Fag Hag Diary


Repeat after us: ‘The Fag Hag doesn’t do Glastonbury’.

Get off me, pig!

‘Didn’t fancy Glastonbury then this weekend?’ Oh for The Hoist’s sake, what is wrong with these absolute fucktards that keep asking me that? Look at me. Listen to me. Do I come across even remotely as the kind of person who’d want to spend five minutes driving through Glastonbury let alone spend an entire weekend in the shithole?

The only tents I like are the ones fit boys make with sheets in the morning, thank you very much. I don’t do toilets unless they are perfumed with Jo Malone candles (which means buckets with disinfectant in the ground are kind of out). I loathe girls with frizzy hair and no make-up who think the au naturel look is alluring (it’s not – you look like Sandi Toksvig’s gardener) and most of all, I have a beautiful pair of pink Hunter wellies and I have no intention of getting them spattered with mud. They are strictly for urban eyes only.

But most of all – why would I want to pay to stand in a field watching The Who on stage? If I want to see old men staggering about and whining I’ll switch on UK Gold and catch Last of the Summer Wine…


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One comment to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. Honey, you so wouldn’t have liked it: there were children there and anything. But I will say this much (it was my first time, I thought it was actually OK): everyone was very lovely in a very un-London way. And there were some hot straight boys. And the dolly bears from Horsemeat Disco were great. Oh, and Shirl.

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