The Fag Hag is feeling more excitable than Mark Croft let loose in a store that specialises in a frayed boot-cut jean. As nervous as Kirstie Alley at a Fatfighters club weigh-in. And as happy as a Polish cleaner finding a foundation called ‘tangerine sunset’.
The reason for all this happy hysteria is because I am due to go hang out down at the crib of ma man Henry VIII. In case you didn’t know Henry is to me what Zac Efron is to 12-year-old girls shrieking and wearing too much Barry M eyeliner. I heart Henry, always have, always will and I don’t care who knows it.
You don’t care for Henry? Then FU right back, I have no place for you in my world. The guy’s sex is on fire, for god’s sake (although that could be due to the assortment of untreated STD’s). So wish me luck as I head off to Hampton sporting a Louboutin and a blow dry – and if you can’t find me in the maze with a portly red-headed man from a lookalike agency, I’ll be in the gift shop – stocking up on Holbein postcards. Or porn as I call them.