So there was the Fag Hag, sitting on the Piccadilly Line, having first sprayed the carriage and seat beneath her with Chanel Cristalle – well, Morrissey has the first few rows sprayed with fragrance, allow me to do it on pubic transport – when she became aware of a man grinning at her through the glass partition window at the end of the seating area. Think a young Leonard Rossiter meets the dad in Outnumbered, in other words, David Gandy ain’t stressin his little briefs over the potential for lost work. ‘Don’t mind if I sit here do you?’ he grinned, pretending to sit on an imaginary seat. Honey squat down on those Next suit-encased haunches and take a shit for all I care but you ain’t getting to put a ring on it…
I smiled at him though, as genuinely as Nicole Kidman upon hearing the words, ‘And the Oscar goes to Penelope Cruz’, and started writing in my little ‘Things to do, Reputations to destroy, Bitches to Blacklist’ notebook. Suddenly just as I was putting quill to parchment I heard a voice loudly declare above me, ‘Let me help you out – it’s 07956..”
Oh. I get it. This is what men say to ladies wearing Jane Norman belts in All Bar Ones. You’re doing a chat-up thingy. ‘Thank you, I’m good,’ I replied in my best Samantha Jones voice. And sashayed off in the perfect Samantha exit towards the doors. Before realising it wasn’t my stop. So I had a choice – be late for my lunch and get off a stop early? Or stay and lose face. And if you had to ask which one I opted for, you ain’t worthy of reading the Fag Hag’s column.