The Fag Hag woke up this morning to find herself coming up against an old adversary she hasn’t crossed Accessorize clutchbags with in some time. I speak, my friends, of the giant, pink, joke-shop-style spot, the ones you sport when you are 19 and your hormones are working harder than Sophie Anderton in an Arab businessman’s hotel room. (And before any men in wigs start winging briefs in red bows over – chill your boots boys, girlfren’ got owned good and proper by that sexy old fake sheikh!).
I speak of the sort of spots that make-up artists spend hours painstakingly creating to achieve the requisite in-yer-face effect on skinwash ads. I speak of the kind of spot that forces weddings to be cancelled, dates to be postponed and interactions with children avoided on the advice of the NSPCC.
This gennelman is not just a spot – it’s a monstrous, alien carbuncle so giant George Lucas’s location scouts have been in touch. So come on people, I need solutions and I need them now. What in Satan’s arsehole am I to do with this festering zituation on my hands?