And FH goes to Hoxton.
It was Fag Hag sister’s birthday the other night – don’t bother asking the age, ’cause that bitch ain’t telling – so we all gathered in a painfully hip part of London’s glittering Hoxton. You know the sort of place, where the men all wear those silly hats (the ones where they look like they’re on Sainsbury’s meat counter) and the ladies all have laddered coloured tights – so I was delighted to stride in wearing full-blown Alexis 80’s black with gold jewellery.
‘You look like something out of Dynasty,’ said a girl in a top that looked like it came from a car boot sale. ‘Thank God someone round here does!’ I snapped.
Star of the night though was Fashion Peter, one of Fag Hag’s favourite A-gays. Whilst listening to a straight man drone on about his ideal woman – tight arse, skinny legs and flat chest – Fashion Peter retorted, ‘Sounds like what you’re after is a 14-year-old boy, dear, why not just come clean.’
That’ll learn you, straight men.