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Marmalade Atkins
VIP Member
I feel the need to post this again.
(July 2020)
'this is pretty much what it looks like!'
Lol.
(July 2020)
'this is pretty much what it looks like!'
Lol.
Lucky Escape
VIP Member
She's waded into an unnecessary fight and is claiming to have posted out all of the missing rewards!
Pity she hasn't updated her Patreon:
DragonBoy
Well-known member
Smol Pixel
Chatty Member
Get your Deloreans ready, A Griftmas Carol is heading for Griftmas Past.
As the clock struck the hour with a resounding chime, Slops stirred and then suddenly recalled Marley’s words. Would a spirit really appear?
Beyond the drapes of her four-poster bed, a gentle glow filled the chamber and Slops trembled at the sight that might befall her. Cautiously she drew back the drapes, her breath held and her heart pounding.
A small child stood before her, luminescent in the dark of the bedroom. “Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Slops, bewildered at the sight.
“I am the ghost of Griftmas Past,” said the child in a delicate lilting voice.
“But you are just a child!” exclaimed Slops.
“I have lived for over nineteen hundred years,” the spirit said. “Come, I have much to show you.”
She took Slops to the window, which flung wide as if by witchcraft. The spirit reached her tiny hand towards Slops, who hesitated but then grasped the cold fingers in her own. “Spirit, I am mortal and liable to fall,” Slops protested, indicating the window towards which the spirit moved.
“A touch of my hand and you shall fly,” explained the tinkling voice. And before she knew it, Slops was soaring above the Essex coastline.
“Spirit, what is that light up ahead? It cannot be dawn.”
“It is the past.” And with that, Slops and the spirit flew into the light and came to rest in a place Slops remembered very well indeed.
“This is my school!” exclaimed Slops. “Oh it was a horrible place for a child like me.”
Slops and the spirit watched as caring teachers gently tried to cajole the young and obstinate Slops into putting more effort into her schoolwork. Their frustration and disappointment was palpable.
The pair watched the young Slops walk home to be greeted warmly by Mama Slops and Big Dave Slops MBE, who, the spirit noted not unkindly, was wearing slightly humiliating trousers.
The table was set for a feast, with the other Slops youngsters tucking in and talking excitedly. An older man in grubby overalls was smoking by the back door and flicking the ash from his pipe in the direction of Mama Slops whenever the opportunity presented itself.
The room was warm and welcoming but the figure of young Slops sat petulantly, poking at the food with a fork and ignoring entreaties from everyone except the elderly pipe-smoker. He goaded young Slops into uttering insolent words and crude retorts at Mama Slops, before slipping a shiny crown into young Slops’ eager hand.
The spirit glanced at her companion but saw no indication of remorse in the older Slops’ face.
“I’ve seen enough here,” Slops said, noticing the spectre’s gaze. “Shall we go somewhere else?”
“Of course,” replied the spirit. And in a moment they were outside a modestly sized letting on Royal Mews.
“Ah. The poverty years,” said Slops, sagely. “This was a hard time for me, to be sure.”
The pair watched a procession of young mothers entering Slops’ abode to be greeted with cake and festive music whilst the babes played on the floor with Slops’ own child.
“Well, the real poverty came a bit later,” explained Slops, hastily. “I think I probably had emptied a few oil lamps by then though.”
Slops watched as the years performed their terrible dance. She saw herself move from one letting to another, packing her belongings in a cart pulled by a horse called Yaris. At one point a bereft looking man of Asian descent walked past them carrying bags that smelled of excrement. “That had nothing to do with me!” insisted Slops, willing the spirit to continue the journey through the years with greater speed.
“Oh look! There I am dragging trunks filled with Practical Cookery on a Bootstrap to the Post Office!” Slops exclaimed, excitedly. “I really don’t understand why people were so ungrateful about that. Look at how hard it is for me!”
The spirit did not reply.
Slops saw suitors come and go, each departure hitting her like a punch to the face. “Why do you delight in torturing me?” she beseeched the ghost. “Haven’t I suffered enough from all the people who LEFT?”
“These are the shadows of what has been. They are what they are, do not blame me. Our time here is almost done,” said the spirit, wondering if Slops had learned anything at all from viewing the reality of her past.
“I think I should like to go back now,” Slops told the spirit, in a manner reminiscent of the young Slops they had seen at the family table some moments before.
“As you wish,” replied the spectre. “There are still two more spirits to visit with. Listen and learn. Your fate depends upon it.”
Slops was quite overcome at this suggestion and fell to her knees in a dramatic fashion, weeping loudly and - the spirit thought - a little excessively.
When Slops opened her eyes the spirit was gone and Slops found herself back in her own bedchamber. She tossed and turned, wracked with anxiety for the visit of the next spirit, but soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
Beyond the drapes of her four-poster bed, a gentle glow filled the chamber and Slops trembled at the sight that might befall her. Cautiously she drew back the drapes, her breath held and her heart pounding.
A small child stood before her, luminescent in the dark of the bedroom. “Are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?” asked Slops, bewildered at the sight.
“I am the ghost of Griftmas Past,” said the child in a delicate lilting voice.
“But you are just a child!” exclaimed Slops.
“I have lived for over nineteen hundred years,” the spirit said. “Come, I have much to show you.”
She took Slops to the window, which flung wide as if by witchcraft. The spirit reached her tiny hand towards Slops, who hesitated but then grasped the cold fingers in her own. “Spirit, I am mortal and liable to fall,” Slops protested, indicating the window towards which the spirit moved.
“A touch of my hand and you shall fly,” explained the tinkling voice. And before she knew it, Slops was soaring above the Essex coastline.
“Spirit, what is that light up ahead? It cannot be dawn.”
“It is the past.” And with that, Slops and the spirit flew into the light and came to rest in a place Slops remembered very well indeed.
“This is my school!” exclaimed Slops. “Oh it was a horrible place for a child like me.”
Slops and the spirit watched as caring teachers gently tried to cajole the young and obstinate Slops into putting more effort into her schoolwork. Their frustration and disappointment was palpable.
The pair watched the young Slops walk home to be greeted warmly by Mama Slops and Big Dave Slops MBE, who, the spirit noted not unkindly, was wearing slightly humiliating trousers.
The table was set for a feast, with the other Slops youngsters tucking in and talking excitedly. An older man in grubby overalls was smoking by the back door and flicking the ash from his pipe in the direction of Mama Slops whenever the opportunity presented itself.
The room was warm and welcoming but the figure of young Slops sat petulantly, poking at the food with a fork and ignoring entreaties from everyone except the elderly pipe-smoker. He goaded young Slops into uttering insolent words and crude retorts at Mama Slops, before slipping a shiny crown into young Slops’ eager hand.
The spirit glanced at her companion but saw no indication of remorse in the older Slops’ face.
“I’ve seen enough here,” Slops said, noticing the spectre’s gaze. “Shall we go somewhere else?”
“Of course,” replied the spirit. And in a moment they were outside a modestly sized letting on Royal Mews.
“Ah. The poverty years,” said Slops, sagely. “This was a hard time for me, to be sure.”
The pair watched a procession of young mothers entering Slops’ abode to be greeted with cake and festive music whilst the babes played on the floor with Slops’ own child.
“Well, the real poverty came a bit later,” explained Slops, hastily. “I think I probably had emptied a few oil lamps by then though.”
Slops watched as the years performed their terrible dance. She saw herself move from one letting to another, packing her belongings in a cart pulled by a horse called Yaris. At one point a bereft looking man of Asian descent walked past them carrying bags that smelled of excrement. “That had nothing to do with me!” insisted Slops, willing the spirit to continue the journey through the years with greater speed.
“Oh look! There I am dragging trunks filled with Practical Cookery on a Bootstrap to the Post Office!” Slops exclaimed, excitedly. “I really don’t understand why people were so ungrateful about that. Look at how hard it is for me!”
The spirit did not reply.
Slops saw suitors come and go, each departure hitting her like a punch to the face. “Why do you delight in torturing me?” she beseeched the ghost. “Haven’t I suffered enough from all the people who LEFT?”
“These are the shadows of what has been. They are what they are, do not blame me. Our time here is almost done,” said the spirit, wondering if Slops had learned anything at all from viewing the reality of her past.
“I think I should like to go back now,” Slops told the spirit, in a manner reminiscent of the young Slops they had seen at the family table some moments before.
“As you wish,” replied the spectre. “There are still two more spirits to visit with. Listen and learn. Your fate depends upon it.”
Slops was quite overcome at this suggestion and fell to her knees in a dramatic fashion, weeping loudly and - the spirit thought - a little excessively.
When Slops opened her eyes the spirit was gone and Slops found herself back in her own bedchamber. She tossed and turned, wracked with anxiety for the visit of the next spirit, but soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
colouredlines
VIP Member
So if she is indeed on a 2-year contract, she renewed in Feb '21. That was a month after she cried at Rishi mate because she didn't qualify for self-employment assistance during covid, and a couple of weeks before she disappeared off to the aparthotel for rehab. Louisa had LEFT in about May '20, and returned briefly in the guise of Bubble Buddy over the autumn/winter, but the engagement was not back on.
Given that she could (allegedly) barely afford the fucking place and had (allegedly) had a huge relapse into alcoholism, what an odd moment to renew for two whole years.
Given that she could (allegedly) barely afford the fucking place and had (allegedly) had a huge relapse into alcoholism, what an odd moment to renew for two whole years.
Lucky Escape
VIP Member
Yeah, Jack, all your money woes are SB's fault. Fuck off.
Switchstreetz
VIP Member
She doesn't know she's fucking born.
Sorry I feel like I go on about the fact I RENT in a houseshare a lot, but I can't believe how ungrateful and completely lacking in self awareness this grifting windbag is ESPECIALLY when we're currently experiencing a cost of living crisis and many of us are actually struggling.
The reality for so many people her age (especially the 34 year olds who are actually single mums) is that they can't afford to cover the costs of a 1 bed flat, especially with the electricity price hikes.
Meanwhile Slops is out wailing on the heaths:
"Oh woe is me, my huge 3 bed detached house in a posh seaside area is cold"
There's nurses and full time workers using food banks, and kids going to school hungry, read the room you shameless twat.
ETA not that anyone should have to use a food bank, but you know what I mean
Ooointitot
Chatty Member
I will never, ever recover from Deranged Cupcake Jack. Blonde, Brunette, who cares, DERANGED.
Nonah
VIP Member
you’re not huffing into the void though are you, you massive bellend. You’re whinging to a massive audience of guillible, well meaning followers who you know full well will ‘pop a little something in your tip jar’, even though you say you’re “fine.” Comments about only putting the heating on when you’re in agony don’t suggest you’re fine, do they. But that’s Jack. Just casually dropping in a clanger of emotive description of daily struggles.
What you COULD do instead of complaining about your own lot in life is signal boost the people who ACTUALLY need help and perhaps whinge to a friend about your own troubles. Why won’t you do that?
jenny2603
VIP Member
Recap: Jack has dressed up as what appears to be a woman with short hair on her way to the shops whilst experiencing some sort of bowel urgency. Jack claims she is dressed as Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders but she lies so much it's hard to know what to believe. There has been some suggestion the fancy dress outfit is intended to represent Owen Jones but i would ask frauen to avoid any unhelpful speculation given the current situation.
Jack has also claimed that she is attending a fancy dress party this evening but we shall believe that when we see it.
She has been very quiet on twitter and remains humiliatingly DUMPED AND REJECTED by Agent Rosemary.
Jack has also claimed that she is attending a fancy dress party this evening but we shall believe that when we see it.
She has been very quiet on twitter and remains humiliatingly DUMPED AND REJECTED by Agent Rosemary.
shugabug23
Chatty Member
“My landlady is lovely”
Attachments
jenny2603
VIP Member
It was her choice not to post anything for two years, I'm not sure why she's getting arsey with squig who as far as I can tell has just made a polite and factually accurate comment.PATREON ALERT
heretoreaditall2019
VIP Member
omg she’s thick as shit - property prices are down! This is the depth of the UK’s leading poverty campaigner’s understanding of the housing market?You guys, Switzerland has now entered the chat.
The fuck?
Also inherited wealth when it’s her family = meaningless, a moral business for the poors. When it’s her landlady = disgusting money grabbing? It’s one or the other hun and I know what my money’s on
WoolyMammoth
VIP Member
I don't see why anyone would pretend their house was smaller than it is, and sleep on the sofa, whilst paying 1500 rent. I'd enjoy it whilst it lasts, make use of the space, sell lots of stuff and only squish into a sardine can when I had to. I don't park at the side of the motorway in the wind and rain to practice for when my car breaks down. If it does, I'll have to just do that on the day. I don't need to practice. I'll just ring the AA.
I'd create a week or so overlap between the two properties. Day 1 I'd take absolute essentials, bed, basic kitchen stuff, desk, sofa, essential clothes etc. Day 2 I'd take more stuff in order of priority. And I'd keep going until the new place ran out of room. Then I'd put the rest into storage or sell it/donate it/recycle it/bin it because it doesn't fit into my home. No oscar needed.
I'd create a week or so overlap between the two properties. Day 1 I'd take absolute essentials, bed, basic kitchen stuff, desk, sofa, essential clothes etc. Day 2 I'd take more stuff in order of priority. And I'd keep going until the new place ran out of room. Then I'd put the rest into storage or sell it/donate it/recycle it/bin it because it doesn't fit into my home. No oscar needed.
jenny2603
VIP Member
Normal me: We need to build more social housing and bring in some form of rent controls for the private sector...
*Jack starts whining about the shitty bungalow*
Me: LANDLORDS SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO SHOO MONROE FROM THEIR PROPERTY WITH A BROOM.
Grizzlybear
VIP Member
She’s a top cunt and this is why I will never feel sorry for her. I had a parent like this (addict/narcissist) and I do not ever have contact with them abc I live for undoing their damage every day
fly free SB, kids need new shoes sometimes and your ma is a fucking bastard for even mentioning it while she’s decked out in everything and sitting in her maximalist mansion
Knit one Pearl one
VIP Member
If the Jackarse bothered to conduct any form of research, she'd know that the property does, in fact, have a mortgage registered against it.
MavisBeacon
VIP Member
The trans shenanigans was a solid gold PR move on Jack's part in order to boost her cachet with the Graun and keep the grift going.
Apologies to any genuinely gender dysphoric Frauen/Herren/Neithen, and I don't want to reignite this argument, but I simply do not buy her claims to trans or nb identity. We can all see how much she loves a) lying b) attention and c) dressing up for me to believe that she was genuinely dysphoric and transitioning
BlendedSlop
VIP Member
Just catching up on the completely unexpected development of Jack rattling her begging tin and behaving like a twat!
Hope bottom squig here isn't holding their breath.
Hope bottom squig here isn't holding their breath.