Fag Hag Diary

Dirty girl


The Fag Hag sashayed into London’s glittering top floor office behind the arse end of Oxford Street today to chat to the fabulous Juanita Barrowman off of Fantastic, Fantastic, Fantastic.

I’d gone for a low-key Diane Von Furstenburg-style wrap dress, accessorised with Miu Miu bag and purple wedgies. But just as I was making my way cross town for my date with John, disaster struck in the form of chavtastic blisters forming on my little heels. That’s Primark for you darlings – should have gone to Manolo, I know.

I rushed into a dusty corner shop to purchase some horrifically cheap plasters (the sort that hang, brandless, in plastic packets next to emergency sewing kits and solitary Lil-lets) and applied them in the street whilst passing businessmen looked on aghast. Finally, my poor heels made their way up the four flights for my long awaited assignation…‘John’s got some calls to make – can you come back in ten minutes?’ asked the PR lady. By the time, I’d descended the four flights, bought a coffee and ascended them again, the chavvy plasters were hanging by a wing and a prayer. Fortunately John was a delight, and even saw fit to embrace me in what I like to think was a very definite bear hug by the end of our chat.

‘Bye darling, we’ll have to try and set up dins at the Ivy,’ he called out charmingly and I liked to think I’d left my mark on him. Which I had – in the form of a stray, blood-encrusted plaster that had dropped off right in front of the chair I was sat in.

Now I’ve set the bar so high in terms of calling cards, I’m torn about what to do next time, crouch down in the corner and take a crap on the carpet or cock my leg against the glass coffee table leg for a pee….

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One comment to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. Yeah, but … the man is a fucking prick really, and is the sort of person that keeps vulnerable young men in the closet for fear of association.

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