I always gave Lizzie the benefit of the doubt, but she is seriously showing signs of dementia on Dover's blog.
"Elizabeth (Lizzie) Bearesays:
December 1, 2022 at 10:25 am
I miss Sancho.
A very good wit, properly applied, is always a bonus to a blog. Sancho was often extremely amusing, a true rapier wit.
I hope he is OK."
FMD and LOL! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! sancho is leigh lowe. He may not be Sylvester, but putting that aside for now. leigh lowe was the leader of the tag team, who have died with sancho. Excellent.
leigh lowe was behind every Lizzie flounce on Sinc's Cat and including on Dover's blog where he admitted to manufacturing upticks. Lizzie's last flounce was due to her crying over 50 something upticks targeting her. sancho admitted to baiting her. He was that idiot big mouth that is in every group. Suffer in hell.
The funniest post I've ever read on Dover's blog. Definitely Mrs Bucket/Bouquet here. To the police station because the air-con isn't working? Cray cray! I laughed out loud! 😆😂🤣
"Elizabeth (Lizzie) Bearesays:
December 27, 2022 at 11:14 am
I am only just getting over Christmas night. We had booked into the best corporate-style accommodation in Nowra, all we could get, which probably for legal reasons in this tale should remain nameless. There was no room at my nephew’s place, there never is at Christmas, temporary beds everywhere including one for my adult son. When in Nowra for Christmas Hairy and I always book a room in town, though usually in a favoured family-style motel not the business-style one.
Thus, after a long lunch that drifted into the early evening, at 8.30pm Hairy and I called it quits and departed for some peace and quiet alone. When we’d checked in that morning they told us that Reception would not be open after 3pm. At 8.30pm this booked-out place was very quiet, most people were still ‘out’. It felt weird walking into dark corridors which then lit up with harsh sensor lights; the room itself turned out to be very contemporary but rather bleak. I said I thought we should turn the aircon on, as the day had been hot and the room faced west. As per instructions, we closed the open wind-in window first, pressed the aircon remote to on – and nothing happened. That continued for the next few goes, although the battery was definitely live and working. While we determined what to do, we tried to reopen the window but it had locked itself fast. The room quickly grew increasingly stuffy and airless. After a further fifteen minutes of it we had to open the door to the corridor, which was also not air-conditioned and thus stuffy too.
We rang the emergency contact number listed on a card in the room. It went to a recorded message, so we left a message. Over the next two hours we left six further messages, of increasing desperation and concern, hoping that the number would be checked and some assistance given to us. At 10.30 I gasped to Hairy that I couldn’t sleep in this room, even with the door open. I’d already tried the one person arriving in our corridor to ask to borrow their aircon remote, but that didn’t work either. Hairy went down to reception to check the emergency number on the closed glass door. It was the same number we were using. He went outside to check the emergency entry voicemail, which also gave that same number, where he left a message saying crossly how was anyone with a non-working keycard able to get in (fortunately our keycards were ok). It was abundantly clear that the night emergency phone was unattended.
What to do? Drive back to Sydney? Not really. Turn up at nephew’s place? No room at all. Go elsewhere? Not a room left in the town, we already knew that. Sit up all night in the airless room? Have to take turns trying to sleep, with the door open to intruders (Nowra is the sort of town where windows are barred). But still the room would be unbearably hot. With us in it breathing it was getting hotter and hotter.
Let’s go to the police, I suggest in desperation, for the Station was walkable, as we checked on our phones. They may know someone responsible for the place. A long shot, but off we trudged into Christmas night. No room at the inn, lol. The woman constable was lovely, sympathetic, tried to ring the same number, saying a gee up from the police might help, but we knew the phone was unattended. She agreed that these large premises accommodating many people should not be left unattended, and noted it down. We returned to the room after a spell in the cool at the Police Station, and I was just bemoaning the situation to another guest in our corridor when a woman with wild hair in bare feet and what stood in for black shorties pajamas came running up saying I’ve just got a message. You’ve got me out of bed, she accuses. Turns out she was somehow in charge, although not really, but not on the number put down for Emergencies. She said she’d put up her number on the inside of the glass door of Reception, and yes, there it was, on a sheet of quarto paper held by one piece of sticky tape in the middle, a telephone number in 12 point typing. That sheet had curled around itself in the heat and was both unnoticed and unreadable. The usual Emergency number was still prominently displayed – and as we had found out, useless.
After checking that our room was totally dysfunctional as claimed, this lady did manage to get into the computer system and put us into a new room with working aircon. We never found out how she discovered our plight. She was more bothered than apologetic. Reception the next morning as we checked out were slightly more concerned, saying their night system was still being ‘sorted out’, but adding that a non-working aircon didn’t strictly come under the category of Emergency. Even if the window has locked down fast? I snapped. We’ll make sure you get a better room with good aircon next time, the two new women at the desk assured us. Fat chance, I didn’t say, that we’d ever deign to set foot in the place again."
"Oh, Gawd, Lizzie’s on about ‘my Huguenot ancestors’ for the 177th time in recent memory. The Me! Me! Me! has risen from the murky depths again recently, including yet another reprise of Angela’s Ashes in the western Suburbs of Sydney.
Tell us, Lizzie, what fraction of your genes are Huguenot? 1/1024, perhaps? Less? Are you ‘a Proud Huguenot Woman?’ Do you feel an instinctive connection to the culture?
You are about as Huguenot as your namesake in the US is Native American. Why keep bringing it up? Perhaps it meant to impress somebody, as otherwise it is of no conceivable interest or relevance to anyone but yourself.
"It’s well worth not coming in here.
Sorry, Dover.. I’m cancelling my sub."
Lizzie, don't cancel.
The down ticks are manufactured by sancho poofta panzy aka leigh lowe. He highlighted earlier the many down ticks you were receiving. A stiffy he had 🤮 I hear it's uncircumcised.
Anyhoo, don't leave. Know you are an easy target because you are a woman of many words.
Stick it up leigh lowe's butt hole, just to the side of his G spot.
Knuckle fucker will be along soon with a soothing cream.
Hey NFA, leigh lowe explained that to register a downtick you click twice on a comment. He's nasty fucking filth. Why would anyone do that?? He must be so proud, telling his family how much of a proud internet bully he is. He does it because he is gagged. We have this amazing platform. He has nothing. He can't freely express himself, so he downticks.
As more and more evidence that they should have never taken the jab, and the truth comes out regarding all we warned them about, as the reality of Choo Choo hits home, and they, and many around them are always getting sick, immunity destroyed from the jabs....as they were warned would happen......,and the very worst of it for them...... that old struth here and only you guys and a few others were right all along, what are weak minded nobodies going to do? Squabble amongst themselves and implode. That's what you are watching. It is fully deserved and expected.
"Sancho, I don’t believe the gaming hypothesis. Some of it, perhaps, not all of it.
There is a narrative here about me that the stalker both created and is capitalising upon. It’s easy if the object of the stalking is comfortably off and her life current life stories depict this, and more so if you can depict her childhood and early adult struggles as a pity-play, dismissed as an Angela’s Ashes. Especially if you are holed up in a motel (albeit forgotten that it is with your house-sale money in the bank) and everyone feels a bit sorry for lonely old you.
If this is ‘gaming’ then who is doing it? If people here sincerely believe that I am a bit of a flake and a nuisance, that’s fine, just say so and I’ll scroll on by. It’s the stalking that is getting to me It starts with a comment with an endless narrative-forming repetition of the same old tropes and memes. Tell the lie long enough and often enough and the narrative begins. Oh yes, give it a tick, we hate that, the effing fool she is, etc. etc. And the underhand – the undertoad – that is pushing the upticks along.
I just want it to STOP. The stalking, and then the narrative upticking."
For what it's worth I have written to Dover. The bullying of Lizzie by bulldog Joh, with sancho poofta panzy aka leigh lowe's manufacturing of upticks is absolutely disgusting!
Personally, I liked Lizzie and I liked her bullshit. Her desire to be Mrs Bouquet and drop her Mrs Bucket origins was fine with me. She was appreciative of men and had some very nice qualities. I also found Johanna to be amusing as she came in all grumpy and full of bluster. I could see them both, chalk and cheese they are.
Unfortunately she talked herself, through complete selfishness, into taking the jab because she thought she deserved to go on holidays, (using a fear of covid as an excuse even after she'd been warned by the still sane , that fear of covid anymore than a fear of a cold ...all it was, was not warranted and the jab was more dangerous).....HOLIDAYS... while the poor people could stand their ground against tyranny for her. After all, she'd worked hard to become a toff, and wasn't going to see her last years spent being in the trenches with the common folk.
Good Lord, what would she write about if not of her travels on holidays???
I am a conservative and therefore I am not jealous of people with money, I wish them all the best....if gained honestly.
However, like many at Dover's, when the chips were down, when it counted she showed her real class, or lack thereof.
She's a Mrs Bucket, not a Mrs Bouquet. She'll never be a Mrs Bouquet, she's a Bucket. And her cover is well and truly blown.