Last night the Fag Hag headed off to London’s glittering London for a book launch. But thank the baby Jesus this was not your industry standard book launch – the sort where you drink Jacobs Creek and eat stale pitta bread in an Islington townhouse belonging to a publishing lady with feminist hair.
This was an altogether more affluent affair. The location was Sketch – the sort of place where a vodka and tonic costs the same as a dialysis machine, and the staff shit on your head if you ask them for a menu. But last night I decided to brave it to celebrate the publication of Confessions of a Gigolo. Well, after all, if he wants to confess he can do it in my little box anytime.
Once I’d navigated the models asking me, ‘Tell me, what’s it like to be so small and to be carrying last year’s Chloe?’ I located the man of the moment… Golden the gigolo was wearing a pinstripe suit and had his hair in a 70’s playboy sweep a la Ian Ogilvy. As I batted my eyelashes and hoped they didn’t fall off he smiled and made pleasantries. ‘Would you excuse me?’ he finally said, ‘ I’m so excited – my parents are here’.
A thought was going through my head as I watched him welcome a rather straight middle aged couple. Was his mother saying, ‘Oh darling, I was so proud reading that chapter where you ass fucked the estate agent with a champagne bottle in exchange for a car’?