The Fag Hag’s feet have been stuck firmly to the faux fur pouffe in the lounge ever since the clock struck 9pm last Friday. No don’t fret my poppets, it’s not because I have a weeping fungal infection on account of wearing George at Asda slingbacks with nylon upper, it’s because I cannot tear myself away from goddam Celebrity Big Brother. But every time I see Ben Adams I’m reminded of a Faggy moment of shame.
As a young Fag Hag I once got a glittering invitation to A1’s glittering party in some wine bar near Old Compton Street. So far, so ‘still in Kansas, Toto’. I was 28ish, rocking a Marharishi pant, a matte brown lipstick and an Adidas Gazelle. Maybe even a pink or blue tinted spec. (It was the 90s, work with me.) Ben was 19ish so hardly jailbait, my friends.
As we chatted over seabreezes, a sort of largeish lady with Estuary tones (the sort of lady you rarely see outside of Gatwick airport) wandered over. ‘Oh my god – I’ve just worked out who you must be!’ she said accosting me and smiling broadly at Ben…
I smiled. Blimey the chemistry between us must be strong. She only thinks I’m his girlfriend. ‘Oh my god, you’re Ben’s AUNTY aren’t you!’ she cried. Ben laughed. The woman wobbled her chin. I went off to Harley Street to book my first procedure. So frankly, nice as he is, the less I see of Ben on screen the better.
If you want to call me Aunty Em darling, you’ll need to pay for that. By the hour.