And Fag Hag reviews Eurovish
Oh Eurovision, you terrible cunt. I feel worse than I did when Lady Di passed, and almost as bad as when that Argentinian put a small fat hand on a ball he had no bizness touching.
Poor Andy, with his little diamante trim, and his funky-dad-at-a-wedding dancing. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Auntie Lin and ‘Rock Bottom’ nor was it Cheryl ‘do you suffer from hair loss?’ Baker, but last. Last for Scooch sake? And don’t get me started on that Russian rent boy in his white billowing shirt – take your power ballads and shove them next to your poppers Igor or whatever your name is. As Michael Hutchence reputedly said before he met his maker, I fucking had enough.
We need to pull out quickly my darlings or we’ll live to regret it (as my father no doubt said to my mother on the night of my conception) – I say end this goddam abusive relationship for good! Or we grant independence to Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, and see how you like them apples. I’m off to listen to some Bardo and wallow in the glory years…