Saint Sebastian

Sometime in the week following Valentine’s Day, when everything was upside down and my emotional life was in bits, I received an email from one Lennie Nash concerning all-round would-be bad egg, Sebastian Horsley. It’s rather interesting, and I reprint it here with permission:

Dear Stan,

I don't know how to say this, but you are so wrong about that Sebastian Horsley. After reading about him with interest (mine not yours) on your excellent blog, I went to see him do a reading at Foyles book store.

At first he was spectacularly bad, and I kept thinking 'how right you are Stan, how right you are!' He came on, called everybody 'cunts' because they were clapping, then called some women at the front 'sluts' because they were women. One looked so offended, her face crumpled up like a baboon pissing glass.

Then Horsley read from some of his bad reviews, which was petty funny, but I don't think I heard yours mentioned.

Then more name-calling and a couple of passages from his book. No more genius to declare than that really.

But it was what happened next that made me realise there's more to the man than some third-rate Wildesque cad, frothy with wit in 140 characters.

I hung around, earwigging, at the end, near the handful of people wanting photographs etc. And what amazed me was how incredibly nice he was to them. He was gracious and softly spoken and I could go on, but I'm not sure if you'll believe me anyway.

Also, I noticed he liked human contact - when people wanted their photos taken with him, he put one arm around them and rubbed their backs slowly. It was like he needed the warmth of proximity. This might put all the whoring in context (his not mine), then again might not.

Then something splendid happened, Stan. He was talking to this couple, and I heard him say, "Well, I tell you what, you can have this copy", and he handed over the book he'd been reading from to a couple who couldn't afford to buy their own copy. Just like that. And he inscribed the inside front cover at length too. They both sort of squealed with delight. And I think I did too. It was very generous. His inscription was about 100 words long and seemed to end with the words, "remember me".

I was so impressed, I had my photo taken with him. I said: "You're actually a really nice guy, aren't you? All of this calling everyone 'cunts' stuff is just a big act." Sheepishly he agreed.

"You've got to confuse the enemy," he replied, rubbing my back. The person who’d taken our picture returned my phone camera and said "Is that alright?" Horsley replied, "You look great, I look terrible", and then muttered something about his skin flaking off his face. I told him he looked great, wished him well and left.

When I told someone heading to the same Tube stop what he'd said about confusing the enemy, she replied, "He is the enemy" - and I think she was right. Horsley is his own worst enemy, spending all that time and effort being outrageous and getting people to hate him, when all he really wants is a little love. But I suppose, there’s only one thing in the world worse than being talked about...

Anyway, I thought I'd better tell you the truth about Horsley because I think if you met him, you'd probably quite like him.

All the best,

Lennie

What was particularly satisfying about reading this was that it’s more or less exactly what I’d predicted here. And I quote:

He’s carved out this niche for himself, created this character, this rather contrived cocktail of the Marquis de Sade and Oscar Wilde who struts through life, whoring, pontificating, smoking crack and playing the gigantic ‘I am’, when all he really wants is someone to hold him close, mop his furrowed brow and tell him that everything is going to be alright.

Interestingly, Stephen Fry’s production company Sprout Films recently bought the rights to Horsley’s memoirs, so everything probably is going to be alright.

Thanks for the story, Lennie, and particularly the baboon-based imagery.


Lennie Nash blogs about his failure to become a professional chef at Chef Sandwich.

Feedback Friday :: Life Is Other People

bulk :: 15st 5 (Meh. Maybe this is how much I’m supposed to weigh. Everybody has to weigh something. Fifteen and a half stone is not so bad. I can live with it… Hold on a moment, what am I saying? NOOOOoooooo! Jesus, I nearly convinced myself there. No, no, no, no, no. I’ll take on a little Winterspeck in the traditional manner, then it’s time to join a new gym. I promise. Phew.)
cigarettes smoked :: 0
alcohol units imbibed :: 12
other intoxicants taken :: 0
carrots :: 7
sticks :: 1
government jobs concluded :: 1
medical moments :: 2
tests lined up :: 4

So I made an appointment to have my pains checked out yesterday and I must say, I was completely blown away by the wonderfulness of the doctor I saw. Let’s call her Dr Fine. Dr Fine was lovely. Every bit as lovely as Dr Lovely in fact. Equally as willing to talk and to listen, perhaps even a little more humorous. Especially when we were joking about cancer and stool samples and twisted testicles. Oh, how we laughed.

The upshot is that I have to have a bunch of new tests. So, fingers crossed I’m not dying. How tedious that would be. Typically, the pains seem to have disappeared. I have this terrible fear that I’m just wasting everyone’s time. If I am, at least it isn’t deliberate.

This morning I wrapped up the work I was doing for the government. As I left the office and boarded the tube, I felt a sense of euphoria that I haven’t felt for a very long time. Ever in fact. The fact of the book suddenly seems real. Having talked about it here and tied up all my other responsibilities, it’s now sitting there, in front of me, like a happy ghost at the bottom of my bed poking me with its fleshy fingers. ‘Go on then,’ it says. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’ Also, the bookmakers are not messing around. They’re already got going on trying to sell the thing, long, long before it’s written.

All of which has got me thinking. About life. About writing. About getting what you want.

The best thing about writing a blog is that you have complete control and can write whatever the hell you please. For example, if I wish to declare that in my opinion, Sebastian Horsley is an impotent bore, then I can, without fear of reprisal, and without fear of dissent.

Alternatively, if I feel the need to start a fan site for Robert Mugabe, then start a fan site for Robert Mugabe I jolly well will, just so long as I'm not seen to incite racial hatred along the way. Incidentally, I recently heard Mugabe described as 'an African Rupert Murdoch', which although just a little bit silly, made me titter. Oh, hold on – maybe it the other way around. Yes, it was. Murdoch was a Western Mugabe. That was it. Actually, that makes much more sense.

By the way, I feel I should point out, just in case there’s any doubt, I do not feel any need to start a Robert Mugabe fan site. Still less a fan site for Rupert Murdoch. But, the point is, if I wanted to, I could.

Also, importantly, if I choose to discuss the possibility of starting a Robert Mugabe fansite merely in order that I can then poke a peck of harmless fun at Rupert Murdoch (the Western Robert Mugabe), then I can do that also. Because this is my blog and I’m responsible to no one but myself.

Or at least that was the case until I agreed to write a book. Now I have to be careful. After all, what if Harper Collins also published Sebastian Horsley? Would I not then be morally or professionally obliged to big up my impotent dullard of a stablemate? And what if Rupert Murdoch were involved somehow, somewhere along the line? God, that would be awful.

The fact is, the moment you enter into a partnership with another person or group of people, things begin to change. Even if this is a partnership that you’ve been willing with every fibre of your being, it will still bring change, and that change will inevitably cause tension.

This applies to all aspects of life of course, to relationships as well as to work.

Morag, for example, is already making noises about me getting rid of some of my ‘junk’ – as she sees it – when she moves in with her ‘not junk’ next month. This has me feeling rather defensive and anxious, and I can already see that it’s going to call for some skilful and diplomatic compromise. Or, if you will, ‘backing down’. (I shan’t say on whose behalf, however, although my testicles are beginning to sing again just thinking about it.)

My instinct tells me that the way to get through the challenges of collaboration is to carry on being yourself. After all, these people wanted to associate themselves with you in the first place, because of who you are, so if they’re genuine about their feelings, then they’ll stick with you. At least until their feelings change.

So, being myself, I have to say, the spelling mistake in this cover is hilarious.



Now, this afternoon, I need to buy and decorate a tree. I also need to unpack the rest of my stuff, sample my stool and take it to the hospital. Ich. How horrifically undignified.

Then it’s the last weekend before Christmas! Huzzah! It's probably time to do a bit of shopping. Christ, I used to hate Christmas, but in truth I’m rather looking forward to this one. What a pleasant change.

What are you up to this weekend? Anything nice?

x

Two Books

So. I read two books in August. That’s not very many, is it? It’s two more than I read in July however, so that’s progress.

One of these books was the one prescribed by my osteopath, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb. On Amazon.com, this book has 17 pages of 1-star ‘hate it!’ reviews, many of them quite vicious. Here are a few highlights:

'This may possibly be the worst book I've ever read. The writing is adequate at best... Writing about bad things does not make for great writing. Writing about bad things without some kind of significance to the suffering is immoral.'

'I was utterly sick when I finished with this book. I haven't felt this disturbed since I watched "The Crying Game" in college.'

'It reads like it was written by a somewhat creepy middle aged man pretending to be an angst-ridden teenage girl on the internet.'

'If you have any moral fiber I do not suggest you even open this book. I threw this one in the trash, so no-one else could be inadvertently offended because of my purchase.'

'It is not in the least hyperbolic to state that this is the worst book I have ever read. Lamb completely fails to make his heroine even remotely likeable; she is not even tolerable. Nothing about her story is interesting or compelling.'

'If you're not already clinically depressed, this book may help you get there. It reeks.'

'I have never read such trash in my life. I, like many others, was strung along by all the raving reviews this book received. However, to be quite honest not only is the book depressing, it's depressing that so many people could find the tremendous amount of sorrow the character faces entertaining, let alone someone to be placed on a pedalstool for inspiration.'

A pedalstool!

Then there's this one:

'Some books make you laugh and/or cry out loud. Not only did this book make me cry (repeatedly) but before I could force myself to finish it I threw it across the room and let it hit the wall with a resounding crash. It IS well written. But it is senseless in its depravity. I felt like it was wallowing in everything that can possibly go wrong in life. So when I cried it was not catharsis, it felt like I had been violated. Like Lamb had penned these sentiments to tear the sorrow out of me and put it on display for no good reason.'

And finally this one:

'You people should be ashamed for enjoying this book any level. This trash is inspired by countless terrible romantic comedies, terrible pulp fiction, and terrible soap opera. I don't feel like I'm speaking with hyperbole when I indict everyone who enjoys this terrible, terrible piece of instant disasterpiece as someone who needs to revise their definition of taste. For shame, you gullible cheesecake-eating stay-at-home inhuman groupthinkers.'

People are funny.

Significantly - thankfully - despite having 17 pages of 1-star reviews, She’s Come Undone still has an average of 4 stars.

When I first started reading it, I wasn’t sure why my osteopath might have prescribed it. I assumed it was because the narrator of the book, Dolores Price, develops a weight problem. I assumed my osteopath had recommended it because he thought it might help me to summon up the discipline or the necessary self-loathing to get my weight down. By the end of it however, I reckoned it was probably because he’d been as moved by it as I was. He's probably recommending it to everyone. I know I am.

She’s Come Undone is a remarkable book. It’s one of those rare books that made me weep just about every time I picked it up, and I have to admit, I like a nice weep. It wasn’t just that I could relate to a lot of it, although I could. It was mostly because it was overflowing with human frailty as well as human strength, and the terrifying truth about what it is to be a human being. Like all good books, like all good anything, it brought home how terrible human beings are, at the same time as remembering how wonderful they can be.

She’s Come Undone is depressing at times, it’s true; heart-breaking even, and Dolores is, at times, extremely difficult to like. But fuck it, aren’t we all? I know I am.

Many of the bad reviews make mention of the fact that there is no redemption, that Dolores’ life does not improve and that she learns nothing. I couldn’t agree with this less. I found the last twenty pages or so some of the most moving I have ever read. So much so that I couldn’t stop weeping. I was moving around the house, reading and weeping in the kitchen as I schlepped back and forth with empty dishes and rice tins, reading and weeping in the loo as I went about my loo business, and finally I finished it beached on my bed. And for a few minutes afterwards I found myself wailing – sobbing, barking and high-pitched whining – and not because I was depressed but because I was filled up with hope for what life can be, against all the odds; and because I was filled up with love.

And while I was whinnying and bleating and making melancholy donkey noises, I heard a tentative knock on my bedroom door. Keith had come home to pick up some of his stuff before his trip to the Lakes. He peeped around the open door with dread on his face. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

I told him I was fine, that I’d just finished a book and was merely moved.

He was relieved.

We had a little catch-up and I admitted that I missed him since he’d started spending a lot of time at Tilly’s place. He said he was sorry but also that he was having fun. I told him that of course I was happy for him and that I was sorry for being a downer. He told me we’d definitely spend some time together on his return. I thanked him for his beneficence, slightly sarcastically, and he patted me on the head and told me it wasn’t a problem.

When he left for the Lakes I tidied the rest of the house and readied myself for the next day, the first of September, the first day of the rest of my life.

…

The other book I read was Dandy in the Underworld by Sebastian Horsley. This book was also depressing, but in an entirely different way. There is no love in this book. And no truth.

If I had to review the book, I would do it in five words. These five:

'Interminably dull.

Feeble and conventional.'

At the end of the book, Horsley teases the reader by pretending that he is going to kill himself, before disappointingly relenting. ‘And so I’ll go on for a bit longer,’ he types. ‘London is not yet tired of my wardrobe, for a start.’

Yes, Sebastian. It is.

...

Tell me, what books have you read that have made you weep like a willow or an open sore?

Ooh, I've just remembered another one: The Cider House Rules. Killed me.

And you?

Blogging a Dead Horsley

Earlier this evening I saw a young man in Camden Town looking ever so slightly ludicrous in an ill-fitting top hat, and I was reminded of Sebastian Horsley. Horsley is fond of a topper, I reflected. It makes him feel important. I shared my thoughts with Ange – with whom I had spent the day at London Zoo, of all places – and then she mentioned that she’d read a rave review of Horsley’s autobiography in the Guardian. Of all places.

So when I got home a short while ago I read said review and then went to check out Horsley’s blog. I imagined there’d be a publicity post gloating over the acclaim, as well as any other recent plaudits. Instead I discovered that six weeks ago, Horsley stopped blogging.

The curious thing was that my first reaction was one of genuine disappointment. I felt sad.

‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ Horsley types. ‘The internet is for those who lack the flair for conversation. A blog is what you write for after being rejected by all the reputable publishers. It is Loser Central. The last refuge of the refuse. Anyone who has a blog or leaves comments on a blog is a wanker.’

Even more curious. After reading this – in which yet again he comes across as a petulant, attention-seeking little boy – I began to feel sorry for him.

‘It is far too undignified for a man of my stature,’ he continues. ‘That it attracts such bitterness is not surprising. For one person spoilt by success, a thousand are spoilt by failure. Success makes people, for the most part, humble, tolerant, and kind. Failure makes people bitter and cruel. I can make no more of you than a hedgehog. You are too dull to be ridiculous.’

It was very odd. I felt that I was seeing Horsley with a new clarity, seeing him as a deeply, deeply unhappy man, too ridiculous to be merely dull. I felt instinctively that I was seeing a man wholly incapable of feeling love for another human being.

‘I am the only thing of value on the internet,’ he concludes, ‘and I am removing it immediately. Goodbye.’

Oh, God. Then that his final flourish should be reek of grammatical ineptitude was just too sad.

He’s absolutely tragic. He reminds me of Horatio Alger, the American arch-moralist and zealous advocate of the American Dream who took it upon himself to instruct the world how to live correctly, citing hard work and respect for other humans, but who all the while was a self-hating sickening boy-rapist. (His first novel incidentally, was called Ragged Dick.)

I get the feeling that Horsley is similarly tortured, similarly living a lie. He’s carved out this niche for himself, created this character, this rather contrived cocktail of the Marquis de Sade and Oscar Wilde who struts through life, whoring, pontificating, smoking crack and playing the gigantic ‘I am’, when all he really wants is someone to hold him close, mop his furrowed brow and tell him that everything is going to be alright. That’s right: all he really wants is love. But of course he is incapable of accepting love, even when it is offered. Incapable of accepting it, incapable of offering it. Because he is a narcissist. And a deeply, deeply unhappy man.

But of course, who the hell am I and what the hell do I know? Well, I'm a man who's had a few ales and is perfectly aware that he could be very wrong. It’s just a feeling I got on reading his last hurrah tonight. And I thought I'd share it. On my blog. Like the wanker I am.

I should probably read his book.

One moment, please.

There. I’ve reserved it at the local library.

Now, to sleep.


PS. I’ve just found this. You can’t deny, he does have his moments.


UPDATE :: As some of you have pointed out, Horsley is back blogging again, without so much as shamefaced nod to his 'last post'. Lack of hypocrisy my arse, Nicholas Lezard.

The Things You Find On the Internet When You Should Really Be Asleep #13 :: Cock Refused Entry

I know I’m bordering on the obsessive now, but I… I can’t help myself… I found out about Horsley’s latest bit of expert myth-making in the comments here and here, which have been attracting some search traffic over the past few days.

In a nutshell, Horsley has been turned back from the US border for being a fuckwit, and his PR machine has flown into rather flamboyant meltdown. Last night at the book’s launch party, Horsley’s publisher Carrie Kania wound up her speech by saying:

‘Tropic of Cancer, Lolita, Catcher in the Rye, American Psycho: all of these books have been deemed dangerous by the authorities and unfit for the general public to read. The Sex Pistols, banned in 1978. Sebastian banned, 30 years later.’

What gall. What audacity. What offensive codswallop. Comparing Horsley to Miller, Nabokov and Salinger reminds me of Richard Littlejohn declaring that he was more complex than Tolstoy.

There is no denying however, that Horsley and his people are very good indeed at PR, and sly Horsley himself is just offensive enough to get himself turned away and talked about, but not offensive enough to get himself holed up in Guantanamo Bay with a matching fatwa.

Funny that.

Now let us never speak of him again.

Sebastian Horsley Belongs In Jail. Let’s Put Him There!

Sebastian Horsley claims that he is a dandy. According to the Oxford Shorter, a dandy is ‘a man whose style of dress is ostentatiously elegant or fashionable; a fop’, and Horsley is certainly ostentatious. As to whether he’s elegant, I’m not so sure, but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. However, without wishing to fall foul of Godwin’s Law, I put it to you that describing Sebastian Horsley as a dandy is akin to describing Adolf Hitler as an animal lover. It may be true, but it’s so far from the point as to be an utter - and rather insulting - irrelevance.

This morning I discovered that Horsley has rather more in common with Hitler than I would have guessed, when I was alerted to a recent blog post about him. The thrust of the post is that Horsley is an anti-Semite. In more than one interview, he has trotted out anti-Semitic remarks, ‘Death to Jews!’ being the ugliest and most obvious. The journalist to whom he said this, the author of this blog, suggests that whether he means this or whether he’s just being outrageous, either way he is an unnecessary distraction from more pressing issues. She didn’t publish the interview.

And that’s that.

And so he gets away with it. And presumably will continue to spout this hateful rubbish for as long as he has a platform.

I don’t know about you, but this gets me really riled.

I started muttering under my breath, ‘There should be a law against people like him’, and then I realised: there is! And then I realised: actually there are a number of laws against people like him.

For example a) he is loud and proudly vocal about s drug-taking, b) he is loud and proudly vocal about his whoring, and c) he is loud and proudly vocal about his wishing death to minority religious groups.

While I’ve got nothing (well, not much) against junkies and whoresmen, I’m definitely not opposed to using the illegality of drugs and drabs to get scum like Horsley off the street.

On the religious hatred score, I realise there’s a thin but very serious line between inciting hatred and freedom of speech. Does Horsley actually mean to threaten anyone? Does he wish to inflame and to spread his hatefulness to others?

Why, of course he does. You’ve only got to look at him.

So, who’s with me?

Oh, and secondly, how do I do it? I’ve not really had anyone arrested before. Do I just call the police and tell them that for the sake of decent society, I want Sebastian Horsley imprisoned at once? Or do I write a letter? Or maybe start an online campaign to have him stamped out?

If anyone has any ideas, please let me know.

Sebastian Horsley :: The Most Tiresome Man in London

I bought Time Out yesterday because I’ve been getting back into Martin Amis recently – just started rereading Dead Babies, which is great fun. Amis was mentioned on the cover of TO. Granted, all it said was ‘London’s raunchiest writing selected by Martin Amis [and other authors]’. I knew it wouldn’t be much then, but with the added promise of a bit of raunch, I thought it’d be worth it.

From Amis there are 41 words bigging up Henry Fielding. Which was rather disappointing, I have to say. As for the raunch…

The article is entitled ‘Cunning Linguists’ – pause for belly-laughs – and it promises ‘Time Out’s pick of London’s 30 finest-ever peddlers of smut, filth and depravity’. I’m afraid I got as far as Sebastian Horsley and skimmed the rest.

Is it just me or is there something to be said for subtlety in this world?

Here are a few examples of some of the writing considered by Time Out writer John O’Connell to be worthy of praise:

‘All the time he gorged and slurped on Hugo’s dick, he wanked his own, which swelled into a fat organ dribbling colourless fluid.’

- from A Matter of Life and Sex by Oscar Moore

‘Since my fingers were greased, I worked them into Sarah’s arse and soon she was bucking like an unbroken horse.’

- from Cunt by Stewart Home

‘…to hear a man moan above her as he came, shuddered, shouted out obscenities or religious adjectives, and experience the heat waves coursing from cunt to heart to brain.’

- from Paris Noir by Maxim Jakubowski

(This could be down to my appalling lack of experience, but what, pray, are the religious adjectives that one might shout out during sex? Not nouns or the names of deities, but adjectives. Really, I’m very keen to know.)

OK, so the quotes above are taken out of context and I’ve not read books from which they’re taken and they could be great books, of course they could, but what irks me about all this dick-slurping and arse-greasing is that, on the whole – fnaar - it’s very very very very boring. There’s no artistry to it. I’m talking about the writing here of course – there could be a breath-taking amount of artistry in the actual slurping of the dick or the actual greasing of the arse. But writing about it in such bald, prosaic terms is about as erotic as a knee-trembler in a lorry full of rotting meat. Actually, scratch that – that might just work.

You see, I reckon that this excerpt, from Keats, is actually genuinely erotic:

‘Anon his heart revives: her vespers done;
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.’

- from The Eve of St Agnes

For me, that is arousing. I am sitting here with the glimmer of genital emboldenment and a palpable ache to read on. Whereas all that balls-out ‘ooh, look at me cunt!’ rubbish just leaves me cold. I find it really tiresome.

Now, speaking of tiresome, we come to Sebastian Horsley.

I would like at this point to officially nominate him as London’s Most Tiresome Man. I’ve encountered people like this before. They’re always going on about fucking babies or raping nuns or wanking over Hitler or smearing shit on dead bodies. And they seem to genuinely believe themselves to be shocking, and they clearly get off on it. They’re addicted to it. They’re shockaholics. But those aren’t gasps they can hear, they’re yawns. For there is nothing more inherently tedious than people whose only desire is to show the world with how incredibly outrageous they are.

Plus, to make matters worse, this Horsley character also prides himself on his pretentiousness. Everything he says reeks of pith. He has bon mots coming out of his top hat. He considers himself a dandy, an artist, a renegade.

‘Living in Soho is like an ongoing orgasm… God created the country, Satan created Soho. It is proof that hell is full and the damned walk the streets. It is a madhouse without walls… Ten years ago, on a good night here you could get your throat cut. Now there’s even a health club in Soho! Can you imagine that? It has really got worse. The air used to be clean and the sex dirty, and now it’s the other way around. The only pocket of resistance is my house... It’s better to be quotable than honest... I say that I injected cocaine into my knob but that was actually heroin... Think of how many boring, blameless lives are brightened by the blazing indiscretion of me.’

If you were with him and he came out with stuff like that, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself, would you? You’d just have to take off his top hat and be sick in it.

Oh, and he prides himself on his misogyny too. Of course he does, he’s outrageous. Here are a selection of things Sebastian Horsley has said about women:

‘I remember the first time I had sex - I still have the receipt. The girl was alive, as far as I could tell, she was warm and she was better than nothing. She cost me £20.’

‘What I hate with women generally is the intimacy, the invasion of my innermost space, the slow strangulation of my art.’

‘The problem is that the modern woman is a prostitute who doesn't deliver the goods. Teasers are never pleasers; they greedily accept presents to seal a contract and then break it. At least the whore pays the flesh that's haggled for.’

- all of the above quotes from this, his paean to prostitution. (you may find it interesting to contrast that vile, self-centred, self-fellating, barrage of contrived outrageousness with this, written by someone who doesn't appear to hate women, sex or himself.)

And then there’s this from the Time Out article:

‘Let’s just say for the sake of argument that I’m a misogynist. If I want to dislike women I should be allowed to. As it happens I love them. Women to me are privately worshipped and publicly disdained. I just like pissing people off. I like language and it excites me to write violently against the things that I love. Everyone knows it isn’t right to go and chop women’s heads off….’

Horsley is like the six-year-old boy who has just discovered he can get a reaction if he takes down his pants or says ‘fuck’ a lot. There is desperation oozing from him. And of course, he only says these things so that people will respond, and be shocked. But they're not shocked, they're merely repulsed. And bored. But of course that’s enough for Horsley. As he says on his dreary, try-hard blog, ‘The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.’

Oh, well. Best stop then.

But I will leave the last words to him.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Sebastian Horsley, London’s Most Tiresome Man:

‘Why shouldn’t I be allowed to say stupid, outrageous things? If you don’t like them, you can suck my Nazi cock.’

Yawn.