The Daily Mail: like a drunk, leering step-uncle, only less tasteful

15 year old tennis pre-strumpet Laura Robson is almost certainly having an affair with Andy 'I'm Andy Murray' Murray, the smoulderingly anonymous Daily Mail Reporter has revealed.

'I've got an eye for this sort of thing', the mysterious hack wheezed last night after studying almost two photographs that explicitly - and conclusively - show the jailbait star pointing her face at the 22 year old UK ace and exposing her teeth in a look that experts have described as 'not in the least bit suggestive'.

Robson has been known to wear short skirts on court and is thus quite probably 'well up for it', say insiders.

The scintillating news comes only days either before or after (we didn't check) raven haired but disappointingly elderly filmvixen Megan Fox didn't get up close and steamy with Hollywood centenarian Mickey Rourke in a series of revealing photographs snapped by the very same Daily Mail Reporter.

Speaking from his tree-top spy house, the sweaty Reporteur told us: 'Clearly they're just filming a movie in which they kiss and stuff and only a simpleton would consider that even remotely newsworthy but you have to suspend your disbelief with this sort of thing. I mean, she's 23 and he's 57. See what I mean? Yeah. I've got an eye for it.'

However, Daily Mail Reporter's estranged wife Liz Jones warned that huge age differences are not always a sign of true lust and legally questionable sexual intrigue, reminding readers that it's only cool for old men to romance much, much younger ladies, not the other way round.

In an excruciating 834 words on the subject that amusingly contained the phrases 'cavernous depths' and 'cougarous prediliction'*, Jones said that although she once married a man 15 years her junior, other women who take younger men for lovers, like Iris Robinson, are depraved cradle snatchers who probably deserve their mental breakdown and subsequent suicide attempts.

To research her stunning thesis on cognitive dissonances in age disparity and gender, Jones watched the 2009 film 'It's Complicated', starring Meryl Streep, and also read at least half a book about a female teacher who embarks on an affair with a 15-year-old pupil, which, she says, 'gets perilously close** to the crux of the matter.'

A local man said: 'Reading the Daily Mail makes me feel all dirty, and not in a good way.'

* Liz Jones is an actual journalist who gets paid to write words.

** Seriously. 'Perilously close'? Remember, she probably got paid more for those two nonsensical words than you'll earn today.

LIZ JONES: Stop being so mean to bankers, they're nice

A couple of weeks ago I was on an important business trip to Hong Kong. Oh! you should have seen it. No expense spared. Penthouse suite, minibar chock full of champagne, and foie gras served up by the cartload at dinner by the spectacularly polite oriental waiters.

Of course, I wasn't really there on important business: I'm not a business lady! But it's nice to pretend sometimes. Anyway, there I was all dressed up in my important business lady Dior suit, hanging around the 43rd floor of the Bank of China as you do when you're an important woman in the world of business (and because someone told me it's where the lovely rich Chinese men go for a drink after work).

Do you know what the Bank of China building looks like? You probably don't because you're just a middle-aged housewife who reads the Daily Mail. Well, I'll tell you, it looks just fabulous. I'd know, I've been there, as I think I mentioned already. It's designed to look like steel bamboo, or something, and it's surrounded by other amazing temples to phallic capitalism - the unfinished but already gorgeous new Ritz-Carlton (name dropping hotels - ooh! I'm so post-arrogance!), the International Finance Centre, and some other ones probably.

So, yes, there I was in the Bank of China, wearing my suit, Dior it was, hoping to catch the eye of some dashing young banking Chinaman, when I had what you might call an 'epiphany' - a bit like what Buddha had. Over there they have Buddha like how we have Jesus, only he's a jolly chap with funny eyes. No beard. I think he's the son of their dragon god. I thought to myself, a bit like that Buddha or the other one, Gandhi, I thought: 'Goodness me, you can't make fun of women, queers, cripples, nonces or gingers anymore, but bankers are still fair game! How awful!', I thought, just like Gandhi might. And yet, all these lovely huge buildings were made by the bankers. Without them, there wouldn't be any great big skyscrapers, just boring old fields and trees and rivers and things. I've been to Kyoto as well on another important trip, and it was rubbish there. That's what happens without banks - you end up with a load of streams and rocks.

I don't think this has occurred to anybody apart from yet. That's why I'm a columnist, because of my new and amazing thoughts. So, as I was wandering around the Bank of China thinking how unfair and mean the whole business is, it struck me. 'I know!' thought I, 'I'll only go and do some bloody journalism to show everyone how perfectly horrid they're being to the bankers!' Why did I need to tell you all of this instead of just writing my article about how bankers are treated? Well, it doesn't matter, and anybody who says that including several paragraphs about your holiday to Hong Kong which adds nothing to the point is just being silly.

To find out if my brilliant theory that bankers are nice people was true, I spoke to the vice-president of a big, exciting multi-national investment bank. 'Vice president' is such a fun job title! I'd like to be a vice-president one day. Anyway, I asked him: 'are bankers nice and are people just being horible to you?'

He said that I was right and that's exactly what's going on. Ha, I knew it! He said he works lots of hours (sounds frightful! glad I work from home, apart from when I'm on important trips of course, but that's not really work, it's more pretend), and doesn't get paid that much, and that really he has to make a lot of sacrifices a bit like nurses and soldiers and that without the bankers we'd all be screwed.

I was amazed. 'Yeah', I said as he told me all about his job and things. I asked if he would like to go the bar to unwind but he said he had to get back to the kids, even though earlier he'd told me he didn't have children. I suppose the stress of being a banker makes you forgetful sometimes.

I spoke to some other bankers too, and they all agreed that Mr Brown and Mr Darling's tax thing for bonuses is just a gimmick and really we'd all be better of without it. It made me angry when I thought about the silly Marxists running around taking the money from the bankers, because they all work so hard. I think it's all just a gimmick, this tax stuff, to make it look like the bankers are baddies and not the real villains - homeless people.

Phew! Journalistism is exhausting. I must have spoken to nearly four different people and written a lot of things about it all. Economics makes me dizzy, so I went back to bed for a while, and then I went to a spa which was really nice, and then I got on the plane to go home again. I'm home now. The weather's quite dull here, but I suppose you already knew that because you were here all along instead of being in Hong Kong like me.

Ok, I'm going now! Byebye.


Liz Jones is paid actual money to write words for one of Britain's biggest national newspapers.

Petite Anglaise author quits blogging for fear of ending up like Liz Jones

Never let it be said that Liz Jones is a washed up old crone with no influence over anyone or anything outside of her Exmoor menagerie of broken animals.

The vapid ex-editor of Marie Claire is inspiring a new generation of authors to give up writing for fear of ending up like her, stuck in a bitter void of self-destructive narcissism with no-one but horses for friends.

Catherine Sanderson, author of the 'Petite Anglaise' blog which earned her a £450,000 contract with Penguin in 2008, has announced that she will no longer be blogging after recoiling in horror at the thought of becoming a tell-all confessional writer like the brain meltingly irritating Daily Mail columnist.

Catherine said in a farewell web-blog post:

I read an article a month or so ago about Liz Jones, a newspaper columnist who has made a living out of sharing every aspect of her personal life, showing little or no regard for the feelings or right to privacy of the partners/lovers/neighbours that she uses for material. It left a nasty taste in my mouth. Personal blogging was something I felt the need to do during a short, pivotal period of my life but, as I hope I demonstrated in my memoir, I realised, with hindsight, that particular path was strewn with landmines. I learnt some valuable lessons from the experience and will always be grateful for the doors which opened as a result.

But now I’ve moved on.

Mail hack Peter Allen, who was responsible for unmasking 'Petite Anglaise' and getting her fired from her job in 2006, rounded off his attemped hatchet job on Sanderson's career with a misquoted and factually inaccurate article describing her decision to quit blogging.

Allen, trying desperately to sound as though he knew what he was talking about, added sagely:

Despite their massive popularity, blogs are notoriously difficult to make any money out of, and consequently have an amateur image which some professional writers can feel uncomfortable with.

A blogger said: 'Shut up Peter Allen you absolute twunt.'

LIZ JONES: These ugly one eyed yokels aren't doing themselves any favours

So I'm relaxing in a fabulous New York penthouse sipping Perrier when I get the call from one of my hundreds of lackies back home. 'One of the filthy locals has fired a shotgun at your pewter mailbox', she says. 'Call the police at once, Sooty', I reply.

Great. I better jet off back home to Exmoor. I pray there are still first class seats available on the next plane out of JFK.

Back at my vast country house, a young lady officer has been dispatched to deal with the vile hate crime against my letter box. She asks if there's anyone who might dislike me enough to shoot my property. 'Almost everyone in Britain', I say. 'People get very jealous of my expensive clothes, BMW, and whimsical lifestyle. I can tell you're envious, just standing here taking notes in my beautiful hallway', I observe.

She doesn't reply. Probably a lesbian, overcome with lust having noticed my Gucci perfume.

I suppose the atrocity could have been carried out by one of the many hairy, inbred mutants that live in these parts. Oddly enough, a local publican became quite vexed by a column in which I savaged the culinary experience offered by his establishment in the Daily Mail. The loathsome place didn't even have Beluga caviar - what was he expecting!

Apparently, a few local men had reacted equally inexplicably after I wrote, hilariously, that 'men with their own teeth are a bonus' out here in the sticks. I'd also described the people of Exmoor as mostly 'toothless', and the area as 'faintly Amish'. Really I don't see what the fuss is about - if I was some backwards country type and a high-flying young columnist gave me and my little village some valuable column inches, I'd thank her.

But instead of thanks, I get snide remarks from green-eyed local women in the supermarket. The other day I was there to buy my usual very expensive Claret and the finest Italian ham, when I heard a group of the old hags gossiping. One accused me of not even trying to join in, another said I was ‘just like Michael Jackson’.

A pox on your shabby, poorly maintained houses, I thought to myself. If immaculately coiffed locks make me the deceased King of Pop, pop me in the ground full of prescription painkillers. And if attending the fashion show of a local designer (one of the more cosmopolitan, less asthetically disgusting locals) doesn't count as 'joining in', I don't know what does. I even donated a whole day with me at London Fashion Week and lunch at the Ivy as first prize in the Dulverton raffle - not easy, given that I'd have to sit with a foul bumpkin for an hour or so in a beautiful restaurant, with the all the other diners staring at his dung crusted finger nails, wondering if he was my 'friend'. I dread to think! Thankfully, nobody bought a ticket.

Come to think of it, these grotesque local 'people' owe me a life-long debt of gratitude. I've given a whole host of the little weavels jobs on my expansive land: I employ a local gardener, tree surgeon, equine vet, two chiropractors, an equine podiatrist, a holistic shearer, an ecologist – oh, and a Somerset firm built my manege, where I allow local girls to exercise their ponies, free of charge, no less! They should be paying me to be seen on my property - I would have given my right arm to be allowed within ten feet of a glamourous London career woman when I was a girl!

Despite my charity, I'm treated like a stranger at best, and an intruding, patronising, rude, egotistical, shallow, insensitive, superior, arrogant outsider at worst. Far from the Exmoor's image suffering because of my derisive, insulting columns, it's these gossiping women and shotgun wielding maniacs who are really to blame. I wish they would all just shove off and move somewhere else, leaving me to enjoy my lovely farm, and sleep with my horses.

Maybe it's boredom or inbreeding that makes them like this. Perhaps they're not even human, having spent so many years working with animals and manure - maybe they've morphed into the countryside and devolved into wretched beings of the earth, distrustful of rich and successful women like me.

I just don't understand these narrow-minded country folk sometimes.

Liz Jones's fabulous new book, The Exmoor Files (critically derided even by The Daily Mail) is available now in The Quail's bookstore.

My super-speedy Liz Jones quiz: It'll prove if you're REALLY a moron

Gender stereotypes. Teehee!

Anyway, take my super-delicious quiz-o-fun to see if you're as shallow, pointless and patronising as Liz Jones.

You have a deadline looming but still haven't written a single word for your fab weekly column. Do you:

a) Pick a woman at random from last week's news and make disparaging comments about her clothing, wrinkles, or gender, while letting everyone know about your Gucci handbag and new BMW
b) Discuss how much you hate mothers/men/your ex-husband/anyone who isn't you, and how horses are far nicer than humans
c) Send in yet another extract from your critically derided new book, in which you look down upon your new bumpkin neighbours and wonder why they don't talk to you in the local pub. (Maybe somebody will actually buy it if The Mail keeps giving you free advertising)

If you answered yes to any of the questions, you are Liz Jones. Find a heavy weight (such as a boulder), some rope, and a bridge - the higher the better. Attach the weight to yourself using the rope.

Jump.

Femail Special: Lady Joneseses' Lover

Chapter the first (I)

- In which Lady Jones describes her blooming sexuality

"I fall in love with horses the way most women fall in love with men." Closing my eyes, I can still feel the warmth of those heady days of youth sliding over me, days spent riding across acre upon acre of virgin countryside, my raven locks tossed carelessly in the wind as I sit atop my friend, my partner, my steed. It's fair to say my first pony was my "inaugural crush" - the first creature to imbue in me a throbbing desire for the touch of another. "My dormant sexuality was, I suppose, lurking not too far beneath the curry-comb-wielding surface."

While other girls were dreaming of their first kiss or holding hands with human boys, my thoughts were full only of ponies. I thought about them in bed, my chest heaving as I tried to conjure their intoxicating smell. A powerful, ruddy smell, enough to make you tremble. Straddling those majestic equine denizens left no sense unaroused; the whip of the tail, promising dark passion, the sight of those fine shoulders, moving mellifluously just abreast of my slender young thighs, the feeling of abandon as the mane slipped between my fingers.


Even walking the family dog I would make believe it was a miniature horse. Fashioning a small stick into a whip I would tap him on the haunches and slap my buttocks, trying vainly to make him canter as my friends the horses did so beautifully. Occassionally I would mount the unsuspecting animal, amidst a cacophony of startled yelping. It was a sad day when Father told me I had broken poor Pompey's spine. He was paralysed from the head down, all thanks to my passion for ponies. As I stood watching while the vet administered the lethal injection to end Pompey's misery, I couldn't help blaming him for his own demise: 'Well, he just wasn't horsey enough', I whispered to myself.

One wonderful teenage day, I made the step up from ponies, lovely as they are but a little too platonic for my taste, to a great king among horses named Cavalier. He was a tall, dark beast, easily excited and thrillingly wild. I gazed as he galloped wantonly about his paddock, and I knew I had become a woman.

Chapter the second (II)
- In which Lady Jones becomes dissatisfied with the company of men

Ours is essentially a tragic age, in so much as a lifetime partnership is only acceptable conducted between two parties of the same species. To this end, I married a man, in a way paying lip service to the crushing expectations of modern society. It was rather hard work: there was no smooth road into the future: but we went round, or scrambled over the obstacles in a vain attempt at normality.

Everything had become grey. Then, one long weekend, my husband and I decided a holiday was in order and off we trudged to the Cotswolds. If only I were aware of the explosive awakening about to take place! With resignation, I had expected our break was to be spent having sex, me staring blankly into the middle distance as he thrashed around above me, but, owing to my increasing detachment and dissatisfaction with the banal touch of a man, it was not to be. But, joyously, close to our cottage resided a stables offering riding lessons. My heart lept such as it had all those years ago, and I decided to quietly replace my husband with the thrill of riding. I kept it secret, as one might while conducting an affair. It was forbidden, and it was enrapturing.

The next day, I approached my steed with excited hesitation. This was my man. And I was his damsel. That it was female mattered not a jot; I think of all horses as strong, sensual men. "I sank my nose into her neck and suddenly that smell hit me. It was heady, hot horse."

Chapter the third (III)
- In which Lady Jones purchases a she-horse

After that dangerously erotic weekend, I was addicted. The smell of horse hair penetrated my mind once again, entangling my thoughts like an illicit love squid. Daydreaming, I would find myself sketching horses with exaggerated, sinewy legs, rippling backs and firm hides. I would lose hours browsing images of nude stallions online, enthralled by imagined situations in which I might find myself alone atop a mighty beast, riding until the early hours of the morning.

One summer's day I happened across Lizzie, a once gallant mare who had been cruelly adandoned but, thankfully, rescued by some kind heart who took her in, fed her back to health, and cared for her like I yearned to care for my own. In a flash, I emailed the woman to propose a deal. I wanted her. I had to have her.

The woman replied, 'no', but I wasn't having it. 'Do you know who I am?', I thundered back, 'I am a career woman with a BMW and a Gucci tote. I have meetings with men, and we discuss things like grown ups. I know people, powerful people', I wrote.

The next day I awoke to find a new email from the pathetic usurper in my inbox. Lizzie was mine.

"I'm in love with Lizzie, of course I am. I go to bed thinking about her and I wake up longing to see her."

Chapter the interminable (IV)
- in which Lady Jones rides the beast

These days are a blur of emotion, sensation, skin-tingling wonder. I ride Lizzie hard. Is her girth too tight? No, not tight enough. Make it tighter. I alone have complete control over Lizzie, as she pounds the verdant pastures behind my massive county house. Just as I reach tipping point, anxious that I've gone too far, ridden too hard, I relax, let go of the straps and breathe deeply, renewingly. I stare at my manor. It's huge. I'm really rich. I am complete with Lizzie between my legs, where she should be. She tenses, and I feel a ripple transfer from her to me, through me. It's almost as if we are one. Does she see what I see? Does she see the BMW and know what it symbolises? My wealth and good breeding? It is a cross I must bear that I can never make her understand just how privileged I am, but I sense that she knows. 'Steady', I whisper into her ear. 'I'm here for you', I breathe duskily.

Epilogue

Recounting all of this reminds me of something a marriage counsellor once told me. Well, I say counsellor, he was more of a shaman. I met him on a particularly expensive vacation in Peru, while travelling the world observing the Earth's poor with disdain. Sitting cross legged before a crackling fire, he began shaking his bone-hewn staff and said to me in funny, foreign tones: 'Mrs Liz, I see you one day, living alone on a hill. I see great riches, fine clothes, splendid cutlery. You will write words to describe your existence. Many will call you inane, but you are strong, you care not. You are alone, apart from the animals. So many animals. Do not let others tell you it is wrong, I understand.' I remember thinking how strongly his hut smelled of animal faeces. He may have been the only man I could ever have spent my life with.

It doesn't matter. I have Lizzie.



Extracted from an extract originally appearing in The Daily Mail of The Exmoor Files, by Lady Liz Jones. If you can't get enough of Liz's egotistical ramblings, order your copy with free p& p from The Review Bookstore on 0845 155 0713.

Liz Jones has shocking moment of self-realisation

Liz Jones has finally realised what everyone else already knew:


The Mail's fashion editor and long-running columnist said: 'I had an inkling all along really. I am so vacuous it's offensive.'

Update

News of Liz Jones' patronising fake pointlessness spreads.

Femail Special: Liz Jones on Iran

America and Britain must intervene in Iran's election process as a matter of urgency because this one time, I went out with an Iranian boy and he was really nice and we kissed.

Giving credence to Ahmadinejad's claims that he is victimised by The West is of little importance; we must meddle now, we must meddle hard, and our meddling must be conducted with extreme prejudice. Don't ask me how, I'm just a girl, but we need to get over there and spread some democracy just like we did in Iraq.

To hell with the consequences - I like Iranian boys! Teeheehee!

Unabridged version here.

Femail Special: Liz Jones, digested

Shorter Liz Jones:

"I own 46 acres of land in Exmoor, drive a BMW but can still afford to buy a Toyota SUV to drive my horsies around in, and I shop for wardrobes in upmarket Chelsea furniture boutiques. I'm really quite well off don't you know.

But I still can't write a column that makes any sense."

Unabridged version here.

Femail Special: Liz Jones hates hippy scum

Eurgh. Hippies.

Aren't they just awful? They parade around in their smelly woolen hats, faeces smeared on their faces in protest at whatever it is they've decided is bad for their beloved "Earth" this week (cars and factories are bad apparently - ha!), sleeping with each other like it's the most natural thing in the world as their millions of grubby tots run around licking trees and hugging hedgehogs - they believe contraception is bad for the environment.

They're always smoking drugs too, too busy getting high as multi-coloured crusty kites to realise the hypocrisy of campaigning against global warming while releasing billions of tons of CO2 into the atmosphere from their crack pipes and bongos. Not only that but they drive around in those ridiculous 'shagging wagons', old, polluting VW campers kidnapping middle class, nicely dressed children to put to work on their opium fields. I bet they only drive those rust buckets because they can't afford a nice, big, black BMW like mine. I've had the interior customised with a fluffy trim and a lipstick holder installed in the gear stick - I'm so busy shooting off to important meetings with powerful older men I never have time to do my make-up in the morning. It's gogogo for me! Teehee.

I heard that when those unwashed, bandana wearing grubsters go on holiday, they like nothing better than visiting dirty third-world countries like Africa or one of those Eastern European ones because they're so cheap, and they're really poor because they don't have proper jobs like me. I've actually watched a herd of crusties in India or somewhere stealing sweets from the hands of a poor little brown boy living on the streets, and kicking his bony dog. Scum! I quite like those poor foreign children though, they're so cute with their big eyes and funny little shoes. I've been thinking of doing a Madonna and getting one to go with all my lovely horsies and bunnies. Oh! My millions of glamorous friends would be so jealous! I can only imagine what Piers would say as I turn up for my interview with a little Indian in my Prada handbag. It would be deliciously ironic.

As for those silly-billy Earth Mothers, well I simply detest them. Imagine having children when you earn anything less than £50k like me? It would be squalorous, and is downright irresponsible - these disgusting mothers send their little ones off to school without a hope in the world. I'm sure they're the bullies first target when they see them scurrying around like weavels in their hemp shirts and no-brand plimsolls. 'Haha, look at Bungle there, wearing a poncho! He's got twigs in his hair!', the bigger boys would shout. 'Isn't he a fool!', and they'd all laugh. And I'd be right behind them, pointing, laughing and throwing stones with the the rest of them, because I'm down with the kids. The cool mum. I've heard some boys even call me a MILF, whatever that might be. I dread to think! Hehe!

I went to that Glastonbury last summer and the place was teeming with dreadful people who thought nothing of the state of the loos, defecating in little pits outside their tents before wallowing in it and using it as facepaint. Of course, none of them thought anything of allowing their tiny rat children to stand next to the horrible great big speakers spewing out silly dance 'indy' music at 125 decibels because they're all neglectful (usually single) parents. Too busy worshiping their pagan gods and sacrificing goats to notice as their offspring, some as young as three, were mainlining behind the dance tent.

I received lots of odd looks from the crusties as they regarded the square of black bin bag I took everywhere just to stand on, clutching my Prada handbag, scampering around in terror at all the noise and kerfuffle. I think they could tell I was superior and felt envious of my radient loveliness - most people do. And secretly I knew that they all wished they were me, with my BMW and designer clothes, and fashionable adopted third-world child, and horses. The whole silly event was an illustration of the worst aspects of hippiedom: cheap, misguided rubbish dressed up as something soul-enriching, cultural and caring. All it did really was smell.

Unfortunately there were an awful lot of horrid hippies in London last week, ruining any chance I might have had of sharing a nice mochacinno with my famous friends at a funky cafe in the city. We go there sometimes to meet the handsome bankers - since my divorce I spend most of my time on the prowl for a prime piece of well-aged rump to get my teeth into, and there's no better hunting than the Square Mile. But - tsk! - I was prevented by the skankoids waving their poorly painted placards, shouting and making love in the streets, while the brave police battled to keep them away from the lovely rich men, who, I must say looked even more fabulous than usual, all dressed down in chinos and brogues under orders to leave the suits at home lest the jealous tie-dye wearers pelt them with bottles and bricks. I just wish the police had used tear gas on them, at least then some of the scum would have been washed off their grimy lefty faces.

While real people around them were trying to get to work, they set up meditation camps. We all know that meditation is just laziness. How inappropriate, when what we need to get the world on its feet is hard work. Bloody hippies. How is meditating ever going to change anything? Not that it needs changing anyway - it's quite clear that everything is going swimmingly in Britain. I mean, I can still afford my Pret a Manger sandwich each day and a nice smoothie, and I haven't yet had to fire a single servant. I honestly don't know what all the fuss is about.

We don't need anything to change. Everyone knows all you need to do is make yourself as lovely as possible, find yourself a nice wealthy man, and life is peachy. Why is that suddenly so hard to see for all these lice infested free lovers? A washed out Peace sign will never make you attractive to high powered business men. All we need to do is get into bed with them, not smash their windows. That's never going to make you rich!

It's so obvious. Sometimes I find myself amazed that Gordon hasn't called me on my sleek Prada phone to ask me to be a government advisor.

Femail Special: Liz Jones, The Voice of Feminism

There's nothing more important in this dizzying, confusing modern world of microwave ovens and colour TVs than for a woman to be lovely.

Sometimes, I have to stop amidst all the hustle and bustle, and take a moment to reflect on just how lovely I am. I really am staggeringly lovely, and also fashionable. I pity those poor women who aren't as sweet and innocent - and married - as I am. Women like these. Ew! With that attitude they'll never find a nice, rich, fashionably black man like I have to make them feel all warm and fuzzy and protected.

Anyways, on Friday morning I awoke in my lovely four-poster bed, decked out in beautiful Dorothy Perkins bedsheets and a nice thick John Lewis duvet, to find that - golly! - we'd been snowed in on my quaint little farm in Exmoor! My husband had looked up the weather forecast on that internet thingy on Thursday night (I don't know how to use it) and told me it would be quite chilly, so I had already put rugs on the horses that we own on our considerably expansive property, but I never expected it to snow like this! I mean, the news had been reporting on heavy snow and stuff bringing London to a standstill for over a week but I hadn't really paid attention. Why would I? I'm too busy with make-up and diamonds to listen to the boring old weather!

By 10 o'clock, the snow was too thick to push a wheel barrow through - I often push wheel barrows around our sizeable estate, helping the boys feed the animals and things. They laugh and say I get in the way, but I like to pretend I'm a real farm hand, bringing hay and food and stuff to the stables. It's fun to run around being 'rustic', knowing that really I'm a go-getting city girl with a mobile phone and a bag full of emails; when I'm in high-powered meetings at Northcliffe House I sit there and look at all the other silly single women who only have a dank flat in Brixton or somewhere to go home to, and it makes me smirk to think how lovely I am compared to them.

A few minutes later, tired out by heaving some hay to the horses, I went out with my sheep-dog Coco to check on the cute little Shetland lambs that I'd shut in the hay barn overnight. They're normally allowed to roam free in the fields but I thought they might get buried in the snow, so away they went, inside to the warm and dry. They're so sweet, with their big, misty eyes and curly little tails - they're so cute you just want to eat them up!

Unfortunately, the dogs that we keep in the barn did eat them up overnight as I'd forgotton to feed them for a few days. It was a terrible mess, with bits of fur and hooves all stuck to the floor with blood. Woops! Silly old me. Must remember to keep them seperate in future!

With the lambs taken care of, I set off to leave food for all the wild creatures who come and visit us. I've seen a rather majestic looking fox coming and going over recent months, roaming the fields like an intrepid farm yard explorer. He's quite an attractive beast, with a wonderfully lustrous coat and strong, lean legs and piercing yellow eyes. I find him almost sexual - if there's a Mrs. Fox, I bet she gets treated to all sorts of erotic displays of animal masculinity, and hours of steamy volfen fun every night. Ooh! If only I could be a fly on the wall.

There's a badger's den in the nearby woods, so I leave some scraps near the edge of our land for them. I've known them for a few years, and have given them names and seen their brood enlarge with the arrival of little badger babies - marvellously cute little things - but they are suffering dreadfully with this horrible cold. Maurice and Belinda (they're the mummy and daddy badgers) were forced to eat some of the youngsters when it got really cold in December. It was rather awful, but such are Mother Nature's mysterious ways. I took a day off from my important job at The Daily Mail to watch with fascination as the two parents snapped their little ones' necks and feasted on their warm flesh. In a way, they were just doing what was best for the family. If only some human mothers would show the same degree of responsibility.

After filling all the bird feeders, I watched in wonder at all the birdies swooping down for some much needed nourishment. It was so lovely, I was filled with a sudden urge to dance around the garden filled with womanly joy, as woodpeckers, linnets, tree creepers, nuthatches, wrens and numerous tits flocked to our designer bird tables. It was like an impromptu avian Cirque du Soleil, an explosion of colour and tweeting! You probably couldn't imagine the spectacle, living in cities or pokey little houses in the suburbs, but let me tell you - it truly was a delight! How lucky you are, my readers, to have someone like me to relate to you the wonderous natural beauty of a panoply of wild birds on a Winter's morning.

Old man Reg stopped by just as I was heading back to the house (I call it a house, but it's more of a manor really). He's a farmer, a deliciously whimsical 'sat of the earth' type character that you people would only have read about in stories, the type of person who makes a lovely antidote to all the silly city-types I see during the day. Local people like him are true heroes; as well as taking feed to animals (sheep, cattle, ponies and goats) on the most remote parts of the moor, he had been knocking on doors of the most remote houses, seeing if everyone was OK as there'd been rumours that some darkies had been spotted in a nearby village, stealing berries from some of the farmers' fields.

'Alright there Liz', he drawled in a slow, low-pitched sort of way that made me go weak at the knees. 'You keeping yourself safe young lady?'

I giggled and told him I was fine, if a little wet.

'Good good. Off to the big city to write your hard-hitting, incisive and progressive column today?', he asked sensually.

'Yes Reg', I grinned, blushing. 'No rest for the wicked!'

Our estate is only a few miles from the A38 in Devon, where more than 200 people were stranded on Thursday night. Despite advice from the nanny-state government, most drivers had not thought to take a survival kit with them: a blanket, torch, wellies, a flask of coffee and a well-charged mobile.

But I can’t talk - silly little me didn't either! I'm just a girl, afterall.

I'd set off for London amidst all the snow and chaos, because my really important, high-flying job stands still for no woman. It wasn't long before I realised, however, that I had virtually no control over my £50,000 car, and after trying to inch my way down a hill (very difficult in an automatic BMW, where the only control you have is to touch your brakes), I was forced to stop at a crazy angle in the middle of the road. Three cars smashed into each other behind me, but luckily I was ok. A crowd of more durable folk - men - clustered round my window.

‘You can't just stop in the middle of the road, you're obstructing both lanes,’ they shouted meanly. ‘We can’t go past you because we might crash into you.’ I felt like crying, and would have started shrieking had I not been so enraptured by one of the scrummy men whose car had been rear-ended when I slammed on the brakes. Luckily, this modern day Adonis posessed manners as wonderful as his tight bottom and the buldge I noticed in his jeans, and helped me push my expensive BMW off the road into a field.

Unfortunately, he was gone as soon as I was off the road, despite my best eye-lash fluttering and theatrical chest heaving. I even undid my blouse, pretending to be flushed from all the drama, but alas, he disappeared back into the blizzard.

So there I sat, shivering in spite of my lovely thick Dior winter coat, by the side of the road (I'd been too silly to put on gloves or a hat because I thought the air con in the BMW would warm me up sufficiantly), until at last a passing 4x4 took pity on my form, slumped tragically, and yet alluringly, by the car, seated on my giant, absurdly expensive Prada tote.

It was a woman driver, I was disappointed to find, but she was kind enough to drive me back to the end of my lane. I was astonished at her man-like ability to drive in the slippery conditions; she even managed to park at our gates without hitting any nearby cars or children. I joked that I should take lessons from her - goodness knows how much cash I've spent settling lawsuits with the neighbours over things I've driven into with our BMW!

So, I was back where I started, and after an exciting day with the animals (especially Mr Fox) and skidding my way around town, I collapsed into the strong arms of my husband. 'Oh! It's been frightful!', I announced dramatically, 'Promise me you'll never let me go out my own again!'

He told me jokingly to grow up, before shutting himself away in the bedroom, but I knew he was just being silly.

I sat down by our real open log fire and thought over the day's events. Lots of men have been talking about how pathetic we Brits have been over the past week or so, but it's alright for them with their big strong muscles and mighty, stoic eyebrows. For us girlies, the cold and the snow makes things really hard, and we don't know what to do.

We have all grown up believing that everything will be OK and that someone, somewhere (the Government, the council, the NHS, our bosses, our husbands, nice young handsome men) will look after us.

We have all (mainly women) become childlike, lulled into a false sense of security by endless signs telling us not to drink and drive, to remember not to give alcohol to children, to eat that all-important five a day. If you disagree, you're either being silly or you're a butch lesbian. Part of being a woman is facing the fact that you just aren't good enough to cope with most things; true wisdom and strength lies in getting men to do things for you.

This freak snowstorm has been a valuable lesson. In the scary Britain of 2009, no one in officialdom can hear you scream. I am not alone in wanting greater state intervention in our lives, as otherwise, how will we know what to do? And I think most of my colleagues at The Daily Mail agree, there needs to be more support from the government, more control, more handouts (but not to those horrible, undeserving working class people), and an increase the public sector watching over us and storing our personal details.

Men might disagree, but what do they know? I for one need someone to hold my hand every step of the way, and so do all women, whether they know it or not.

The one thing I can do on my own, however, is be completely and utterly lovely.