Sunday, October 08, 2006
Nirpal Dhaliwal- Watch Part Eight Keeping Up With the Jones
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven.
I'm only doing this because in looking for something else I've become aware of the full ghastly car-crash that is the Liz'n'Nirpal show...
Liz Jones's diary ; In which I tell him we must talk about the future
The Mail on Sunday (London); Sep 17, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 82
I have never dumped anyone before. It has always taken so long years, decades for me to persuade someone, anyone, to go out with me that once I am in a 'relationship' (I use the term lightly), I hang on grimly, undeterred by mobile phones that are mysteriously switched off. Who knows when I might get another chance to be one half of a couple? But this time, although I have been wavering about telling him it is never going to work, a few incidents in the past week have spurred me on and made me extra brave
1 When going to my friend Meena's 35th birthday party, although I gave my husband plenty of warning that we had to leave at 8pm, he kept me waiting for 40 minutes, and then neither apologised nor told me I looked nice. Also, walking to the restaurant, when I reached for his hand, he stuffed it firmly in his pocket, saying he was 'cold', even though it was still warm.
2 When we were both brushing our teeth the other night, I said, 'We're running out of mouthwash,' and he said, 'What do you want me to do about it?'
in a really horrid tone and then spat on my hand.
3 When I was about to ring my sister in Australia, I asked him what time it would be in Sydney (he recently went there, after all) and he did his wet-nappy face and shouted, 'How the hell should I know?' I realise I shouldn't want to end my marriage over non- existent mouthwash. I realise now I should have ended it when I found out he had been unfaithful, a sure sign if ever there was one that I wasn't enough for him, and vice versa. I honestly thought that taking him back would mean he would try harder to be more loving, but in fact the opposite has been true. He thinks he has got away with something.
He no longer respects me. I don't even think he fancies me that much. The other night, making 'love' (again, I use the term lightly), I had to ask him, 'Are you aware that I am even here?' But, to be honest, infidelity wasn't the final nail in the coffin. The real reason I know we can never work, and the reason why I have been so lenient regarding his chronic laziness and disinterest in me, is that I am far too old for him. He once told me he felt cheated by me because I had lied about my age (in my defence, it was only by four years), and I don't blame him at all. Me being too old is a far bigger hurdle than him seeing some trollop with her top off.
I am sick to death not only of being the older woman, but of apologising for who I am. And, above all, I am tired of going to pilates and his babyish moods and looking after everything and dashing to the hairdresser every two weeks to have my roots retouched. I dread my birthday, not just because he usually gets me a plant in a horrid pot on my credit card, but because with each passing year I get closer to 50. He cannot be in his 30s and be married to someone who is 50. I cannot allow that to happen.
And so I tell him that we have to talk about the future.
I have had the conversation in my head. I would tell him that I am tired of the way he talks to me (he has started, infuriatingly, to mimic my nagging with a horrid hand gesture, like a naked glove puppet jabbering away), that there have to be some advantages to being in a relationship, that I need someone I can trust, that he doesn't even feel like my friend any more. But in the end, all I say out loud is, 'You need to be with someone younger.'
He sat there, gobsmacked. But he didn't offer to change, or apologise. 'Why haven't you kicked me out, then?' he asked ; Liz Jones's diary: In which he tries to hug my muffin
Daily Mail (London); Sep 24, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 130
Well. I sat him down, and he looked all expectant and wide-eyed. I told him that when we first started going out, my weird and eccentric behaviour, from the moment we met, really, stemmed from an attempt to put him off me, to repel him, basically, as I knew it could never ever work out. Not with an age gap of more than a decade. That I lied about my age from the outset because I never dreamed we would end up going to Hackney Town Hall with our birth certificates. I then told him that I am tired of making it up to him for being so old (only relatively speaking: I wouldn't be considered old at all if I was married to Brad Pitt, George Clooney or Prince), that I can't do this any more.
'Do you try to make it up to me?' he asked with a quizzical look.
'Yes!' I yelled. 'Every bloody day!
Nobody else would have put up with you and your awful habits and downright treacherous behaviour!' His behaviour, in ascending order of annoyance
He leaves the sliding mirror cupboard doors in the bathroom halfway open, exposing his horrid supermarket-brand shaving paraphernalia.
He picks up Sweetie and cradles her on her back like a baby, which she hates, making her scratchy.
When he gets up in the morning, he doesn't feed the cats or open windows or put the kettle on, but merely sits at his computer to read his emails.
He makes me drive because of his fear of motorways and roundabouts.
He never notices things around the house, and has never bought anything for it (bar a potato peeler).
He never uses the Daily Shower Spray.
He never empties the dishwasher/washing machine/tumble dryer/ swing bin.
He is very windy in the bottom area, and never opens his post.
He shows no interest in my work.
He rarely initiates sex, preferring to download porn.
He calls me variously 'Mummy', 'Old Lady' and 'Chubby', all of which I hate.
He often tells me to shut up, doing his naked glove puppet talking-hand gesture, showing me no respect.
He never asks my plans. Don't most normal people in a relationship, come Saturday morning, say, 'What would you like to do this weekend?'
He is obsessed with his three gay best friends, always texting them and meeting them for coffee. If not for the fact he slept with five women last year, I would seriously think he is homosexual.
One of his non-gay friends recently said to my husband that he thinks he must be 'bi-curious'.
He is incredibly harsh, blunt and unromantic. Even when I was in hospital recently, he failed to buy me any flowers. I don't think we have ever indulged in foreplay.
He sat there, gobsmacked. But he didn't offer to change, or apologise. 'Why haven't you kicked me out, then?' he asked me arrogantly.
'I've tried!' I told him. 'When I was having that oily bath I said you should move out, and you never did!' 'I think you're mad about me,' he said, attempting to hug my muffin.
'I am not,' I said, trying to keep a straight face. 'I have gone off you.
Consider yourself chucked.' 'Come on,' he said. 'Why don't I take you out for dinner tonight. It will be like a proper first date' Arrgghhhh!!!!!!
Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 1, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 130
In which he says he loves me too much to leave
I have given up trying to make things work. He can take me or leave me. It is all too exhausting and dispiriting. For example, last night I 1 Drank a cup of instant decaff coffee. Instant! Who knows, next thing I will be drinking water that came out of a tap! Or feeding my fur children cat food.
Ye godfathers!
2 Although I removed my eye makeup, I didn't take off my Chantecaille Real Skin Foundation or YSL Touche Eclat concealer, despite potential pillow-spoiling. That is the first time since birth that I have gone to bed without cleansing, toning and moisturising. But what is the point?
We went out to dinner last night before going to see Volver, the new Pedro AlmodUvar film, and I have to report that the experience was excruciatingly painful. Over dinner, I kept initiating conversation, asking about his favourite topic namely, himself and he just responded with monosyllabic answers or merely pretended he hadn't heard me, before looking at me with big, sad eyes.
'Why are you staring at me?' I asked him. 'Why can't you just be normal at the table?' You would think that after six years together we would feel comfortable in each other's presence, enjoy some sort of easy banter, but no.
In the end, becoming so bored that I had rummaged in my Prada handbag to reread a shopping list, I said, exasperated, 'My God, this is hard work.'
'What is?' he said, surprised.
'This. Having dinner. With you.' When we got to the cinema, I broke the habit of a lifetime and just stood at the box office until he, reluctantly, finally, reached for his wallet. Because he had not chosen to see this particular movie, and was ostensibly coming along to keep me happy, he then proceeded to yawn all the way through the film and kept looking at his watch.
Back home, furious and upset, I started to watch Sex and the City Night and immediately cheered up.
'You were much happier before you met me, when you were single, weren't you?' he said.
'Yes. I was. You are extremely annoying. I loved being single.' And then I asked him if he had been happier before we met, but he refused to answer, giving an enigmatic shrug. We went to bed, where he proceeded to put his cold feet on me. Then, trying to snuggle, he said, 'I love you too much to ever leave you.' What is that supposed to mean?
To be honest, I think he has become very weird. He now wears his hair in a tight ponytail, perhaps imagining he is Antonio Banderas. Over our dinner from hell, the only thing he said to me was, 'I'm thinking of wearing my hair in a bun on top of my head.' How interesting. He is obsessed with how much he weighs, the contours of his stomach (in repose, he can usually be seen with his T-shirt up, as he rubs his torso lovingly), whether or not he is losing his looks, and how attractive he is to other women. And then, this morning, he told me he found being in a marriage boring. 'The reason we don't talk is that there is nothing left to find out about each other,' he said.
'Well, don't be married to me then,' I told him, adding that I had thought marriage would be about finally finding someone who is on your side, who you can share your problems with. I didn't realise it would mean inviting a weird enemy into your home, who creeps around the house and criticises your every move, and doesn't even look up when you enter a room. 'Is that what you really feel?' he said, and I nodded, sadly.
So basically she hates him. I wonder how Nirpal's magic cock is going to get him out of this one?
I'm only doing this because in looking for something else I've become aware of the full ghastly car-crash that is the Liz'n'Nirpal show...
Liz Jones's diary ; In which I tell him we must talk about the future
The Mail on Sunday (London); Sep 17, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 82
I have never dumped anyone before. It has always taken so long years, decades for me to persuade someone, anyone, to go out with me that once I am in a 'relationship' (I use the term lightly), I hang on grimly, undeterred by mobile phones that are mysteriously switched off. Who knows when I might get another chance to be one half of a couple? But this time, although I have been wavering about telling him it is never going to work, a few incidents in the past week have spurred me on and made me extra brave
1 When going to my friend Meena's 35th birthday party, although I gave my husband plenty of warning that we had to leave at 8pm, he kept me waiting for 40 minutes, and then neither apologised nor told me I looked nice. Also, walking to the restaurant, when I reached for his hand, he stuffed it firmly in his pocket, saying he was 'cold', even though it was still warm.
2 When we were both brushing our teeth the other night, I said, 'We're running out of mouthwash,' and he said, 'What do you want me to do about it?'
in a really horrid tone and then spat on my hand.
3 When I was about to ring my sister in Australia, I asked him what time it would be in Sydney (he recently went there, after all) and he did his wet-nappy face and shouted, 'How the hell should I know?' I realise I shouldn't want to end my marriage over non- existent mouthwash. I realise now I should have ended it when I found out he had been unfaithful, a sure sign if ever there was one that I wasn't enough for him, and vice versa. I honestly thought that taking him back would mean he would try harder to be more loving, but in fact the opposite has been true. He thinks he has got away with something.
He no longer respects me. I don't even think he fancies me that much. The other night, making 'love' (again, I use the term lightly), I had to ask him, 'Are you aware that I am even here?' But, to be honest, infidelity wasn't the final nail in the coffin. The real reason I know we can never work, and the reason why I have been so lenient regarding his chronic laziness and disinterest in me, is that I am far too old for him. He once told me he felt cheated by me because I had lied about my age (in my defence, it was only by four years), and I don't blame him at all. Me being too old is a far bigger hurdle than him seeing some trollop with her top off.
I am sick to death not only of being the older woman, but of apologising for who I am. And, above all, I am tired of going to pilates and his babyish moods and looking after everything and dashing to the hairdresser every two weeks to have my roots retouched. I dread my birthday, not just because he usually gets me a plant in a horrid pot on my credit card, but because with each passing year I get closer to 50. He cannot be in his 30s and be married to someone who is 50. I cannot allow that to happen.
And so I tell him that we have to talk about the future.
I have had the conversation in my head. I would tell him that I am tired of the way he talks to me (he has started, infuriatingly, to mimic my nagging with a horrid hand gesture, like a naked glove puppet jabbering away), that there have to be some advantages to being in a relationship, that I need someone I can trust, that he doesn't even feel like my friend any more. But in the end, all I say out loud is, 'You need to be with someone younger.'
He sat there, gobsmacked. But he didn't offer to change, or apologise. 'Why haven't you kicked me out, then?' he asked ; Liz Jones's diary: In which he tries to hug my muffin
Daily Mail (London); Sep 24, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 130
Well. I sat him down, and he looked all expectant and wide-eyed. I told him that when we first started going out, my weird and eccentric behaviour, from the moment we met, really, stemmed from an attempt to put him off me, to repel him, basically, as I knew it could never ever work out. Not with an age gap of more than a decade. That I lied about my age from the outset because I never dreamed we would end up going to Hackney Town Hall with our birth certificates. I then told him that I am tired of making it up to him for being so old (only relatively speaking: I wouldn't be considered old at all if I was married to Brad Pitt, George Clooney or Prince), that I can't do this any more.
'Do you try to make it up to me?' he asked with a quizzical look.
'Yes!' I yelled. 'Every bloody day!
Nobody else would have put up with you and your awful habits and downright treacherous behaviour!' His behaviour, in ascending order of annoyance
He leaves the sliding mirror cupboard doors in the bathroom halfway open, exposing his horrid supermarket-brand shaving paraphernalia.
He picks up Sweetie and cradles her on her back like a baby, which she hates, making her scratchy.
When he gets up in the morning, he doesn't feed the cats or open windows or put the kettle on, but merely sits at his computer to read his emails.
He makes me drive because of his fear of motorways and roundabouts.
He never notices things around the house, and has never bought anything for it (bar a potato peeler).
He never uses the Daily Shower Spray.
He never empties the dishwasher/washing machine/tumble dryer/ swing bin.
He is very windy in the bottom area, and never opens his post.
He shows no interest in my work.
He rarely initiates sex, preferring to download porn.
He calls me variously 'Mummy', 'Old Lady' and 'Chubby', all of which I hate.
He often tells me to shut up, doing his naked glove puppet talking-hand gesture, showing me no respect.
He never asks my plans. Don't most normal people in a relationship, come Saturday morning, say, 'What would you like to do this weekend?'
He is obsessed with his three gay best friends, always texting them and meeting them for coffee. If not for the fact he slept with five women last year, I would seriously think he is homosexual.
One of his non-gay friends recently said to my husband that he thinks he must be 'bi-curious'.
He is incredibly harsh, blunt and unromantic. Even when I was in hospital recently, he failed to buy me any flowers. I don't think we have ever indulged in foreplay.
He sat there, gobsmacked. But he didn't offer to change, or apologise. 'Why haven't you kicked me out, then?' he asked me arrogantly.
'I've tried!' I told him. 'When I was having that oily bath I said you should move out, and you never did!' 'I think you're mad about me,' he said, attempting to hug my muffin.
'I am not,' I said, trying to keep a straight face. 'I have gone off you.
Consider yourself chucked.' 'Come on,' he said. 'Why don't I take you out for dinner tonight. It will be like a proper first date' Arrgghhhh!!!!!!
Liz Jones's diary
The Mail on Sunday (London); Oct 1, 2006; LIZ JONES; p. 130
In which he says he loves me too much to leave
I have given up trying to make things work. He can take me or leave me. It is all too exhausting and dispiriting. For example, last night I 1 Drank a cup of instant decaff coffee. Instant! Who knows, next thing I will be drinking water that came out of a tap! Or feeding my fur children cat food.
Ye godfathers!
2 Although I removed my eye makeup, I didn't take off my Chantecaille Real Skin Foundation or YSL Touche Eclat concealer, despite potential pillow-spoiling. That is the first time since birth that I have gone to bed without cleansing, toning and moisturising. But what is the point?
We went out to dinner last night before going to see Volver, the new Pedro AlmodUvar film, and I have to report that the experience was excruciatingly painful. Over dinner, I kept initiating conversation, asking about his favourite topic namely, himself and he just responded with monosyllabic answers or merely pretended he hadn't heard me, before looking at me with big, sad eyes.
'Why are you staring at me?' I asked him. 'Why can't you just be normal at the table?' You would think that after six years together we would feel comfortable in each other's presence, enjoy some sort of easy banter, but no.
In the end, becoming so bored that I had rummaged in my Prada handbag to reread a shopping list, I said, exasperated, 'My God, this is hard work.'
'What is?' he said, surprised.
'This. Having dinner. With you.' When we got to the cinema, I broke the habit of a lifetime and just stood at the box office until he, reluctantly, finally, reached for his wallet. Because he had not chosen to see this particular movie, and was ostensibly coming along to keep me happy, he then proceeded to yawn all the way through the film and kept looking at his watch.
Back home, furious and upset, I started to watch Sex and the City Night and immediately cheered up.
'You were much happier before you met me, when you were single, weren't you?' he said.
'Yes. I was. You are extremely annoying. I loved being single.' And then I asked him if he had been happier before we met, but he refused to answer, giving an enigmatic shrug. We went to bed, where he proceeded to put his cold feet on me. Then, trying to snuggle, he said, 'I love you too much to ever leave you.' What is that supposed to mean?
To be honest, I think he has become very weird. He now wears his hair in a tight ponytail, perhaps imagining he is Antonio Banderas. Over our dinner from hell, the only thing he said to me was, 'I'm thinking of wearing my hair in a bun on top of my head.' How interesting. He is obsessed with how much he weighs, the contours of his stomach (in repose, he can usually be seen with his T-shirt up, as he rubs his torso lovingly), whether or not he is losing his looks, and how attractive he is to other women. And then, this morning, he told me he found being in a marriage boring. 'The reason we don't talk is that there is nothing left to find out about each other,' he said.
'Well, don't be married to me then,' I told him, adding that I had thought marriage would be about finally finding someone who is on your side, who you can share your problems with. I didn't realise it would mean inviting a weird enemy into your home, who creeps around the house and criticises your every move, and doesn't even look up when you enter a room. 'Is that what you really feel?' he said, and I nodded, sadly.
So basically she hates him. I wonder how Nirpal's magic cock is going to get him out of this one?
Labels: journalists, Liz Jones, Nirpal Dhaliwal
