Ordinarily the Fag Hag would give a film calling itself The Wrestler a wide berth (if I want to see overweight, sweating males grunting and being restrained by someone’s legs, I’ll simply head for the Fag Hag bedroom…) but as it was Michaela Rourke and as it was up for all sorts of Deportment Badges I decided to check it out. And exactly how many Kia-Ora cartons does Faggy give this little cinematic venture?
Well, at least one for Michaela’s rather marvelous trailer trash hair (Chelsy called – she wants her extensions back).
Another one for Marisa Tomei’s Weird Science-style killer bod – darn bitch is 45. Where you hidin’ your cellulite girlfren?
And finally a third Kia-Ora carton goes to my eleven-year-old god-daughter Honey. As we watched a defeated, puffa-jacketed Michaela pull a wheelie suitcase along forlornly, his face collapsed, his cheap blonde hair scraped back into a Wal-Mart scrunchie, she observed, ‘Oh look, it’s Ulrika’. Bitch has learned from the best.