The Fag Hag was the victim of a cold-blooded guff and run the other day.
There I was on the cross-trainer, legs akimbo, when to my left I smelt something bad. Not, ‘Oh dear, the pug’s eaten too quickly’ bad. We’re talking ‘methane explosion in an egg factory’ bad. We’re talking ‘evacuation, women and non-ginger children first’ bad. We’re talking a code red situation.
Struggling to maintain consciousness, I glanced over at the monstrous barbarian responsible for this act of cowardice. Staggeringly, she looked like a perfectly regular girl: brown bob, pink work-out top – well, as they said of Peter Sutcliffe – somebody’s husband, somebody’s son… Through the hazy fumes, I could just make out her descending from the step machine – I prepared for her confession, public apology to my family and conversion to Christ. But the bitch just legged it! Leaving me alone at the toxic chemical crime scene.
‘Hey!’ waved my hot personal trainer, suddenly making his way over the room. He didn’t mention the smell. He didn’t have to. The shock was all over his face. So I had my choice: Say nothing? Or dump girlfrien’ right in it?
Take a wild fucking guess!