The Fag Hag is hoping all you lovely people had a simply divine Easter. What mine lacked in Easter egg hunts it more than made up for in Vodka hunts. And calvados hunts. And Stella Artois hunts. And Rose hunts. Yes that’s right, kids, this year the Easter bunny could be found at the bar – and the only brown edible substance he had in his basket with my name on it, was that coffee bean floating in a Sambucca.
So sue me, it’s true, the Fag Hag decided to mark the ascension of our Lord Baby Jesus by getting shitfaced. I say ‘decide’, but like many of the best things in life, it came upon me quite by surprise (well, unpleasant sexual assault excepted). ‘Fancy lunch?’ inquired a university pal. And before you knew it we’d rustled up two other child free alumni and before you could say ‘act your age not the number of top ten hits enjoyed by Whigfield’ we’d had to move pubs on account of creating an Amaretto shortage (the last person to do that surely went by the street name of Angel and charged by the hour).
It all came to an end over a pint of bitter and a pork pie – not unlike Coronation Street’s Albert Tatlock – and beyond that I remember nothing. In fact I woke up this morning with an entirely empty mind. So this is what it feels like to be Danielle Bux.