Stop the Traffic. Leave the kids behind! Liz Jones has got a new blog!

Ditzy former fashion editor Liz Jones has gone and set up a brand new blog . Liz is kind of the modern equivalent of what you would get if you stuck Marie Antoinette in front of a word processor and gave her a column in a popular Sunday newspaper. She'd not so much be a "Let them eat cake" sort of gal, but more a "Let them eat cake, preferably an ASDA smart price cake for 18p from the bargain basket, as I don't want to give the unwashed ideas. Oh and tell em to eat it down wind and 2 continents away from me, as they may spray crumbs on my carpet, and my spiritually cleansed cat, the smell poor fuckers." Reading some of her stuff, you begin to think no-one can possibly be that self absorbed and gormless for God sake! She has to be a piss take, a genius satirist deliberately planted into the fashion business, to expose from within;- the pointless and bitchy vacuousness and the one long and subtle, shared practical joke on all the rest of us that is the industry. What other explanation is there?

Or maybe she isn't and really is like that in real life?

Now from the "dispatches from the fashion front line" header, I may not be able to dig up as many gems as I might want, if all she talks about are stupid bits of overpriced shite draped on a girl who'd be advised not to walk across a cattle grid. I know nothing about fashion, and have no intention of taking the time to learn. I think we would all be better off wearing old sacking, and shoes made of straw. Fashion is rubbish, and a burks running race.

However, piss take or genuine. (I'm still a bit unconvinced we see the real Liz in some of her more "eccentric" articles.) If she stays true to form, we may get a few bits of comedy gold from the blog. I mean if we get stuff half as good as getting her letterbox shot at for saying her rural neighbours have bad teeth and smell of cow poo. Should she ditch her hens shrink (no really.) to save a few bob. How she was relieved her mum got Alzheimer's as she would not blurt out her age (not actually funny, you understand. But a WTF moment.), and the delights of hiring a pet psychic to contact her dead cat. ("Why are my horses always biting me?" Liz asks. "Cause they think you are a horse!" the psychic replies. Absolute genius!) As Richard Littlejohn says. You can't make it up!