I’ve quoted Medistar again so you can click on the one in their post and play ’Spot the Difference’ with the one I’ve attached.
I suspect this is why there was a difference in publishing between online and print.
Liz Jones #7 If she's got two faces, why does she wear that horrible one?
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I suspect this is why there was a difference in publishing between online and print.
I suspect she's so up her own a *as well as* being thick as mince that she didn't realise she was laying a bleeping huge elephant trap for herself.
She has always thought she can ag off all and sundry with no risk of repercussions. I only hope the Spaniel/Acorn One has a quiet word with m'learned friends...
She has always thought she can ag off all and sundry with no risk of repercussions. I only hope the Spaniel/Acorn One has a quiet word with m'learned friends...
She didn't have a "last boyfriend"; she had someone who thought of her as an occasional bag. I doubt very much that he was terrified except by the fact that he had been involved with someone so batshit that she paid someone money to stalk him for her.
Is she talking about writing a self-help book or talking about someone else's book? For an 'award-winning writer', she doesn't make sense (much as usual). As for writing a novel, didn't her last two sink without trace?
What's wrong with getting reminded about vaccinations that can help prevent you becoming seriously ill? Or being asked for your date of birth? I'm 65 this year and I don't have a problem with either. But then I'm not a batshit harpy who looks several years older and is risibly convinced that she's "catnip to men".
Is she talking about writing a self-help book or talking about someone else's book? For an 'award-winning writer', she doesn't make sense (much as usual). As for writing a novel, didn't her last two sink without trace?
What's wrong with getting reminded about vaccinations that can help prevent you becoming seriously ill? Or being asked for your date of birth? I'm 65 this year and I don't have a problem with either. But then I'm not a batshit harpy who looks several years older and is risibly convinced that she's "catnip to men".
Two reasons receptionists are asked to check date of birth, which John Smith/Elizabeth Jones are you ? The other is a pronunciation/language issue, it is intrusive to ask someone to repeat their name several times if you can’t understand what the patient said
I know that but then I'm not a pretentious bleep called Liz Jones! I've spent the last three+ years constantly having to repeat my name and date of birth for medical procedures so I'm happy with it, especially when I was in hospital
.Incidentally, I read yesterday that when James Blunt's father was getting a kidney transplant a couple of years ago the donor was a distant cousin who had the same name of Charles Blount so James wrote on the cousin's forehead "GIVER" and "TAKER" on his father's before they went into surgery!
She's posted on Substack about suitable clothes for bigger people then shown them on skinny models. Sorry can't do a link. Anyway it's probably not worth reading as it's probably a rinse'n'repeat, as usual.
Guess what ?
David didn’t show
She’d bought cashmere
Wonder of wonders, she didn’t wax
David didn’t show
She’d bought cashmere
Wonder of wonders, she didn’t wax
LIZ JONES: I feel I’m in a romcom, hopeful of my happy ending. How silly am I?
By LIZ JONES, COLUMNIST, YOU MAGAZINE
Published: 08:01 GMT, 17 January 2026.
Well, what can I say? I prepped. A spa day. Hair dye. Pedicure. Tesco order of man food. Wax-free lemon. Tanqueray gin. I washed the wool tank I’ve been sleeping in. I bought a crepe pan (last New Year’s Eve I bought a baking tray to make a chocolate yule log, to no avail, obvs, as I found out he was cheating) because I promised David 1.0 I would make masala dosas. I tried to buy black onion seeds but no supermarket stocked them, so I ordered them on Amazon. I now have enough to run my own Indian corner shop.
I cleaned the glass of the log burner, brought logs in. I hoovered and washed floors and put milk and cream in the Smeg mini fridge in his bedroom, along with ground coffee, special gluten-free biscuits and a bottle of San Pellegrino, though he is proud to say he hasn’t drunk water since 1972.
I filled up the bird feeders. I bought a fern to add more green. I went to Zara in York, thinking I might buy him a sweater, but it was awful. Just so much tat: ‘Contains wool.’ So I relented and ordered an N Peal half-zip cashmere sweater for him online, extra large. I put out the bollards used for funerals to reserve him a parking space as he can’t walk far.
It’s 30 December. New Year’s Eve eve. He had said he would text with an ETA but by 1pm, nothing, nothing, nothing. He was coming from his friend’s place in France, so I looked at the Eurotunnel website. A power cut. No service. Perhaps he is stuck, but if so, surely he would have sent a text?
At 3pm, I send him a message. ‘Hi Dave. Do you have an ETA? I’ve made dinner. I see the tunnel is closed, was worried you might be delayed. X’
As I write, I’m watching When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time. The scene where they are in separate beds, talking over the phone on a split screen. Not for the first time I feel I’m in a romcom, hopeful of my happy ending. How silly am I?
Because he sends this. ‘I thought I blocked you. I’m not coming. I was due yesterday. You promised not to include me in your column. You did. I’m done. You can’t be trusted and I don’t need more friends.’
I reply. ‘Wow. No, you were due today, as I told you I was in York yesterday. Wouldn’t it have been more adult to tell me on Sunday you weren’t coming? What a coward, and how cruel. I bought food, gin, milk, cream, cheese, f**king gluten-free crackers, made dinner, bought a crepe pan, ordered a cashmere sweater. How rude and disrespectful. Grow up. And what’s with sending parcels to my house?’ A package had just turned up at the door, addressed to him: Hoegoa rosemary shampoo. WTF?
He replies. ‘Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Oh s**t, sorry, it is me. I thought it was the 31st today.’ I have his visit organised down to the very last detail. He has no idea what day it is.
I think I must hold some sort of world record for being stood up. Two years in a row I bought festive food and cashmere, and two years in a row a man has failed to turn up for New Year’s Eve. Tell you what, I’m done, too. People are fine, aren’t they, as long as you behave exactly how they want. Give, give, give. How does he think I pay for his cashmere and cream?
His last line was telling. ‘I don’t need more friends.’ He’s miffed he would have had to sleep in the spare room and, all things considered, he figured the 500-mile round trip wasn’t worth it.
JONES MOANS... WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
• Competitive illness. I do it. Nic told me she has cystitis and has to be prone on the sofa. I replied: ‘When I had cystitis I had to drive 500 miles in one day, go swimming and do a photo shoot dressed as a mermaid.’
• I am devastated that Brigitte Bardot has died. When I went to St Tropez I lobbed a letter with my mobile number, requesting an interview, over the wall of her home, wrapped around a rock. Unbelievably, she called and granted me, a fellow animal lover, the interview.
Well done David! He should have just replied ‘haha’ to her second message and then never responded again. She’ll eke four more columns out of this.
So instead of realising she is a violently unpleasant old harpy she thinks it’s because she isn’t offering to have sex with him.
Listing all the balls you bought doesn’t make up for having to actually spend time with you.
No self awareness.
edited to add - I looked up this jumper it is close to £400. Isn’t she always calling him a tramp?
By LIZ JONES, COLUMNIST, YOU MAGAZINE
Published: 08:01 GMT, 17 January 2026.
Well, what can I say? I prepped. A spa day. Hair dye. Pedicure. Tesco order of man food. Wax-free lemon. Tanqueray gin. I washed the wool tank I’ve been sleeping in. I bought a crepe pan (last New Year’s Eve I bought a baking tray to make a chocolate yule log, to no avail, obvs, as I found out he was cheating) because I promised David 1.0 I would make masala dosas. I tried to buy black onion seeds but no supermarket stocked them, so I ordered them on Amazon. I now have enough to run my own Indian corner shop.
I cleaned the glass of the log burner, brought logs in. I hoovered and washed floors and put milk and cream in the Smeg mini fridge in his bedroom, along with ground coffee, special gluten-free biscuits and a bottle of San Pellegrino, though he is proud to say he hasn’t drunk water since 1972.
I filled up the bird feeders. I bought a fern to add more green. I went to Zara in York, thinking I might buy him a sweater, but it was awful. Just so much tat: ‘Contains wool.’ So I relented and ordered an N Peal half-zip cashmere sweater for him online, extra large. I put out the bollards used for funerals to reserve him a parking space as he can’t walk far.
It’s 30 December. New Year’s Eve eve. He had said he would text with an ETA but by 1pm, nothing, nothing, nothing. He was coming from his friend’s place in France, so I looked at the Eurotunnel website. A power cut. No service. Perhaps he is stuck, but if so, surely he would have sent a text?
At 3pm, I send him a message. ‘Hi Dave. Do you have an ETA? I’ve made dinner. I see the tunnel is closed, was worried you might be delayed. X’
As I write, I’m watching When Harry Met Sally for the umpteenth time. The scene where they are in separate beds, talking over the phone on a split screen. Not for the first time I feel I’m in a romcom, hopeful of my happy ending. How silly am I?
Because he sends this. ‘I thought I blocked you. I’m not coming. I was due yesterday. You promised not to include me in your column. You did. I’m done. You can’t be trusted and I don’t need more friends.’
I reply. ‘Wow. No, you were due today, as I told you I was in York yesterday. Wouldn’t it have been more adult to tell me on Sunday you weren’t coming? What a coward, and how cruel. I bought food, gin, milk, cream, cheese, f**king gluten-free crackers, made dinner, bought a crepe pan, ordered a cashmere sweater. How rude and disrespectful. Grow up. And what’s with sending parcels to my house?’ A package had just turned up at the door, addressed to him: Hoegoa rosemary shampoo. WTF?
He replies. ‘Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Oh s**t, sorry, it is me. I thought it was the 31st today.’ I have his visit organised down to the very last detail. He has no idea what day it is.
I think I must hold some sort of world record for being stood up. Two years in a row I bought festive food and cashmere, and two years in a row a man has failed to turn up for New Year’s Eve. Tell you what, I’m done, too. People are fine, aren’t they, as long as you behave exactly how they want. Give, give, give. How does he think I pay for his cashmere and cream?
His last line was telling. ‘I don’t need more friends.’ He’s miffed he would have had to sleep in the spare room and, all things considered, he figured the 500-mile round trip wasn’t worth it.
JONES MOANS... WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
• Competitive illness. I do it. Nic told me she has cystitis and has to be prone on the sofa. I replied: ‘When I had cystitis I had to drive 500 miles in one day, go swimming and do a photo shoot dressed as a mermaid.’
• I am devastated that Brigitte Bardot has died. When I went to St Tropez I lobbed a letter with my mobile number, requesting an interview, over the wall of her home, wrapped around a rock. Unbelievably, she called and granted me, a fellow animal lover, the interview.
Well done David! He should have just replied ‘haha’ to her second message and then never responded again. She’ll eke four more columns out of this.
So instead of realising she is a violently unpleasant old harpy she thinks it’s because she isn’t offering to have sex with him.
Listing all the balls you bought doesn’t make up for having to actually spend time with you.
No self awareness.
edited to add - I looked up this jumper it is close to £400. Isn’t she always calling him a tramp?
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The jibe about him needing an xl would have been followed by complaints about him not washing it properly if she'd actually given it to him.
Someone needs to tell her there's a whole world between scratchy Zara wool blend and N bleeping Peal though.
Its taken him long enough to realise she can't be trusted not to write about him. Should he have gone it would be written about and not in a good light. Why would it be her happy ending, she was inviting him as there was no-one else. She doesn't really like him, but if he changed everything about him, do as he is told, he'd do.
Brigitte had some good outfits, but was so racist, prejudice and mean that even the Nazi party would have said she was taking things a bit far.
This is very much like when people say that Hitler was a vegetarian and liked dogs.
Liking animals doesn't make up for being married to the leader of the far right party in France.
Liz prides herself of being better and more intelligent than others, yet is either ignorant of Brigittes life outside of the fashion or doesn't care that she was a massive bleep in every other aspect of her life.
She lied about lobbing the letter. I call liar liar pants on fire.
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Well spotted @snapperhall She really does think we are all thick.
That looks really well attended, I love community things like that. I did quite like her idea of showing old Cary Grant films etc and think it would work if the film club is established. No-one needs bloody notes on the films though. If people really want to know more there’s Wikipedia and IMDB.
Perhaps we should they rent “The Devil Wears Prada”
