The Fag Hag is dragging her taffeta floor length ‘Dr Ruth at a bar-mitzvah’ number out of the closet again and taking it to the Turkish dry cleaners wondering if they can remove that suspect white stain shaped like a map of Tasmania.
She’s polishing the jewel-encrusted mules from acclaimed fashion house, ‘georges a asda’, and she’s preparing to hit the sunbed broiled in Crisp ‘N’ Dry. Yes, my darlings, it’s that excessively stressful time of year again, which always creeps up on me unawares (a bit like Gary Glitter let loose in Clowntown) – I speak of course of the BAFTAs…
‘But they’re a whole nine days away,’ I hear you cry. Aren’t you in danger of peaking a little too soon, Faggy? Bitches, get real. We ain’t in O’Neills anymore, Toto. Or Yates’s Wine Lodge. Or even a Loughton wine bar with Phillipe Starck taps run by a maitre d’ christened Alan who has evolved into Alain.
That BAFTAs is one big dress-off, and I for one do not intend to turn up finding I’m wearing the same mint green Monsoon shift as Imelda Staunton. So the designer has been called and is already beavering away till those corset strings are pulled tighter than a Daily Mail reader’s vajayjay.
The Lancome make-up artist has been booked, the Charles Worthington blow dry confirmed and the personal trainer instructed to give me buns, abs and guns of steel. Now all the Faggy needs to do is check the seating plan – there’s only one person I want sat next to the Fag Hag booty at this shindig – and that’s Michaela Rourke, of course. Well, wouldn’t you want to know where he got his fabulously discreet surgery done?