I really don’t like Liz Jones
I’m sorry to do this to you all, but it’s that time again. I wish there were another way, I really do. Because… well you know that huge pit monster in Star Wars, out in the desert? Well imagine that, only full of shit and used needles and copies of OK! Magazine. I wish I could jump into that instead, but to do so would be gross dereliction of duty. Gods, I’m even avoiding getting to the point, so loath am I to confront it. It is, I’m afraid, Liz Jones time again.
I know Paul Dacre doesn’t have a mind as such, rather a kind of bumhole-shaped vortex of malignant unpleasantness, but imagine for a moment that he did. Maybe try to imagine someone really intelligent and then feature-by-feature replace their face with Dacre’s. Or just get really, really drunk and forget who he is. Whatever works for you, really. Once you’ve imagined him a brain, quickly consider the following question, before your own brain notices what’s going on: What would have to go through it before deciding that Liz Jones, stealer of sperm (Jizz Loans?) is some sort of moral arbiter? How can the editor of a major ‘news’ outlet come to that conclusion?
You’d have to be some sort of spineless, swivel-eyed cretin to think that was a good idea. A colossal, smug twat of the worst kind, high off your own deluded sense of self-worth while everyone else who’s unfortunate enough to be aware of you just thinks you’re a worthless, transparent prick with the morals of a hungry shark and charisma of a vat of boiling pus, some sort of evil human-sized stoat. Fortunately I can’t think of such a man, so Mr Dacre must have made an honest mistake. As such I won’t suggest he has his head up his ass and that I hope he exhales suddenly and bursts himself like a shit-filled balloon, thus ridding the world of one of its more odious blemishes and possibly sparking a national celebration and new bank holiday.
Anyway, by some means we shall never know, this is just what happened. Recently, as part of their ongoing campaign to protect those too wealthy to have a charity looking out for their interests, Herr Jones posted this world-shattering hypocrisy. Let’s have a look at what she had to say, shall we?
“Three conversations last week made me wonder how ‘fair’ this country really is. The first was with a 24-year-old cleaner who lives in West Sussex.
She is going to Mauritius on her honeymoon, and is paying extra for a beachfront log cabin. She doesn’t pay any tax, as she is paid cash-in-hand.”
Stop me if I’m being a bit of a traditionalist, but I don’t think that people who have that much money are technically poor. In fact, I’ve just checked in Webster’s and the definition of ‘poor’ reads “someone who cannot afford a beachfront log cabin in Mauritius”. See? This is not a poor person. The reason they have so much money might not be a legal one, but they aren’t poor. The objection Liz seems to have here is that someone in a low-paying job is dodging tax in a way that is, bally darn it, the sole preserve of the rich. How dare someone earning less than six-figures a year avoid paying their fair share!
The next outrage is about some woman who has been on benefits all her life and, in her 50s now, is upset about some work the council are doing on her house. As we all know, 103% of all people who ever sign on to benefits will stay on them for life, probably spending their endless leisure hours juggling flat-screen TVs and snorting Colombia’s finest straight out of high-class escort’s vaginas. Since this is a fact and in no way some insultingly dishonest caricature of life on the dole, propagated by unscrupulous divs out to make an easy living at society’s expense, we can be sure this woman is representative of the norm. Finally, Liz’s 3rd encounter with the poor in just one week was an old lady. How she stumbled across 3 poor people in one week I’m not entirely sure. Presumably Jones couldn’t afford to pay the electricity bill and her huge pleb-zapping electric fence powered down long enough for a couple of stragglers to luck out whilst crossing the minefield she has laid in the garden. Since she owes something like £150,000 on various credit cards and loans, plus the mortgage she must have taken out to cover the expenses of running a giant Cat Palace, with its own “tiny bat sanctuary” worth £26,000 alone, I think this the most likely explanation. Anyway, pov #3 is some mad old woman who was complaining that the doctor wouldn’t treat her smoker’s cough with antibiotics. At no point do we find out whether this woman is rich or poor, but since you can’t just buy antibiotics over the counter the point seems fairly moot; she was mad and asking for something that you can only get through a doctor, no matter your socio-economic status. But:
“No one wants to be poor. The problem is, those who are poor believe they should have exactly the same lifestyle as people who work for a living.”
What, medicine? After a blindingly obvious attempt to find the most biased sample of ‘the poor’ as she could, the best this cadaverous hag could manage was 1 poor person, 1 fairly comfortably-off tax dodger and 1 mad old person of unknown means. As something of a cynic, I feel this might suggest that the socialist hippy benefits cheats The Mail has such a disturbing fetish for aren’t quite as prevalent as is often made out. But that’s all by-the-by really, just another article in the Daily Mail about how awful everyone who doesn’t work for the Daily Mail is. It’s almost like they’re trying to distract attention from something more repulsive, but I’m buggered if I can think what it Paul Dacre is. Where this piece really picks up speed is when L-Jo lapses into her idiosyncratic & utterly unjustified self-pity:
“Oh that someone would erect scaffolding around my house, mend my roof and renovate my kitchen without me having to pay out of my heavily-taxed income.”
Now if, like me, seeing such a grizzled, pseudo-sentient rectum as Liz use the word ‘erect’ makes you writhe in psychic discomfort, I apologise. However, I needed to quote the sentence in full, as otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see how much of a mewling fucking brat she’s being. Again. Still. Whatever. How much pity do I feel for someone who earns so much they qualify for the top tax bracket? Hmm. A tough question, I admit, but I think the answer is ‘none at all’. I’m sorry if the bats are all escaping from your belfry (oh dear god, the images…) Liz, but to be honest I hope the whole thing falls down and crushes you slowly over a matter of days. Preferably while, by freak coincidence, I stand nearby lecturing on how much of a disgrace to the species you are.
There is a brief glimmer of hope here though:
“The furore over the cut in the 50p tax rate is entirely misguided. Those who work hard for what they have are already increasingly feeling it’s just not worth it.”
In that case, O repugnant and moronic bitch from hell, why don’t you just not do it anymore? If earning 6-figures a year and still somehow racking up 10 grand in debt on make-up in under a year is no longer worth it, don’t bloody write anything anymore. While you may be the only person in the world I’d admit needs over £1,000 of slap per month, you obviously aren’t thinking too hard about how ‘not worth it’ the whole thing is if you’re still running up that kind of tab at Boots. As you so wrongly point out:
“Why pay a mortgage if the value of your property is plummeting?”
Why indeed, Liz? Apart from the fact you’d lose your home if you stopped paying the mortgage, you total fucking imbecile. Does she actually realise what she’s saying? Can anyone be this oblivious to their own sickening petulance? I find it hard to believe. But then, I also find it hard to believe that someone would suggest we should keep funding sweatshops in Bangladesh rather than create more jobs over here, because to do so would be greedy. I mean the poor Bangladeshi women who work in those places are (put down anything breakable before reading on):
“the sort of real poor that means she can never dream of becoming a size 18”
Hnnnnnnnghgghhhnggghhhh! Gnnghargh! SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. Do you really think that these people, who you acknowledge work 21 hours a day in their struggle to buy enough raw beans to stave of famine long enough to continue working 21 hours a day, give a flying dog-dick whether they’re size 18 or not? How fundamentally flawed do you have to be as human being to think that is a concern for them? I find it hard to believe that anyone in this country, even someone so dimwitted and self-absorbed as Florence Nightinghandi here, is unaware of that. Even deaf-mute quadriplegics with catatonic autism can grasp the fact that dress size is a minor concern when you live in a hut with your starving children, waiting to go blind from trachoma and working what is essentially slave labour.
Not to be outdone – even by her own galling stupidity – Liz drops one of her famous closing turds that made me literally – literally – quite angry:
“Life isn’t fair. You just have to deal with it. Tell any Bangladeshi about a free education, healthcare and clean water, and they would think you were as rich as Croesus.” No, life isn’t fair. If there were any doubt of it before, it has been blown clear out of the universe by the mere fact that a pampered pool of piss like Liz Jones can lambast the poor for being lazy, moan about how much tax she has to pay because she earns so much money from writing unmitigated drivel and then lecture anyone about how they should stop complaining because they don’t know how lucky they are. It makes me sick that such hypocritical guff can make a deranged bundle of ignorance hundreds of thousands of pounds. I can’t even take solace in the fact that if someone so loathsome, stupid and lacking in talent can do it, then I must be able to as well. I’d happily never earn even half as much as people like Liz do, in exchange for those people being made to shut the hell up and live in a yurt stitching mirkins 23 hours a day.
FINE RUBY DRINK 