I wasn’t going to do it: the decision had been made not to give the appalling Liz Jones the benefit of any more stick, no matter how utterly desperate and totally barking her latest offering. And then she goes and writes an even more totally gaga slice of self-aggrandisement that the temptation becomes too much. This woman, were she not real, would not be a credible characterisation.
What do you think of it so far?
The headline says it all: “I thought tattoos were for sluts...until I was branded with a 4-inch high prancing horse. My boyfriend's reaction? 'Rock and roll! Now you might have sex with your top off!” and from there it goes downhill in short order. She’s had a tattoo, and she also once had a boyfriend who was black. And, even though you didn’t want to know, “I’ve only in the past few weeks bought some sexy underwear”.
No thanks Liz, I’m trying to hold down my lunch. She wants to make “a tad of difference to my personality, which, to be honest, I’m tired of”. You’re tired of it? Soil the bed, dear, think of the rest of us. So what’s the deal? Liz has ventured to the badlands otherwise known as Shoreditch, which is “relentlessly urban” (this could be something to do with it being in an, er, urban area).
Here, she encounters “men with facial hair and kilts, and women with Beatles caps and Dr Martens” although she then concludes that the people there are “thoroughly nice” as she staggers around the cobbles in her “polished Prada platforms” (what was that about being on her uppers?). And she is reassured that tattoos are no big deal, because Sam Cam has one. Allegedly.
Liz decides on having the tattoo on her upper arm, because “should I ever go strapless, it might also distract from my cellulite”. Yes dear, like anyone gives a flying foxtrot about your expletive deleteding cellulite. Thus tattooed she takes herself to Paris Fashion Week, “where I sat, on a teeny gilt chair, arm bravely exposed”. So sitting there seeking attention, then.
But this is not attention-seeking according to Liz: “I have never wanted anyone to look at me” she protests. How shall I put this? Two words come to mind, and one of them is “off”. The whole point of the entire Liz Jones oeuvre is to cause folks to look at her. She claims to be “the very opposite of a slut” because they have “messy make-up and loud opinions”. Is that right? You don’t say.
She tells Mail readers “I am permanently torn between ragged nervousness and a desire to improve myself so that I don’t frighten people on the street”. Well, Liz, I have news for you. You can indeed improve yourself and not frighten people in a way that benefits everyone. And you can do this by ceasing the relentless self promotion and the barrage of photos of Yourself Personally Now.
But you won’t be listening, and will be back for more later. No change there, then.