Last night the Fag Hag was the victim of the cruellest kind of warfare imaginable – an olfactory ambush in a public London place. That’s right, we’re talking a smell so bad that sniffer dogs in Wichita whined, their legs trembling as they barked out ‘may god have mercy’. We’re talking Guantanamo levels of nasal torture.
The evening had started innocently enough – I’d popped along to the Lyric Theatre in London’s glittering Lyric Theatre, to see my friend Frank Skinner compere an evening of variety and stand-up comedy, called Credit Crunch Cabaret. Now there aren’t many activities I can think of that provoke that many feel-good hormones for a mere tenner (memo to all male escorts out there, hello? There’s a recession on? Drop your prices please…) so that part of it I thoroughly recommend.
What I do not recommend however is getting to your seat and realising someone in close proximity has shoved a rotting corpse in their Chloe Paddington and forgotten to take it out. ‘What the hell is that stink?’ I hissed to the stranger next to me. ‘I’m so glad you can smell it too – it’s disgusting,’ she cried, clamping a hand over her nose. ‘Jesus what IS that smell – like mildew and shit’, screeched a man in front, turning round to me in a j’accuse fashion. ‘Oh please, I’m wearing a £200 hairpiece – I’m hardly going to scrimp on the Odour Eaters!’ I announced. imperiously.
Before long the entire row was whispering, narrowing eyes and pointing fingers at their immediate neighbours, like McCarthyites on the hunt for communist sympathisers. ‘They know who they are – now they should do the decent thing and leave, ‘ I said gravely.
So did they? Did they hell. We endured that smell for three hours and never did get to find out the culprit. But to the bad man sitting behind me with the newspaper suspiciously held open throughout the entire McCarthy investigation – go and have a fucking bath mate.