Fag Hag Diary

Barack who?


The Fag Hag was wandering through Covent Garden yesterday, rocking a Louboutin gingham wedgie heel in baby pink down below and a Wayfarer up top when she noticed a bit of a kerfuffle outside the brasserie selected for her lunch meeting.

Constable men stood there forebodingly  in those luminous jackitos (tres House of Holland, darlings) whilst confused tourists scuttled behind a giant police cordon. ‘What’s going on? Let me through I’m having lunch in there!’ I cried imperiously with the urgency of a surgeon at a 10-car pile up.

‘Street close,’ smiled an elderly Greek woman rather smugly. Thanks for the tip, Aphrodite. ‘Closed? But I have a 1pm in that restaurant!’ I replied. One of the constable type men cast a covert glance at my cleavage before whispering conspiratorially, ‘It’s kind of a big day in London. With the protests and everything?’ Oh of course. Silly me. ‘Damn,’ I thought. ‘I could have worn my Marc Jacobs balaclava.’

But the Fag Hag is nothing if not spontaneous so off I trotted towards Bank to try and hunt down the VIP area..

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2 comments to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. Is it me, or were all the people on those demos middle-class wankers? It seems ironic that a bunch of characters who have benefitted the most from capitalism and have been put through college on its proceeds should get down and start throwing bottles at working class policemen. The policemen should have been down there throwing bottles at all the bank managers’ offspring who had turned up to dance to a little world music and feel radical before going back to their internments in really great media companies financed by daddy who made a packet selling that house grandma used to have.

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  2. Yeah, it’s you Dips O’

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