Fag Hag Diary


In which the Fagster smells something nasty coming out of her TV! 

The Divine Miss Em

So. Clapham Junction. Wowser. Something stinks today and it ain’t my arse!

Have you ever seen anything so absurdly dated and hokey in your whole life? I half expected Jeremy Thorpe to pitch up at the men’s loos any moment with a brolly before taking everyone off to a ‘men’s bath house’ before a ‘Bobby’, who looked like John Cleese, came in blowing a whistle saying, ‘I arrest you for crimes against decency!’

And where the fuck were the fag hags? We weren’t just misrepresented, we didn’t even fucking feature! But silly me, I forgot gay men are far too busy cheating and beating to the strains of the Pet Shop Boys to actually have female friends. The only females they ever encounter are 50-something women who look awfully like Miss Moneypenny and who hiss angrily at them about bushes and promiscuity because their husbands happened to nearly fuck Rupert Graves in a toilet.

But as god closes one door, he also opens a window… gennelmen, I think we have found a new camp classic to replace Showgirls!

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2 comments to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. And what did we think of those clunky wedding rings? Nasty. And since when do people get a round of applause at their wedding? It was like the final scenes of Carrie that bit. I fully expected a bucket of blood. It was all the show lacked, after all. Spot on as usual, Mme la FH.

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  2. Some of us don’t have hags. We don’t even have female names in our mobile phone address book.

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