Fag Hag Diary

*dons shades*


The Fag Hag hasn’t had a hangover this bad since that time in 1982 when my amphetamine addict grandma had been babysitting for the night.

But like Jennifer Aniston, it was all most definitely worth it ‘cause I got to hang out with a lovely gang of fabulous boys (they’re straight but forgive them, they know not what they do, Lord), drunk my own bodyweight in Vodka and met a dog in the lobby of London’s glittering Grouchos whose marvellous owner had named him ‘Bastard’.

And to lift my spirits even higher than last night’s hemline, the insanely hot local young florist who worked so hard on my Mother’s Day blooms (think Ashton Kutcher without the cunty hats) just asked the Fag Hag whether mum liked the hyacinths and did I ‘fancy going out a coffee’.

Honey, you had me at hyacinths.             

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