No Good Advice

As if things weren't bad enough for Cheryl Cole, now she's got Liz Jones weighing in with "advice from a woman who's been there."

Presumably Jones doesn't mean "there" in the sense of Ashley Cole's "there", although that particular there seems to have had more visitors than Chessington World of Adventure, with most leaving at with a similar sense of disappointment.

Actually, Liz Jones doesn't offer that much advice, filling most of the column with a story-so-far and some half-arsed psychology:

Let's look at the woman Ashley Cole decided to "allegedly" cheat with.

Aimee Walton is not a Brit-nominated popstar, but a hairdresser.

Not that there is anything wrong with being a hairdresser, just that Cole's choice of paramour is proof that men always, always, always want to have sex with a woman who is of a lower status than his wife.

Eh? Really? But since Liz clearly believes that being a pop star is quite top-drawer, the question would be 'if Ashley Cole was going to have sex with someone of higher 'status' than Cheryl, what sort of job would they have to do?' Minor royal? Presenter on Woman's Hour?

Of course, like every Liz Jones column ever, this really isn't anything to do with what she's supposedly writing about, and all about her:

When I found out my husband was continuing a relationship with a woman he had met while travelling, what made me see red was that he had seemingly fallen for someone who was a travel agent and who couldn't, given her missives via e-mail, even spell.

More recently, and even though we are now divorced, I railed at him for seeing a woman who is "a secretary! How could you!?"

We've just taken a straw poll, and 'travel agent' and 'secretary' both turn out to be held in higher esteem than 'one-note Daily Mail columnist. But Liz is still going on with her, erm, advice:

And as for the fashion sense of these worthless trollops, looking at the photos he had lazily left on my camera of one particular woman, I couldn't help wailing: "But how could you find a woman who wears a white broderie anglaise maxi skirt attractive?"

Liz! You're meant to be helping Cheryl, remember, not getting yet another bloody column out of your split.

Reading e-mails from lots of different women to my clearly then very-married husband made for illuminating reading, allowing me a glimpse into how the predatory female mind works.

Women are alarmingly forward. "Why don't you come over and we can Fuck" read one e-mail to my husband.

Liz... Cheryl? Remember?

I suppose my advice to Cheryl is that, no matter how many Brit Awards you are up for, you will have to play your own success down a notch if you want your husband to be dominant in bed, and to feel good about himself. You may, like me, decide the level of ingratiation necessary is simply not worth it.

Let's not even bother with the quality of the psychological basis to the advice, and just ask: how would you do this, when you're in a pop group? It's easy if you write for the Mail - nobody worth having sex with would read it - but is Tweedy supposed to somehow create a double life, switching off the radio when the chart rundown starts to edge into the top ten? "Shall we watch the Brits, Chezza?" "No... let's watch whatever's on Channel Five, instead?"

"Cheryl... what's this gold disc in the living room?"

Take it from someone who has done all the things you are doing, and then some. Nothing will work. Get out now. While you still can.

... before you start turning into someone who is only capable of writing about your failed relationship over and over and over and over and over and over and over...