The Fag Hag has just been to a place selling the ‘worst pies in London’. Well, actually they were the worst burgers in London. And the waitresses were less Mrs Lovett and more Miss Sixty (although frankly, my cleaner won’t be seen in anything else bless her!) Anyway, the trouble started at this godforsaken place as soon as I walked in and noticed my waitress had half a Primark bra, a large proportion of some scratchy nylon pants, and some saggy tights gusset on display.
‘Are we in the discounted section of Spearmint Rhinos?’ I hissed to my companions. Two hours later, Miss Sixty’s meat pies arrived. Cold. Soggy. And with the Fag Hag’s nemesis – onions.
‘I asked for it without onions?’ said the Fag Hag. Prossie waitress gave me the sort of look reserved for Gary Glitter entering the Magic Kingdom. ‘Well, it’s hardly my fault is it? I mean I didn’t exactly do it on purpose.’ Of course revenge was served colder than that goddam burger when the bill came.
‘Is service included?’ I said, typing in the amount. ‘No,’ she said, smiling obsequiously all of a sudden.
‘Oops!’ I smiled leaving off a zero. ‘I pressed the wrong amount – didn’t do it on purpose though!’ Remember I tole ya bitch.