The Fag Hag trotted off yesterday for a date with a man who regularly won the title of Fittest Fella of the Week back when Tudor Boyz was on the ye olde shelves – that’s right, girlfrens, I was making my moves on Henry VIII down at his rather splendid pad.
Well I say, Henry, sadly the date himself stood me up on account of being dead (a first even for me ) so I had to make do with a portly extra from a lookalikes agency all decked out in nylon cloakage and velveteen hat.
As he gathered by the moat thingy, tourists clambered over themselves to take his picture. ‘Excuse me,’ I cried, clattering through them like a syphilis-seeking missile and grabbing Henry in a predatory fashion. ‘Can my sister take my picture? I’ve always had the biggest crush on Henry VIII. In fact I want to marry him’.
The extra from the lookalike agency looked at me with a mixture of pity and alarm…
‘I think you’re about 500 years too late, love,’ he said, sounding worryingly like Nick Knowles rather than the man responsible for the dissolution of the monasteries.
So I posed and preened and batted my eyelashes at a nearby Cardinal Wolsley (think Beppe di Marco in a codpiece) who wasn’t biting one bit. I decided it was time to head off to the gift shop and treat myself to a little Henry memento (and no, not the sort that you need to get treated at a clinic) so I invested in a large ruby and gold ring, not unlike the one Henners sported on his podgy little Eamonn Holmes hand.
When I arrived back in London I popped over to Boots for some feminine protection. The ring’s gleaming historical significance wasn’t lost on the elderly Indian assistant there. ‘Nice ring? Is ruby?’ ‘No!’ I laughed. ‘It’s from Hampton Court. I love Henry VIII’ . She looked amazed. ‘Is his ring?’
Sweetheart, if I could afford to wear Henry VIII’s ring, do you really, honestly think I’d be purchasing ‘buy one get one free’ hair removal cream in a Crouch End branch of Boots?