Anyone know why she’s still owing money on the previous property? (rental)
Liz Jones #6 She's not a war correspondent, she writes a column detailing how she waxes herself and poops in restaurants
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Given her track record of spending, then blaming others when she is required (just like the rest of us) to fund her spending, I'm not a bit surprised.
I actually began to be a bit (just a bit) worried about her (assuming all this is true of course), given her reference to Mama Cass being lucky because she only had a day to live. If she really is in the state, mentally and financially, that she says, then she needs proper help and someone to talk some common sense into her. Given the absence of anyone in her life other than the sainted Nic, and a few 'imaginary friends', I doubt anyone is in a position to do that. In that case, I am willing to step up and tell her to sell that bloody pretend vicarage, rent a small flat, not do any alterations to it which cost more than a tin of paint and stop pouring her woes into her writing week in and week out. Oh yes, and sell those horses. Then take time to think of others - a bit of looking outside herself would do her the power of good. Might also be a good idea to be made bankrupt again, so that a proportion of her income would be taken to pay her debts before she can chuck it around again. Use the rest for what the rest of us do - i.e. basics first and no, absolutely no, designer labels.
There you are Liz and I'm giving you all that for free.
But of course none of her ramblings are true, and she's probably gearing up for a 'designer breakdown', then a stay in rehab following by a bleeding heart confessional. Oh wait - hasn't she already done that? Or was that Bridget Jones?
Her debts and spending, she's learnt nothing, in a financial mess AGAIN cos she's well, stupid? In denial? If she's got two pots and one plate why does she need a dishwasher, why has she got another horse when she can't pay off the debt to her vet for other animals. Makes me anxious thinking about it. Like most of us I've had broke times, you prioritise, cut right back, cancel everything the idea you take on more obligations is crazy. Very telling there is nobody left to tell her some financial home truths.
Fwiw, I think she kept the Easby rental on and stuck Bebb in it. All those properties were owned by the same person and they all went on the market except Juggo's stained hovel. I think she couldn't afford to pay the damages and did a deal for an extended rental. Hence her ridiculous leccy bills.
There isn't a violin small enough for her 'woes'. She's got new false teeth, thinks she's a catch and is making a decent living. Sadly, she will never be a decent human.
I think the horse is a foster but who knows who's paying for the food and vet bills etc.
I can't keep up with her lies. Nic only stays because she's paid and everyone else has seen through her to her thoroughly nasty lying bitter core.
It wouldn't matter who'd give her any advice, she wouldn't take it because she'd see it as a criticism and we all know she defintiely can't take that.
She lives in the fantasy Jackie/Bunty world of a 12-year-old where she owns ponies and has loads of boys falling in love with her.
This week’s diary is already up.
Seriously though - don’t bother. It’s extremely dull.
There is a revelation however that she claims she used to ‘wee on her chair’ due to pressure of deadlines…
Seriously though - don’t bother. It’s extremely dull.
There is a revelation however that she claims she used to ‘wee on her chair’ due to pressure of deadlines…
I think she's mentioned that before - like most of her recycled witterings.This week’s diary is already up.
Seriously though - don’t bother. It’s extremely dull.
There is a revelation however that she claims she used to ‘wee on her chair’ due to pressure of deadlines…
She medicalises everything. I get nervous about filling in forms and dealing with money, but that doesn't mean I have PTSD. It just means that, like most people, there are things I prefer not to do - but not having a Nic, I have to do them. And she doesn't know what those dry-clad wild swimming women are going through. Get real Liz and stop making yourself into some kind of special case. You're not. You're pissed off with some aspects of life, just like the rest of us.
LIZ JONES: I exist on a cold, sharp knife edge... even the thought of money or missing out triggers my PTSD
I am feeling slightly more positive. I settled the bill for my kitchen. I paid £500 off my vet bill. Anything to do with money triggers my PTSD. I find it hard to understand why everyone else seems so relaxed. My vicarage backs on to a river, and every day I see women, all different ages, walk past, clad in Dryrobes, about to wild swim. They are chatting and laughing, not a care in the world.
I’m in awe. If that was me, I would be catastrophising, hyperventilating: I might drown. I will have a heart attack due to the cold. Someone will steal my clothes and my phone. Why am I spending time doing this and not working? How do these women afford to go wild swimming? Do they have husbands? What?
There isn’t a minute of the day when I’m not working or haring home from poo picking to work. My main thought each day is that I will miss an important work email. Once, on a Sunday, I was poo picking and received an email to ask me to write about the demise of Jane Birkin, but by the time I had got to the top of the hill to reply the story had been given to someone else. Damn.
Especially as the writer who replaced me had, when I was made fashion editor of the Daily Mail, told our shared assistant to remove all my show-ticket requests from the fax machine, meaning when I arrived in Milan on my first assignment, not a designer would admit me. And, when we both travelled, working for the same company, to Versailles to cover Dior at the Orangerie, she refused to allow me to share her town car, meaning I had to get a bus. The difference between landing a story and being passed over can be mere minutes. No wonder I exist on a cold, sharp knife edge.
It was ever thus. When I worked at The Sunday Times Magazine, I was always the last to leave. Everyone else had spouses, children. I was too afraid to go home as I was living with my sister, who terrorised me. At the Evening Standard, I would drive to work in order to be in the office by 5am and collect my porridge from the canteen, and wouldn’t leave until 7.30pm, 8pm. As the editor wafted out, she would say, ‘Liz, send me tomorrow’s features list in time for when I leave the restaurant.’ I was on call every Sunday, as I edited the Big Monday Interview.
Anyway, reminiscing about the Evening Standard (I admit it was fun; there was camaraderie, like being in the trenches. I called the scary editor ‘Mummy’ to humanise her, and soon everyone was doing it, even the hardened news guys), I suddenly remembered I underwent a medical to qualify for the pension and a lump sum should I die. And so I email them.
I am sent a form. I fill it in or, rather, Nic does, as I’m scared of forms. There must be some point to working such long hours with not even a loo break. They reply saying I need to fill in another form. And so I have to employ a wealth-management person, who is going to look into it for me. I am due some luck. My Sunday Times pension only pays me £60 a month, which is useless. Why didn’t I work for a bank, or become prime minister? I’d be set for life! Even though I have worked for the Daily Mail group for 25 years, as a freelancer I don’t get a pension, sick pay or holiday pay. But, fingers crossed, if my Standard pension comes good, I might be saved.
Those endless days, when I’d have to wee in my chair as there were so many pages to fill with Jamie Oliver and his ilk, so many editions, so many wars (I was on duty when the 7/7 bombs went off. I dispatched my pretty young reporter to The Royal London Hospital with an armful of flowers – ‘Put them on expenses!!’ – so she could pretend to be a relative. Me: ‘I want anyone without limbs. Photos. Go, now!’). God, we were ghouls.
Journalism is not so Wild West these days, meaning a lot of the fun has left the profession. But if only I’d thought less about tomorrow’s front page, more about my personal wellbeing, I’d be less nervous about what my wealth-management person reports back. Wish me luck…
I am feeling slightly more positive. I settled the bill for my kitchen. I paid £500 off my vet bill. Anything to do with money triggers my PTSD. I find it hard to understand why everyone else seems so relaxed. My vicarage backs on to a river, and every day I see women, all different ages, walk past, clad in Dryrobes, about to wild swim. They are chatting and laughing, not a care in the world.
I’m in awe. If that was me, I would be catastrophising, hyperventilating: I might drown. I will have a heart attack due to the cold. Someone will steal my clothes and my phone. Why am I spending time doing this and not working? How do these women afford to go wild swimming? Do they have husbands? What?
There isn’t a minute of the day when I’m not working or haring home from poo picking to work. My main thought each day is that I will miss an important work email. Once, on a Sunday, I was poo picking and received an email to ask me to write about the demise of Jane Birkin, but by the time I had got to the top of the hill to reply the story had been given to someone else. Damn.
Especially as the writer who replaced me had, when I was made fashion editor of the Daily Mail, told our shared assistant to remove all my show-ticket requests from the fax machine, meaning when I arrived in Milan on my first assignment, not a designer would admit me. And, when we both travelled, working for the same company, to Versailles to cover Dior at the Orangerie, she refused to allow me to share her town car, meaning I had to get a bus. The difference between landing a story and being passed over can be mere minutes. No wonder I exist on a cold, sharp knife edge.
It was ever thus. When I worked at The Sunday Times Magazine, I was always the last to leave. Everyone else had spouses, children. I was too afraid to go home as I was living with my sister, who terrorised me. At the Evening Standard, I would drive to work in order to be in the office by 5am and collect my porridge from the canteen, and wouldn’t leave until 7.30pm, 8pm. As the editor wafted out, she would say, ‘Liz, send me tomorrow’s features list in time for when I leave the restaurant.’ I was on call every Sunday, as I edited the Big Monday Interview.
Anyway, reminiscing about the Evening Standard (I admit it was fun; there was camaraderie, like being in the trenches. I called the scary editor ‘Mummy’ to humanise her, and soon everyone was doing it, even the hardened news guys), I suddenly remembered I underwent a medical to qualify for the pension and a lump sum should I die. And so I email them.
I am sent a form. I fill it in or, rather, Nic does, as I’m scared of forms. There must be some point to working such long hours with not even a loo break. They reply saying I need to fill in another form. And so I have to employ a wealth-management person, who is going to look into it for me. I am due some luck. My Sunday Times pension only pays me £60 a month, which is useless. Why didn’t I work for a bank, or become prime minister? I’d be set for life! Even though I have worked for the Daily Mail group for 25 years, as a freelancer I don’t get a pension, sick pay or holiday pay. But, fingers crossed, if my Standard pension comes good, I might be saved.
Those endless days, when I’d have to wee in my chair as there were so many pages to fill with Jamie Oliver and his ilk, so many editions, so many wars (I was on duty when the 7/7 bombs went off. I dispatched my pretty young reporter to The Royal London Hospital with an armful of flowers – ‘Put them on expenses!!’ – so she could pretend to be a relative. Me: ‘I want anyone without limbs. Photos. Go, now!’). God, we were ghouls.
Journalism is not so Wild West these days, meaning a lot of the fun has left the profession. But if only I’d thought less about tomorrow’s front page, more about my personal wellbeing, I’d be less nervous about what my wealth-management person reports back. Wish me luck…
A few points
weeing in her chair - disgusting
colleague refused to share her car - because you are awful
why didn’t I become prime minister - because you’re so thoroughly unlikable
it’s all so negative. Wish you luck? Hahahahaha
weeing in her chair - disgusting
colleague refused to share her car - because you are awful
why didn’t I become prime minister - because you’re so thoroughly unlikable
it’s all so negative. Wish you luck? Hahahahaha
Super dull this week.
Ugh that 7/7 anecdote is beyond disgusting. She's proud of it too.
They might walk past in Dryrobes but they are not about to wild swim, why lie about something that is easy to disprove. I know the Tees at Gainford and it can be fierce.
Attachments
Since when do you need a "wealth management" 
LOL person just to find out if you have a pension? She's bleeping useless.
LOL person just to find out if you have a pension? She's bleeping useless.Here’s my top wealth management and time management tips for Liz:
You don’t have to own or look after a horse. Those carefree dryrobe ladies probably don’t have horses or spend time poo picking.
You can save a proportion of the money you earn as a freelance writer. Deduct an amount for tax and an amount to save, and then you can spend the rest. There’ll be more money left over if you don’t have a horse (see above).
You don’t have to own or look after a horse. Those carefree dryrobe ladies probably don’t have horses or spend time poo picking.
You can save a proportion of the money you earn as a freelance writer. Deduct an amount for tax and an amount to save, and then you can spend the rest. There’ll be more money left over if you don’t have a horse (see above).
And then she'll have time to wee and poo in an actual toilet, like the rest of us.
And afford to hire private detectives
Still referring to the annexe as ‘my vicarage’ 