Fag Hag Diary

That's life, doncha know...


Darlings, how excitement! The jungle show (as nanas who smell a little bit of wee and Elnette hairspray like to call it) is back and what a fabulous selection box of famouses we have to choose from – I feel more spoilt for choice than a 70s housewife, who’s just received a box of Terry’s All Gold from her man-made fibre-tastic dinner party guests.

Am feeling strangely drawn to Esther, which is immensely big of me considering what a mean bastard she was to me once, back when I was a little faggette.

Fag Had Dad, who used to work in TV back when you needed more than a pair of black Paul Smith glasses and Peaches Geldof’s mobile number to run a channel, had set up the meeting to ‘focus’ my career plans. Because apparently smoking fags and watching Going for Gold wasn’t a ‘proper’ job… anyway, off I trotted to meet Esther and like any 21-year-old fresh off the bus from university I wore a 4-inch pair of heels, obscenely tight pencil skirt lipstick and Liberace-style fun fur coat.

As Esther eyed my outfit, Band of Gold get-up and annoyingly youthful skin disparagingly she curled her mouth up into a Dame Edna grimace, and before I’d barely had a chance to speak said, ‘Well, there’s no doubt you LOOK very nice, but I suppose you think it’s enough to wander in here being all beautiful but vague?’

And do you know Esther darling, I want to thank you. Because I’ve finally realised now I’m a little older and wiser that you were right. It’s not enough to wander through life being beautiful and vague… you’ll need a damn hot arse as well.

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