The Fag Hag’s first stiffie of the season arrived yesterday.
‘Mr and Mrs Cunty de Munty invite you to celebrate the nuptials of their daughter Candida Flange to Barry de Ball Sack yada yada yada.’
Oh for fuck’s sake, just tell me where I can find the vodka sculpture and the best hung usher and let’s get this party started, shall we? Of course, the main pain in the arse about weddings is always what the Sandra Dickinson to wear.
These brides are so gaddam sensitive – all it takes is a visible glittery pant or a Philip Treacy cock fashioned from feathers and hey presto, you’re public enemy number one.
‘Why don’t you try Issa dresses?’ suggested Fag Hag Married Friend. ‘Because I don’t want to look like Michelle Dewberry giving a powerpoint presentation,’ I yelled.
‘Hobbs?’ chimed in a friend of Fag Hag Mum. ‘Do I look like an English literature teacher living in Ealing?’ I barked.
In the end I decided to fall back on one of my old faithful numbers. After all, when it comes to weddings, how can you go wrong with a bit of full-length stretch leapordskin and some perspex heels?