And Faggy has a confession…
The Fag Hag is concerned that she is turning into a slasher. No you heard me right first time. I’m not referring to going round carving up laughing teens at a remote campsite with a meat cleaver (that’s being saved for the autobiography, ‘Hidden Shallows’) but instead being one of those dreadful people with four or five different jobs resulting in a series of slashes after their name. As in model/actress/whatever. I’m currently journalist/novelist/producer/professional fag hag.
The trouble with slashers on the whole is that they tend to spread themselves thin because they lack purpose and most importantly talent.
I asked a friend the other day what a slasher friend of hers, who’d married a psychotically bad tempered ugly bloke purely for his money, actually did for a living. ‘Oh, she’s a sort of literary agent assistant kind of TV researcher who’d done a bit of acting and oh she wants to be a writer.’ Whoopsydaisy, you missed out prostitute.
My favourite slasher of all time was a social X-ray type I met through a friend who would tell you she was a ‘model sort of publisher sort of socialite sort of spy’. I’d always wondered whether that involved her delivering radioactive thallium to the Russian Embassy on the way to pose in nylon knickers for a Castrol GTX calendar…
When all’s said and done jobs are probably a bit like orifices – if you want to avoid complications stick to focusing on one at a time.