nothing a grifter fears and detests more than another grifter, and in Mr Collins she quickly recognised one of her own kind.



‘I see that our guest has departed,’ remarked Elizabeth to her sister, with a wry smile, as they turned at the drawing-room door.



‘Oh,’ cried kind-hearted Jane. ‘I hope she has somewhere to go, in this dreadful weather.’



‘I believe she found the ripe fruit of Meryton rather harder to pluck from the vine than she expected,’ mused Elizabeth wittily, ‘and will be on her way, as we speak, towards easier pickings.’ And she seemed to turn towards the camera rather like a Regency Fleabag, her eyes sparkling. ‘I feel quite sure, dear Jane, that Miss Monroe is returning… to Emma.’

This is my favorite one so far, with these chapters you are really spoiling us

 

[Onestorytoomany]

So i always thought the flat cap they put on tommy shelby was massive for his head. He looks like a child wearing their da's cap.

Also do we think the grieving was her removing those vile tiffany hoops in the final relisations that old harold has LEFT forever.

 

[People-huv-tae-know]

Anyone else reckon that the fancy dress party is a cover for her impulse buying a new jacket, cardigan and scarf that she just couldn’t wait to show it all off… as she often does after she’s been shopping.

And I don’t know if I missed it, but what or who is she pretend-grieving for?

Because all the snow has melted and there won't be more until January.

 

[FlirtyThirty]

Via the Mines of Moria has absolutely ended me. Jack is without doubt a misery Balrog.

Also wanted to add TommyJack needs to blend her emaciatedBronzercheekbones a little more as currently looks like a run in with a chocolate besmeared toddler (unlikely in Jacks house as she’d eat it first). Did the Gloss years teach you nothing?

 

[Valiofthedolls]

Oh I just love the “spiritual cerebral” Jack she channels to talk to religious magazines, Greenbelt, and apparently also Psychologies magazine 2014.

Jack Monroe, renowned for her chirpy outlook on life.

Must be all that “attuned” fresh air and yoga by the sea.

Jack Monroe | Psychologies

Food blogger turned campaigner Jack Monroe shares her views on poverty, family and changing the world

www.psychologies.co.uk

 

[jenny2603]

Anyone else reckon that the fancy dress party is a cover for her impulse buying a new jacket, cardigan and scarf that she just couldn’t wait to show it all off… as she often does after she’s been shopping.

And I don’t know if I missed it, but what or who is she pretend-grieving for?

Her invalid friend Bunbury died. He was quite exploded.

 

[Captainmouse]

I wonder if she's known for a while, she would lose rosemary, and thus have no work and concocted the 6 months to move malarkey

 

[Valiofthedolls]

Anyone else reckon that the fancy dress party is a cover for her impulse buying a new jacket, cardigan and scarf that she just couldn’t wait to show it all off… as she often does after she’s been shopping.

And I don’t know if I missed it, but what or who is she pretend-grieving for?

I think it’s because she’s had to take out her surgically attached Tiffany earrings and she’s devastated to be apart from them.

 

[matchakitkat]

You just know Jack spent yonksss teasing those tendrils of hair out from underneath the crappy caps

 

[jenny2603]

I think it’s because she’s had to take her surgically attached Tiffany earrings out and she’s devastated to be apart from them.

It could be for all the cashos Raffles the dodgy agent is going to rob from her.

 

[FlirtyThirty]

Oh I just love the “spiritual cerebral” Jack she channels to talk to religious magazines, Greenbelt, and apparently also Psychologies magazine 2014.

Jack Monroe, renowned for her chirpy outlook on life.
View attachment 1815787
Must be all that “attuned” fresh air and yoga by the sea.
View attachment 1815808
View attachment 1815809

Jack Monroe | Psychologies

Food blogger turned campaigner Jack Monroe shares her views on poverty, family and changing the world

www.psychologies.co.uk

Practises yoga!!! Omg like she’s ever done yoga she’d be banned for excessively rank guffing after the first session

 

[Emmapism]

Like a Regency Fleabag @hooplifehero

 

[Griftymcgriftface]

The beach story was extra weird as wasn’t there some thing about big Dave in the media before/after talking about that beach ?

 

[Foxvint]

Has the agent dumped her or are we just joking cos of the I've been trying to contact you tweet??

 

[MavisBeacon]

Has the agent dumped her or are we just joking cos of the I've been trying to contact you tweet??

She's certainly changed agents- we don't know if she jumped or was dumped.