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Liz Jones...


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Its no surprise that there are still no comments appearing on the website, I wonder why. :good:

 

She is obviously barking mad and convinced of her own self righteousness.

 

Isn't funny how people can justify things in their mind to suit a situation and its outcome. :no:

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I telephoned the You magazine Editor this morning and politely expressed my anger to her regarding the article.

I also mentioned that no "Comments" had yet appeared, although I know a few have been sent.

She replied that she would look into that, but it could be because the person that vets the comments doesn't start work until 10am.

She did say that a few of her "colleagues" had mentioned the article to her.

I was also promised a feedback comment from her.

 

I have telephoned the NFU Press Office and drawn it to their attention.

The chap I spoke to brought the article up on his PC and read it, then went ballistic.

I think they may also be contacting the Editor.

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Flippin marvellous work Cranners :good::no::good:

 

I dread to think what the NFU folks will have to say about it, an angry farmer is a force to be reckoned with, let alone thousands and thousands of them!

 

As Highlander very rightly said, the anti brigade (of which she is a paid up member) would be all over this like a bad smell were it the other way round, it's high time OUR community bit back, HARD!

 

ZB

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Just guided a RSPCA Press Officer to the article, she also expressed a great deal of alarm and intends to contact the Editor "immediately".

She also couldn't understand how the article was approved, when it contained such a "shocking outrage".

 

:good::no:

 

I could never understand how she got the column in the first place. Dim, barking, neither use nor ornament - not a glowing CV.

 

Robert

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In case it is pulled from their site:

 

" I've decided that I have no alternative other than to make my new life work. For one thing, the pussy cats wouldn’t counter moving again. They are having far too much fun.

 

Late at night, I look out of my bedroom window and can see, in the moonlight, Sweetie prowling around down by the muck heap. Susie sleeps all day, and then goes out at night in search of shrews or field mice, returning to deposit them on my bed so that they run at my hair and wake me up. I am dreading the day she decides to bring a baby rabbit through the cat flap.

 

The only animal worry at the moment is that

I have discovered the reason Michael the sheepdog was abandoned: I think he is a sheep worrier.

 

Last Saturday, I took him for a walk down the hill beside my house, crossed over the stream as usual, and then he disappeared.

I called him for ages, and finally went home without him.

 

About half an hour later he appeared,

his muzzle covered in blood, looking decidedly sheepish. I put his lead on, and

we searched the fields and the wood, just in case he had injured something. I couldn’t

find anything, and thought perhaps he had just got hold of a pheasant (these birds are beautiful but stupid, the David Beckhams of the avian world).

 

The next day, though, down by the stream, I came across a dead lamb, its stomach strewn across the grass. It could have been killed by a fox, but the evidence against Michael isn’t looking good. I felt bad, but then I thought, well, the lamb is probably due to be slaughtered in the not-too-distant future anyway.

 

I have to admit that I am finding all this carnage offputting. Every day seems to be a re-enactment of the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan. Michael redeemed himself a little, though, when I took him to the local gymkhana and we came first in the ‘best rescued dog’ class, which meant we qualified for ‘best in show’ (we came fifth overall).

 

As I trotted round the ring with him on the lead, I remembered that scene in Sex and the City where Charlotte enters Elizabeth Taylor in a dog show, and realised how ridiculously closely my life mirrors that of the characters in Sex and the City (without the ‘sex’ and the ‘city’ parts, though, obviously).

 

Oh God, I have to find a boyfriend soon. Not for the actual sex part – I always found that boring and repetitive with my husband. Is it shameful to admit that? Isn’t sex as overrated as, ooh, I don’t know, Christmas Day: you get all dressed up and excited and then someone gives you Boots bubble bath.

 

But I would, just once or twice, like to have dinner sitting across from a man who is attracted to me, rather than just sitting with my spaghetti with nothing on it on my lap in front of Follyfoot.

 

I miss having my neck nuzzled, although Lizzie the nervous racehorse is getting quite good at this. Unlike her human namesake, Lizzie is looking beautiful, her bay coat covered in dapples – not unlike the effect on my thighs, having spent all winter nursing a hot water bottle.

 

I am able to put drops in her huge, Penélope Cruz-lashed eyes without her doing her giraffe impression and I have even hacked her out down the lanes, which are decked out in cow parsley and foxgloves.

 

My life seems idyllic from the outside. In the evening, I sit on the stone steps with a glass of organic wine, watching the horses graze, listening to the owls, and I know I should be happy. Except I’m not. What on earth is wrong with me?

 

Most importantly, I miss having someone to arrive at a party with. I have two parties coming up soon – a friend’s 40th and a fancy work do – and already I’m dreading walking in on my own.

 

With these events in mind, I did actually e-mail someone I quite fancy (he looks a bit like

Alan Shearer, although not Northern), and whom I thought might vaguely fancy me back, asking whether he was going to either one of these bashes. And do you know what he replied? ‘NFI, I’m afraid. See you soon-ish.’ Why the ish? Why? Why? "

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What a great article, thank you for reminding me why I stopped buying the Daily Mail and started buying the Telegraph instead. Ms. Jones appears to be a single lady who prefers the company of rescue animals and cats to that of other human beings. Just what the Countryside needs, another London trendy without a clue.

 

I think we should be a little more understanding of Liz's personal situation.

 

Readers of her column will be aware that her ex-husband was ******** away behind her back even before their marriage. The attention-seeking, animal care - love substitution is in part due to her hatred of men because her ex fancied porking somebody who's not a mentalist.

 

Sorry, got a little carried away there.

 

Reason I know is that Lady F. reads out bits of the column every week and I laugh like a dray at her continuing misfortune. If her bad luck run with men continues, she'll be off hunt saboteuring and cucumber patch press-up training in a couple of weeks.

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