Kicking down the door of the confessional in a Mail on Sunday spread is our old friend Liz-fucking-Jones, who once again blithely repeats the nastiest comment I’ve read all year, namely that she was ‘quite relieved when my mum developed dementia because it meant that she could no longer inadvertently blurt out my date of birth”.
You see, Liz is approaching a landmark birthday. It’s her 50th, as revealed in this column a few months ago. In among the anniversary angst we are treated to such nuggets as the fact that she didn’t lose her virginity until she was 32, didn’t touch alcohol until she was 42 and didn’t get married until she was 44. We are also informed that people regularly stop her in the street and tell her that she is ‘fantastic for her age’and looks ‘at least 10 years younger”.
Looking at the accompanying picture, I wonder if she’s been bumping into the former chief sub-editor of the Hartlepool Mail on his late afternoon trips back from Asda.
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