Fag Hag Diary



Fag Hag Neighbour has been spoiling her again, the old softie. His recent touching little keepsake? A pile of stinking old nylon clothes (last worn when deodorant development was in its infancy) and shoes that a raping mini-cab driver would turn his nose up at dumped outside my door.

I left a poisonous Patricia Routledge note. That didn’t work. I sprayed the hall with some Victoria Beckham Intimately that my cleaner used to scour my loo. The reek, somewhat predictably, is worse. So I’m selflessly taking those clothes down to a Hoxton boutique this weekend – just think, I could help at least four young people in East London look like a cunt for an entire year…

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