So, New Years Eve, as that generously hipped lady Dina Carroll one warbled back in the day (remember that song ‘A Perfect Year’? People who worked in finance played it a lot at their Sheffield weddings).
Anyway, if you were hoping to spot the Fag Hag staggering round those mean streets in a tiara wielding some nuclear coloured Bacardi Breezer then my darlings I’m sorry to have disappointed you. Fag Hag and New Years Eve have never really seen eye to eye – so this year, we did a Guy and Madonna and had a civilised break-up ( NYE got to keep the vomiting and the STD’s and I got to keep the house and the telly).
I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried. I’ve been drunk by six and found myself kissing some kind stranger’s lips, I’ve endured married lungers with halitosis during those godawful chimes, I’ve escaped to the country and got cow pats on my Louboutins, I’ve fallen into a pond and got home wearing someone else’s New Look coat. I’ve even bought a kebab on pubic transport.
But enough is enough and this time round I thought, ‘I’m getting out before things turn even uglier than Carrie’s gown on prom night.’
But however you rang in the big 09, whatever you were doing or to whom you were doing it, I wish you faggy love, forgiving light and lube, loads of it. Big hugs and a Happy New Year to y’all!