So there was the Fag Hag, idly flicking through one of London’s glittering free sheets yesterday (having taken the precaution of first applying layers of anti-bacterial gel and donning latex gloves in the assumption that the demographic of said publication is likely to be a syphilitic tramp) when she happened upon some rather bizarre musings. The writer in question is called Clayton Littlewood (wasn’t that one of Dex Dexter’s employees at Denver-Carrington?) and he writes about what it’s like to work in a shop all day. Oh.
But Clayton has a bit of a problem on his hands. See he’s somebody who works in the service industry but seems to loathe everybody he serves. First in the firing line are workmen who come in. Clayton says they dig up grotty roads and stink of Tarmac. Yep, they’re workmen. That’s kind of their job. Were you expecting them to Tarmac roads in velvet frock coats and opera scarves reeking of Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds? Anyway, the good thing is they earn probably three times what you do working behind a till, so let’s not cry any tears for them.
Then Clayton must have had a bad morning at Denver-Carrington because he gets really medieval in his punishment – this time it’s those pesky gays. He hates on them for going to the gym (pardon them for having some self-respect), he hates on them for being waspish (read, they’re wise consumers as opposed to wide-eyed out-of-towners who can be taken for a ride) and he hates on them for all wanting their clothes to match their taupe sofa and shitzu. Because all gay men care about is dogs and interiors. We know this because apparently that was all Tennessee Williams would ever talk about – puppies and interior design schemes.
Perhaps Clayton is gay himself and that makes it OK…? Phew, that’s a relief. I’ll pencil in that Ku Klux Klan meeting then because I have diplomatic immunity as a result of my grandmother’s third husband being a Nigerian chieftan (and, strangely, that last bit is true!)
So, the moral of this story is, if you’re someone who hates opening their legs, don’t become a hooker. If you can’t stand meat, best not get a job in Wendy’s. And if you’re a misanthrope? Don’t for fuck’s sake work in a shop.
Fag Hag Diary,