Fag Hag Diary



The Fag Hag has been waiting. Not, sadly, for Robert De Niro talking Italian but for the man from Virgin Media to come round with his bulging toolsack to fix my interpipe connection.

‘Our representative will be there between 8am and 12pm. Why-aye,’ the nice Geordie lady informed me (why do all Geordies either have jobs in call centres or the army?) So I waited. And waited. The clock tick-tocked away like a Gwen Stefani CD with a scratch.

‘A mistake’s been made with the appointment, pet. We can get someone oot to yow next Freeday.’ My response? ‘If Madonna wanted someone to come out and fix her internet, I bet you could get her someone tomorrow.’

‘I see what yow mean,’ admitted the lady. ‘Well, that’s good,’ I replied, ‘because I happen to know her internet is fine so can I take her appointment?’

And do you know, my darlings, this strange bit of Madonna campery worked. A man is coming out tomorrow. Which just goes to show, when you call her name, it is really like a little prayer. 

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One comment to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. That is fucking brilliant. I will use that from now on.

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