The Fag Hag spent this morning idly wondering whether it was worth getting banged up in Holloway as someone’s bitch for stabbing her neighbour in the face.
‘I could make it work in there,’ I found myself thinking. Maybe I’d get some generous-thighed bull dyke like Frankie from Prisoner Cell Block H to look after me and get me a job in the kitchens. Or maybe I could do a Wentworth Miller and conceal a complex escape plan in a panther tattoo on my left breast.
You see, living underneath this pensioner is like living beneath a flatshare containing Grateful Dead roadies, the Association of Military Marching Bands and escapees from Bedlam.
He bangs (and not in a Ricky Martin way, I assure you). He crashes so loudly my chandelier shakes. He’s so hard of hearing he has to shout all his phone conversations. At decibel levels that make rooks clear trees. I even know his sodding bank password now. But the thing I can’t forgive is the music…I get serenaded by the Travelling Wilburys. The Kinks. And last night I got ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ blasting through my flat whilst an Australian woman shouted above the din, ‘Oh, my God! This record makes me feel sooooo sexy.’
I don’t want to think about what happened next. But I hope to God she was charging by the hour.