Liz Jones in need of a jizz loan.

(Is that a tad too far?)

This is rather belated but here's my take on something that has been annoying me for a while now.

Liz Jones. How utterly useless and repugnant the woman can be. One is almost tempted to treat her with sympathy, to excuse spermgate as the brief folly of a psychologically deranged maverick. I’ve even considered condoning the fact that she then felt it necessary to publish an article detailing the sordid act of her scooping sperm out of a condom and into herself as sheer altruism. At least she’s taking the precaution to warn other men (if not all of humanity) to avoid approaching her even if armed with an arsenic coated flaming barge pole. And yet she had to go and make it personal. You see. Liz Jones is not content to accept her life as a desperate spinster forever determined to mar her own reputation by revealing horrendously inappropriate details about her obscure personal life. No, Liz Jones always feels the need to accuse other women of being as utterly ridiculous, when in actual fact I would hope that she is a rare breed indeed.

Though Liz Jones may like to console herself with the excuse that her actions are similar to that of other women’s, quite simply, they are not. Skipping a day (or few…) of the pill is not equivalent to scooping sperm out of a used condom. It just isn’t. Neither acts are appropriate or advisable, but the fact that Liz Jones’ very own husband (notably ex-husband now) felt the need to wear a condom in the first place suggests something of a trust issue in that department. That or a smattering of STDs made it a necessity. Both entirely plausible. Anyway, where was I? That’s right, she always goes to the extra trouble of implicating other women. Urging men to be wary of women in their 30’s and making ridiculous claims such as ‘a life without a child is a failure.’ Now, perhaps some (key word here: some) childless women approaching the ages of 30 to 40 are looking for partners with whom to have children. So what? Good for them! Each to their own and all that. These women should not be avoided like the plague. And men, to any of you that have given it a second thought, I genuinely do not think that you ought to waste any time dwelling on the idea that all women over the age of 30 are considering rolling around on your bathroom floor frantically shovelling stolen sperm into themselves. I think we need to be realistic here, providing you’re not taking Liz Jones home (and you should be able to spot her – bit manic, bewildered looking, too much cosmetic surgery, most commonly spotted prowling around notorious red light districts clutching used condoms) then chances are you’re safe. Also, let’s be perfectly frank about this, not everyone wants to have children or are able to have children. In no way would either of one of those situations render any woman or man’s life a failure.

I knew she'd be a cat person.

But wait, there’s more! What most specifically bothered me about Liz Jones recently was the argument that she presented at the Cambridge Union debate on the motion: ‘The only limit to female success is ambition.’ Liz Jones’ side, which included a bloke spouting questionable science I rapidly stopped listening to in order to accord my cocktail more attention, and the rather more impressive and articulate Rachel Johnson, were in favour of this motion. For the record, I am not. But, what especially annoyed me about Liz Jones was her insistence that she herself had not been especially ambitious, nor had her family especially encouraged her. What had in fact lead to Liz Jones’ success, in her own words, was the fact that she had managed to amble her way to the top of her field (confessing to stealing sperm?) by the sheer force of other women becoming distracted by motherhood along the way and dropping out of the race.

Now, correct me if I’m mistaken, but that is not an argument that proposes that women equipped with sheer resilience, determination and doggedness can achieve all that they aspire to become (as I had imagined would be the thrust of Ms Jones' panel's debate.) It was more an attack on those women less insufferable than Liz Jones who had somehow managed to find that elusive partner from whom one wouldn’t have to steal sperm. Now, I don’t begrudge Liz Jones her success in her chosen career, I am sure that she has worked very hard, suffered plenty of late nights and persevered where others have thought, ‘no, it’s probably not a good idea to publish those personal details about myself, maybe I’ll just pause and reconsider, let the Mail find another troll.’ But, I do have a problem with the fact that she accuses other women of being essentially useless. At the Union debate she made the complaint that women don’t care about their work, that they are slow to respond and begrudge having any tasks set of them. There is so much wrong with that statement I do not even know where to begin. I’m not sure what to take more offence at, the idea that all women are disinterested in their profession, the implication that men inherently do everything in the work place in a manner superior to women, or that some poor sods have to work under Liz Jones’ direction? All grossly unfair portrayals of the reality of the work place I am sure. 


Moreover, the inherent implication in Liz Jones’ argument, that women only succeed by remaining single, ambling along and revealing sordid details about their private lives, is a horrendous and irresponsible example to present to room full of young women and men. I know for a fact that plenty of the most professionally successful women, and this is ascribing to a very narrow conception of what constitutes success and profession, have attained their position through resilience and determination (let's not forget a smattering of class capital) irrespective of the number of, if any, husbands they've married over the years or children they’ve borne. There are many restrictions to women's success that continue to uphold that glass ceiling, but not for the apathetic reasons Liz Jones suggests. What I think is really a shame is that an arguably successful (though utterly ridiculous) journalist such as herself proactively takes the time to justify the asymmetry between female and male professional success by spouting from her public platform such nonsense as, 'I'm not surprised that women don't have good jobs, I'm more surprised that they have any at all.' In fact, it's really quite sad. I appreciate that she's made a career for herself out of playing the victim and being provocative, but I can't help but fear that she actually believes her own nonsense. Love her or loathe her, can we all just take a minute to be thankful that she's taken to adopting turkeys rather than children.

Turns out she's the menagerie type. What a surprise.

Allow me to introduce myself.

A number of friends have recently encouraged me to start a blog. Whilst they claim that it is because I have interesting things to say that ought to be shared with a wider audience, I suspect that it actually has far more to do with the fact that they'd rather me rant somewhere they don't have to listen to my nonsense. Their wishes have been granted. I will be sharing with you my thoughts on those things that have amused me, caught my attention, offended me and perhaps even aroused me recently.


Perhaps you would like to know a little bit more about my fine self though before we continue. Please allow me to introduce and indulge myself.


I grew up in a hamlet in Yorkshire to parents who can count on one hand the number of times they've left the county (and that is not a typo, I really do mean county). In what could be likened to the Mighty Boosh episode detailing the exploits of the Crack Fox, I ran to London clutching copies of Vogue and i-D magazine full of ambitions to have a fabulous time at only the most exclusive and obscure parties. Problem. I'm actually far more inclined to spending time on my own and could scarcely afford the entry to clubs never mind the obligatory tube fair, ridiculous outfit and 'drinks' upon entry. As anyone who has ever socialised with me will realise, I'm rarely fun, or on the guest list. You can take the Head Girl out of the school but...


Anyway, I had rather serious aspirations of becoming an artist. Not serious enough though, despite the platforms of Central Saint Martins and Goldsmiths my ambitions lessoned as my dissatisfaction with the course grew. Queue a frantic application to Cambridge University, a year spent as a live-in au-pair to three children in South West London and a stint waitressing in a restaurant down St. James' Street London (you know, the one near the Ritz just off Bond Street) wherein I smashed a martini glass full of trifle all over the back of one of Shell's most senior members of staff. The bit that concerns me the most about all of these years is the fact that I worked somewhere that served such clientele trifle. Last time I checked it wasn't the epitome of avante garde fine cuisine. It's not even homely or comforting. No, not even in an ironic capacity.

Not amusing...

...Makes my eyes bleed.

Fortunately, I am now quite well settled at Cambridge, where I am ideally situated to resume doing what I have always really loved; reading, writing and making outlandish statements much to everybody else's disapproval. My additional interests include pessimism, buying things in charity shops for profiteering on ebay so as to reinvest in the finer things in life for myself, and great food, I fucking love food. Just not trifle.


Many thanks for your time. I assure you that my next post will consist of something far more topical and  less self-absorbed. I hope.