Girl Least Likely To by Liz Jones – digested read Jul 22nd 2013, 06:00
John Crace reduces the memoirs of the much-maligned ex-Marie Claire editor to a torrid 600 words
I went to visit Mum today. Her dentures were out and she was dribbling. She hadn't even moisturised. The staff at the expensive, run-down care home that I have been bankrupting myself to pay for on my own because my brothers and sisters are too dead or too tight-fisted to contribute towards, don't know her name. They even put full-fat milk in her tea. I can't help weeping, and I pray that when my dear horse Lizzie is dying she isn't so degraded.
When I was 11, my father told me a joke. That was the last time I ever laughed. At school I was the ugliest girl in my class. My hair was long and greasy, my face pitted with acne, and my whole body covered with matted fur. The only boy to snog me was Kevin, and he was so disgusted he vomited down my throat. I immediately rushed to the lavatory to make sure I hadn't accidentally swallowed any unnecessary calories.
By the time I left school, my skin was so bad as a result of my anorexia the doctor prescribed me hormone tablets. These caused my breasts to balloon from a 32B to a 32C. How I hated those pendulous dugs and was delighted when I found a plastic surgeon willing to remove them for just £20,000! I asked if he would also amputate my legs while he was about it, so I would never have to set eyes on my hideous calves again, but when I came round I was shocked to discover they were still attached. Since then, I've never been able to trust a man.
I'm not sure why I was appointed editor of Marie Claire. Everyone hated me there. They couldn't cope with my perfectionism and workaholism, and I couldn't stand their idleness. "There's no need to go to the toilet to throw up your lunch," I would say. "Just stay at your desk and use the wastepaper basket like I do." I also couldn't understand their uncritical attitude towards the fashion industry. "Can't you see it has a negative impact on women's self-image?" I said, as I hailed a taxi to take me home, laden with freebies from Mulberry and Prada.
In my late 20s, I nearly had sex for the first time after I paid a man called Chris £1,500 a week to live with me, after bargaining him up from his initial request for £1,000. But I'd mown my extensive pubic area and he declared that my vagina was completely sealed – then went to the pub to watch football. In the end, I got a doctor to treat me rough and came home to tell Chris I was now fixed. But he had left, taking all my credit cards with him.
When I did have sex for the first time with my husband, I remember thinking how messy it was. My cats agreed. "By the way," said Sweetie, "did you know he brings loads of other women back here while you're out at work? I can't get a wink of sleep with all the noise they make." Straight away I told Nirpal he could pack his bags with all my belongings and leave.
I decided to move out of London to live among the small-minded bigots on Exmoor who couldn't tell the difference between a Gucci original and a knockoff. "Why does everyone hate us?" Lizzie sobbed, when I brought her three-course dinner to her stable. "Have they never seen a horse with a Brazilian before?"
The £3m bill for building a dog jacuzzi left me nearly bankrupt, and what little grasp I once had of reality deserted me for good. I no longer knew quite who I was, what I was or even if I had a Rock Star boyfriend. All I knew for certain was that no matter how badly everyone treated me, no one could hate me more than me.
Digested read, digested: The girl least likely to stop writing about herself.
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