The Fag Hag suffered a tragic loss last year. The trusty Paul Smith specs which had prevented so many pedestrian deaths and also prevented me from waking up with so many monsters, went AWOL on my po’ white ass one day.
I searched in the Mini, I searched in the Sonia Greatest Hits box set, I even searched in an ex’s Hom briefs (well, they did tell me to start with the location you last wore them in!) but like Lisa Scott Lee’s career, they had disappeared, never to be seen again.
So off I headed to the opticians for a new pair. ‘How about these?’ smiled the nice balding man holding up some rimless frames. ‘Honey do I look like Sarah Palin?’ (Oh fuck. I actually do a little bit). ‘Or these?’ he held up a red shiny pair that Nancy Lam would discard on the grounds of taste and decency. I dry retched.
He pulled out an array of rectangular black numbers that every cocksucker in a Soho edit suite wears. And then I saw them, from the other side of the room – my dream babies. Tortoisehell proper 80’s Yale professor frames – think Indiana Jones when he’s wielding a book instead of a whip.
‘Oh darlings, I knew I’d find you!’ I cried. The man smiled with slight terror and rung up the purchase. ‘That’s £348 please’. Three hundred and forty eight pounds? That’s a night with a very good rent boy. That’s at least two bottles of Cristal champagne. That’s Kerry Katona’s fag bill for the week. But it was too late. I had lost my heart to them.
But at this price, there’s no way I’m losing these suckers. Which means I’m calling in the big boys – Larry Grayson gold chain, this is Fag Hag, I’m coming to get you!