Every Sunday, the Fag Hag has started to feel stiff with stress. It’s not as a result of a Thai rent boy’s attentions over the weekend. It’s not because I’ve spent the whole day asking for God’s forgiveness (don’t ask/don’t tell is my policy when it comes to Godzilla)… It’s because Sunday has become the new TV night of the week.
Will it be Kerry and her magic nose on MTV? Or will it be Strictly Dancing on Joseph’s Ice over on council people’s telly? And now, to make the choice even harder, we have new statuette-winning series Mad Men about a 1950s ad agency from the people who brought us Sopranos…I have to admit, the Sopranos bit was making me wary of Mad Men at first. This is because a genuine real-life psycho I once went out with used to bully me into watching the Sopranos and then pause it every 10 minutes to test me on the plot. Honey, I spent three years at college deconstructing Finnegan’s Wake, I think I can handle some show aimed at illiterates in Wyoming. Plus, I think we know what’ll happen tonight: some over-the-top actress will shout, ‘Tony! Alright already!’ whilst an old man eats pasta with a slightly less old man.
But Mad Men was cheeeenius. Me likey. Me lovey. And me want to do all those lovely repressed 50s ad agency men in their suits. As I once said of a glory hole in Frisco, definitely worth a look…