Fag Hag Diary

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There’s nothing the Fag Hag likes more than a bit of old fashioned working-class fun on a Saturday night – and it don’t come much more fabulously ‘pass the scratchies, light up the 20 Embassy Regals and twiddle the market St Christopher’s pendant’ than Britain’s Got Talent (or ‘Brian’s Got Talent’ as Fag Hag niece referred to it in a note t’other day.)

So off I trotted over to Fag Hag niece’s to sit back and gorge on the pensioner’s equivalent of porn – and console myself with the fact that however long it took me to complete the Guardian crossword the other day – at least I’m not Kelly Brook.

And my televisual feast was accompanied by a complimentary lapdance. ‘Aunty E can I do my Abba medley dance for you?’ asked Fag Hag niece suddenly striking a hugely dramatic Mini Pops pose in front of the telly before I’d had a chance to answer. ‘Of course, darling.’

An hour later, just as a Lena Zavaroni-esque ‘Thank You For The Music’ was drawing to a moving end, Fag Hag niece suddenly paused mid-hip thrust with a divine revelation: ‘Oh my god – you and Mummy, you look just like the Abba ladies!’ Oh great, let me guess, mum gets the golden-haired Swedish princess and I get the henna-ed old drama teacher with crooked teeth.
‘Well, me less so,’ I grimaced. ‘ No aunty E – you LOOK EXACTLY like that lady’.

Well, could have been worse. Could have been Benny.

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