Hello, my darlings. The Fag Hag has received scientific proof this weekend that when it comes to dinner parties, gays simply do it better.
Yesterday, Fag Hag sister and I grabbed our favourite espadrille wedgies, our A-gay pal Simon and some non-ironic Mateus Rose and headed over to a luncheon thrown by the fabulous Chris.
‘Darlings!’ he said embracing us in bear hugs and leading us into his interior-designed lair filled with fine wines and mouth-watering dishes (but that’s enough about the men!). And frankly, the whole experience reminded me that when it comes to soirées, straights suck. And not in a good way… You see, when you go straight, the door gets answered by a chocolate-smeared child, you’re handed an Ikea glass of Jacob’s Creek and expected to talk to someone’s overweight husband who does something in recruitment and keeps sneaking covert glances down your top. All to the strains of that ghastly whining vegan from Coldplay in the background.
But at Chris’s you get expensive wine, slow-cooked lamb casserole, gorgeous company and serenaded by Karen Carpenter, Barbra and Israel’s winning entry in the 1978 Eurovision Song Contest.
No one asked me accusingly why I didn’t have a husband, no one droned on about school fees, and most importantly, no one said they had ‘a great guy for me’ who turned out to be 54, still living with his mother and currently employed as the keeper of a portal in an online fantasy game.
Just as I thought the weekend couldn’t get any better, my friend Cathy texted me to say ‘Just seen your ex in a pub. Jesus, he’s fat!’ Martine, strike up the band… it’s time for a chorus of ‘Perfect Moment’…