What Men Are Saying About Women has a post about aging feminist Liz Jones and her poor me piece last December in the Daily Mail: Wish me a lonely Christmas and spare a thought for the millions of women like me. This is the ultimate red meat for the manosphere, including an aging feminist/post-marital spinster who’s social life revolves around her 17 cats. Liz hams it up in the photo for the column, posing with her cat and in rags with massive holes exposing both knees:
She holds herself out as an example, bravely baring her own pain so that others might better understand the plight of lonely older women across the UK:
As you all head home to your families for the holiday, spare a thought for the millions of women like me for whom it’s the hardest time of year
Later in the column she tells us:
I have written my three Christmas cards: to my mum, who lives 200 miles away an has dementia; to John the postman; and to the dustbin men, a lovely trio who often bypass my house because I have so little rubbish.
Somehow along the way she forgot that she dedicated her life to not only making herself an aging spinster, but all of those other millions of women she mentions as well. As a former editor of British Marie Clare, author, and columnist she has been diligently poisoning the very well she now complains is not fit to drink from.
In August of 2009, her book The Exmoor Files: How I Lost A Husband And Found Rural Bliss was published. Then in December she published this piece, including:
I moved to the countryside, where I thought there might be more of a community (in London, I never did find out the name of the girl who lived next door).
I was wrong, as it turned out, and have found I can go from one week to the next without speaking to a soul.
Like Sandra Tsing Loh and the author of Marry Him, her life’s epiphany reads more like just another washed up attention whore desperately trying to turn the spotlight back on herself, if only for a brief moment. Following her December 2009 column, she revised the book and retitled the new edition: The Exmoor Files: How I Lost A Husband And Nearly Found Rural Bliss. Of course, before that she wrote Liz Jones’s Diary: How One Single Girl Got Married (2005). In between, she wrote regular columns complaining about her husband.
Essentially, Liz Jones is a rationalising loser who has failed at life and, predictably, blames men. All men. Not just the tiny proportion of men she has personally known.
Keep this in mind when reading this thinly veiled Letter to Santa of an article she posted just before Christmas. In the title she whines,
Why can't men get gifts right?
Given that, by her own admission, nobody wants Liz Jones around at Christmas - not even her own family, it seems - I was surprised to hear that she receives gifts from men at all. But that's when it hit me. She doesn't. And there is the motivation for penning what follows.
LIZ JONES presents her ultimate gift guide for men, should they not want to be divorced come the New Year...
Right. Because divorce is now an option whenever a woman feels remotely upset or gets bought a rubbish gift. Don't try and work out the problems, just sign the papers. Who made it this way? The same feminists who are now wondering why men don't want to marry them.
The cognitive dissonance is just appalling. As a divorcee who can't land a man, Liz Jones just wants to drag everyone else down into her feminist hell of loneliness.
So, Liz Jones wanders around a mall, complaining that her feet hurt and that work is hard. She accosts people and cherry picks the results, and when men don't come out looking bad enough, just makes the rest of it up. She concludes that men are useless - teehee! - and that women are martyrs. Then she canvasses for opinions among her friends (most likely invisible).
I asked my friends whether the men in their lives gave them good gifts.
‘I once asked for a Mulberry handbag and got a pair of iPod speakers,’ one friend told me. ‘Disappointed was not the word.’
My friend Emily emailed me: ‘The first year we were married, my husband gave me jewellery; the second, he gave me a set of saucepans.’
Says it all.
Perhaps these women would prefer to receive nothing at all.
This might all sound ungrateful and slightly spoilt. Shouldn’t love and companionship be enough? Isn’t it the thought that counts?
Well, no, it’s not the thought. We want to be rewarded for 12 months of putting up with your strange cabbagey smells and habits.
No comment. There's just nothing to say in response to this nastiness.
What follows is an enormous list of Dos and Don'ts which reminds me of every woman's dating ad I've had the misfortune of seeing - you know, those five-hundred item lists of criteria which you must be before contacting Her Royal Highness, ensuring that she shall remain forever single.
The same principle applies here. If any woman I know spoke to me in this tone, or provided me such a list of demands, she would get precisely nothing. Or maybe a large, wrapped, empty box to symbolise the superficiality of her exterior and the emptiness of her soul.
I assume this has already happened to Liz, who, as we know, spends Christmas alone with her cats and nary a visitor nor a phone call. Don't be fooled into thinking she based this article on her experiences; she based it on a lingering fantasy that some man, somewhere, might one day buy her a present.
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