Jack Monroe #338 That man Jack Monroe? Really

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I think AI Jack is a better writer than real Jack

... So it comes as no surprise that eventually the frothing cannons of barely-comprehensible bile and poorly-threaded attempts at argument would be turned on me in the end. After all, there are only a finite number of Public Gays To Disapprove Of for £1 a word, so it was going to be my turn in the end. And for someone whose paid-per-views are still entrenched somewhere between conservative Russia and the mid 1920s, I’m not surprised it’s taken Ms Moir 13 years to catch me up.

But, finally, there was a line that she simply couldn’t cross, and that line was “and I won’t be doing it in front of the Queen.”

So today I will have to venture into Buckingham Palace for a protest, outside the gates of Windsor Castle and outside the London branch of the Royal Institute of British Architects (an institution with which I have no particular issue, to be honest). To be fair, the Trews were the ones who started it all, by asking members of the public on Facebook to donate money for a billboard of me dressed as Jeremy Clarkson in B&Q, so a lot of the groundwork was already done. The Queen, however, has been dragged reluctantly into the argument, and I imagine she had absolutely no idea it was coming, as she could be heard shouting at Prince Charles on the radio, “Can I talk to you for a moment?” while they both stood outside the Palace gates to talk, and I hid myself in a nearby cupboard to avoid being seen by anyone.

There have been some horrible pro and con arguments made on this whole thing. What you’re saying is that my wearing a dead man’s clothing is offensive. This is ironic, considering that any museum exhibition of the life of Joseph McCarthy would have a line that it’s “hard to take seriously,” for the same reason that seeing a woman dressed as Joseph Stalin in the National Portrait Gallery and reading the accompanying bio wouldn’t be considered funny. And while I may not understand either one of those displays, it doesn’t mean I don’t respect the struggle.

What you’re saying is that it’s my poverty that is frightening. My friends, when I saw some of the statements made against me, most of the ones supporting my protest were from people in poverty. My friends who are in poverty. Why is it in any way strange for people to be poor? Are their financial struggles really some shameful secret? Why are we supposed to feel that the abuse I have faced, the cuts that have affected me and the hardships of my own poverty is [runs out of words here]
 
Five hundred dogs said:
So I was aimlessly googling walrus stuff to see if there was anything funny. I googled “the walrus and the carpenter” and one of the hits was this picture. I think it’s from a restaurant with that name, but it’s almost certainly nightmeat with an added inexplicable egg and a Pumble in the background.View attachment 1411303 q
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Admit it, you’re trawling one of mackies accounts, 🤢 raw meat, raw egg, no doubt 100% vegan, if you swap all the ingredients 🙄
 
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Ostapbender said:
I think AI Jack is a better writer than real Jack

... So it comes as no surprise that eventually the frothing cannons of barely-comprehensible bile and poorly-threaded attempts at argument would be turned on me in the end. After all, there are only a finite number of Public Gays To Disapprove Of for £1 a word, so it was going to be my turn in the end. And for someone whose paid-per-views are still entrenched somewhere between conservative Russia and the mid 1920s, I’m not surprised it’s taken Ms Moir 13 years to catch me up.

But, finally, there was a line that she simply couldn’t cross, and that line was “and I won’t be doing it in front of the Queen.”

So today I will have to venture into Buckingham Palace for a protest, outside the gates of Windsor Castle and outside the London branch of the Royal Institute of British Architects (an institution with which I have no particular issue, to be honest). To be fair, the Trews were the ones who started it all, by asking members of the public on Facebook to donate money for a billboard of me dressed as Jeremy Clarkson in B&Q, so a lot of the groundwork was already done. The Queen, however, has been dragged reluctantly into the argument, and I imagine she had absolutely no idea it was coming, as she could be heard shouting at Prince Charles on the radio, “Can I talk to you for a moment?” while they both stood outside the Palace gates to talk, and I hid myself in a nearby cupboard to avoid being seen by anyone.

There have been some horrible pro and con arguments made on this whole thing. What you’re saying is that my wearing a dead man’s clothing is offensive. This is ironic, considering that any museum exhibition of the life of Joseph McCarthy would have a line that it’s “hard to take seriously,” for the same reason that seeing a woman dressed as Joseph Stalin in the National Portrait Gallery and reading the accompanying bio wouldn’t be considered funny. And while I may not understand either one of those displays, it doesn’t mean I don’t respect the struggle.

What you’re saying is that it’s my poverty that is frightening. My friends, when I saw some of the statements made against me, most of the ones supporting my protest were from people in poverty. My friends who are in poverty. Why is it in any way strange for people to be poor? Are their financial struggles really some shameful secret? Why are we supposed to feel that the abuse I have faced, the cuts that have affected me and the hardships of my own poverty is [runs out of words here]
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there are only a finite number of Public Gays To Disapprove Of for £1 a word 🤣
 
OwlRightsReserved said:
Sorry to circle back to the medication but I'm so perplexed.

Should obviously say I'm not a medical doctor, and I think if I text my son one more time to ask about Jack Monroe's ailments, he'll disinvite me to his wedding, so someone please correct me if this is wrong.

Betablockers - Slow down the heart by blocking hormones like adreneline. Can be used for heart conditions, but also for migraine, anxiety or tremors. Interact with certain antidepressants and NSAIDs.

Naproxen - NSAID. Can't be taken by people with heart problems. Can't be taken by people with liver or kidney failure. Supposed to be prescribed with caution for those with connective tissue disorders.

Tramadol - Narcotic. Potentially addictive and extreme caution advised for addicts of any substance in using it, and NICE guidelines say not to prescribe it to those in acute intoxication. Also caution around seizure disorders.

"ADHD medication" - some kind of stimulant or SNRI, but probably stimulant given Jack's comments about being a Sch. 2 restricted drug. Stimulants speed up heart rate. Potential drug interactions with SSRIs.

Sertraline - SSRI. Can't be prescribed to those with poorly controlled epilepsy. Caution in prescribing to those with heart conditions.

I don't understand how a cocktail of any of the above works for someone with alcoholism, a heart condition, some form of epilepsy, a connective tissue disorder, and depression.

Speculation m'lud but I'm more convinced that she's prescribed betablockers for anxiety or tremors, but says it's for a heart condition; the seizures are not a thing; and there's some distinctly dodgy prescribing going on here re: NHS and private prescriptions.
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Remember when she claimed to have had fits/convulsions?!
 
Ostapbender said:
To be fair, the Trews were the ones who started it all, by asking members of the public on Facebook to donate money for a billboard of me dressed as Jeremy Clarkson in B&Q, so a lot of the groundwork was already done. The Queen, however, has been dragged reluctantly into the argument, and I imagine she had absolutely no idea it was coming, as she could be heard shouting at Prince Charles on the radio, “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
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I would pay money for a billboard of Jack dressed as Jeremy Clarkson.
 
Lazarus said:
This is so weird. Why does Jack feel she has to justify everything? Is this because she knows she's always lying so feels the need to prove things?
Between filming herself washing her face to prove a bruise wasn't makeup, to the justification of why she's got money to take her son on holiday. It all seems really, really weird to me.

Someone give me an analysis of this type of behaviour, please.


it looks like Paw Broon 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿
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People who are lying often give extraneous detail in an attempt to make their account more believable and to anticipate and explain away inconsistencies. This is another tenet of statement analysis so @Cack Conroe can probably also back me up here :)

There are some really good examples online of police interrogations where criminals are trying to tell their cover story and include loads of useless extraneous detail and proof points to make their account sound more credible. Whereas a truthful account of something is normally very simply and concisely expressed because truth tellers just want to get the main events across. whereas liars seek to confuse with loads of extra little irrelevant bits.

Jack does it a lot, actually. That's why she ends up having to constantly explain away tiny inconsistencies, because they all add up.
 
Ostapbender said:
I fed some lines from It's Not About The Pasta into here: https://app.inferkit.com/demo
I think it's done a good job. I like when AI Jack identifies herself as a pensioner.
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I tried a small extract from Jacks wall punching trip to I' Daniel Blake. Are we absolutely certain Jack isn't a robot?

The woman beside me, a stranger, squeezed my forearm as I choked on guttural, involuntary sobs. I’m sorry, I whispered, sloping out to punch a wall in the corridor and cry into the blinding, unaware streets of west London. I looked mad. I am mad.

This is how I feel after Thursday. After nine brutal hours of getting lost on snow and ice around the capital city. As the capital was choked to a standstill, I headed south on a Sunday afternoon with no idea where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there in the cold, cold darkness. But then I hit the first road block, the ice covered bridge across the river which connects Hampstead Heath to Regent’s Park, the one which is notorious for its strong winter weather. I’m never going there again.

I kept going anyway, the frost-crusted pavement leading me on and on through the west London fog. I pushed the front wheel of my car into a ditch that was fast getting covered in ice but kept going, even when my tyre started slipping, barely noticing when the grassy verge snaked in front of me and I slammed into the cold, cold, cold cold, cold, cold, cold mud, desperate to make it home.

After an eternity, I got home and collapsed in a heap, crying until the ice on my face melted and it was warm and I could breathe properly. After 20 minutes of hysterically crying in the kitchen, I was given the chance to use the phone to call my mum. “I’m having a rough time, Mum,” I managed. “Are you mad?” she answered.

“I’m not mad, I’m pissed off. And cold. And cold. And cold. And cold.” I could have kept going with the obvious anger to which she responded with a flash of anger herself. She’d seen the footage of dervishes dancing in the street, freezing their bare feet on the ice and frozen in the cold rage I was feeling. “What’s the matter with you?” she shouted.

But there was nothing wrong with me. I was upset and angry and cold and cold and cold. I slammed the phone down and felt the rage again and stomped out of the kitchen and flung myself into a cold shower.
 
Bring your daymeats and nightmeats over to the new thread.

Jack Monroe #339 David Attenborough lied about walruses

Thread title a vehement anti-Attenborough squig's words, nominated by @Falkor you win front row tickets to the annual Walrus Throwing Competition. Newbies check out the wiki which is the pink button up top. When nominating a thread title, please use the words 'thread title' and no swearing! In...
tattle.life
 
jenny2603 said:
I tried a small extract from Jacks wall punching trip to I' Daniel Blake. Are we absolutely certain Jack isn't a robot?

The woman beside me, a stranger, squeezed my forearm as I choked on guttural, involuntary sobs. I’m sorry, I whispered, sloping out to punch a wall in the corridor and cry into the blinding, unaware streets of west London. I looked mad. I am mad.

This is how I feel after Thursday. After nine brutal hours of getting lost on snow and ice around the capital city. As the capital was choked to a standstill, I headed south on a Sunday afternoon with no idea where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay there in the cold, cold darkness. But then I hit the first road block, the ice covered bridge across the river which connects Hampstead Heath to Regent’s Park, the one which is notorious for its strong winter weather. I’m never going there again.

I kept going anyway, the frost-crusted pavement leading me on and on through the west London fog. I pushed the front wheel of my car into a ditch that was fast getting covered in ice but kept going, even when my tyre started slipping, barely noticing when the grassy verge snaked in front of me and I slammed into the cold, cold, cold cold, cold, cold, cold mud, desperate to make it home.

After an eternity, I got home and collapsed in a heap, crying until the ice on my face melted and it was warm and I could breathe properly. After 20 minutes of hysterically crying in the kitchen, I was given the chance to use the phone to call my mum. “I’m having a rough time, Mum,” I managed. “Are you mad?” she answered.

“I’m not mad, I’m pissed off. And cold. And cold. And cold. And cold.” I could have kept going with the obvious anger to which she responded with a flash of anger herself. She’d seen the footage of dervishes dancing in the street, freezing their bare feet on the ice and frozen in the cold rage I was feeling. “What’s the matter with you?” she shouted.

But there was nothing wrong with me. I was upset and angry and cold and cold and cold. I slammed the phone down and felt the rage again and stomped out of the kitchen and flung myself into a cold shower.
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TBH I read this thinking it was from Jack's Guardian article until I re-read your introductory text. Which just shows how bad her actual writing is.
 
Bloody hell. I had to have a little disco nap earlier because I've been BUSY, working in the heat. I was woken up by an amazon delivery. In that awful post nap confused state I thought I'd missed the school run (son is 17 😂), overslept for work etc etc. Then came on here to frankly terrifying and freaky JackaWalrus stuff 😱. My mind is broken.
 
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