Fag Hag Diary

You're gonna find me, down in the cunt-ry... 


This recession by Calvin Klein lark means even the Fag Hag has had to tighten her Cheryl Cole waist cincher belt, so when Fag Hag mum insisted that in exchange for childbirth she was due the odd mini-break, (they get more demanding as they get older these bitches), I decided to whisk her away for a few days.

Not to St Tropez or St Barts, but to Beaulieu in the New Forest. To a gawjus little boutique hotel called The Montagu Arms. Well if you wanted more you should have spent more on my school fees, bitch.

Day one and I’m already aching from riding a black stallion hard. ‘Are you a beginner?’ asked the foetus in jodhpurs who appeared to be running the operation. ‘It’s moving!’ I screamed by way of an answer. But I mounted that beast and I worked it hard as hell, although I did call it a ‘dirty bastard’ when it shamed me by doing a dump in the street (in the street! What are you? Jackiey Budden?)

Then we headed off to somewhere pretty and maritime-ish called Buckler’s Hard. ‘Hmmn, sounds like a club in Vauxhall,’ said Fag Hag mum. ‘And who’s Buckler when he’s at home?’

On our two-and-a-half mile trek home via our chosen route – the dual carriageway – both wearing leopard skin flip flops, we paused to admire the local flora and fauna and the odd stray donkey – and decided it was just like being in Old Compton Street.

More from the Hampshire front line tomorrow, girls.


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One comment to “Fag Hag Diary”

  1. Best Buckler’s are Hard. Glad to hear the paparazzi left you alone while you were riding. Hate to read that you had fallen off your horse like Madonna in the Hamptons. The paparazzi caused her to fall off the horse. Strange that there are no pictures!! Maybe she spoke to the horse in her fake English accent, and being a New Yawk horse threw her off.

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