"It's official," Jones writes in her latest column for the Daily Mail, "Modern man is a wimp." Yes, it's true: after attacking everyone from "posh" women to the "stupid" women of America, Jones has finally set her sights on men.
"Modern man has evolved, due to his love of cars and fast food, into a blob with all the muscle tone and definition of a slug," she sniffs, "These men might all wear trainers and tracksuits and workwear such as denim jeans and combat trousers, but it is all just dressing up, an illusion, a hark back to the days when men actually knew how to do physical things like, ooh, I don't know, put in a light bulb or change a duvet cover or make love to a woman." This would be a zinger, I guess, if every column Jones writes wasn't about how ugly, fat, or incompetent someone else is. Someone needs to create a Liz Jones "Oh Snap" Flowchart that includes an extra arrow saying "Does Liz Jones hate someone? Yes? This Oh Snap Is Therefore Invalid."
Jones goes on to attack Jamie Oliver for having "a body as soft as butter," and Simon Cowell for having a "peacock chest and underdeveloped thighs. And then there is this:
I wonder why it is that gay men like to stay in shape, and be all smooth and oiled. I hope I am not straying into Dannii Minogue territory here when I wonder if that is merely their feminine side emerging, a genetic tendency to have the humility to take care of themselves, rather than being an arrogant straight bastard who believes, despite the beer gut and nasal hair, he is catnip.
There is really no central argument here; Jones is just off on another one of her pointless and slightly insane tangents, and out-of-shape men, who apparently represent every straight man in the world of Liz Jones (all in-shape men, you see, are gay) are her targets this time around. To wrap things up, Jones declares that men, based on her assessment of Cowell and Oliver as being schlubby, are "wimps" and "wastes of space." It's tempting to declare Jones' column a waste of space as well, but then what would we have to bang our heads on our desks over every Sunday evening?