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January 19, 2007

Well, it is my publishers birthday party and I can feel a show-off evening coming on -unlike the other 351 days of the year where I am timid almost.

You know all about my ability to promote myself and turn my whole persona into a character for sale, in a completely charming way? Well, I plan to announce myself in the most theatrical manner possible. What does the reality matter as long as you make an impression?

I am working out my look. I have been called a whore and a pimp. I wish they would just make up their mind, so I would know how to dress.

Silver velvet.

I’m going to need two girls from the harem to complete the look. Rachel 2 and Babette. I adore Babette almost as much as myself. I love women with depth - of cleavage. And underneath her show off exterior lies an enormous lack of character. Head of feathers, heart of stone. And Babette is very much in my good books at the moment for not getting pregnant. I would have been very, very cross with her.

When she came on she called me up to tell me the news. I was so relieved.

“Fuck Syphilis darling” I said, “the worst sexually transmitted disease of them all is children.”

It’s true. God, I hate women that breed. How can one possess style with some pissy farty stink-grub hanging off one’s blubber udder? Forget it darling.

But it would have been far worse for me. No dandy worth the name breeds. He must defeat the species role of his body at all cost. The only place a dandy would push a pram is into The Thames.

Rachel 2 would have been upset too. She doesn’t mind me fucking other girls but she wouldn’t want me impregnating one. One evening I told her that Dandies impregnate only by artificial insemination. “Does that make the normal way inartificial insemination darling?” she replied.

All three of us dressed in white. We looked like three glasses of milk. I was in cashmere with rabbit fur trim, Rachel in crushed velvet but it was Babette who stole the show.

“See this? she said, stroking her fur coat that she was wearing. “It’s made of untouched pussy. You don’t get much of that in the West End.”

Before we went out I read them both the riot act.

“Now. Tonight girls you are merely trumpets of my glory. You have no personalities. You must look adoringly at me at all times. You must laugh hysterically at everything I say. And you are forbidden to drink. You must look beautiful, say nothing and when in doubt, pout.”

“Not even a little drinkie poos Bast?”

“Shut up” I explained.

Within about ten minutes both the girls were drunk. And flirting outrageously with everyone including Melvin Bragg. I looked at my two girls. I generally think women are like nappies. They should be changed regularly and for the same reason. But not these two. Rachel was giggling and cooing with Babette. Despite the pregnancy scare she was being polite, gracious, loving. There are no exceptions to the rule that everybody likes to be an exception to the rule. But I had found a girl for whom there are no rules for the exception.

Together we were the glamour which turned the dust of everyday life into a golden haze! A miracle that could transport us from the drab sands to the dazzling stars! And no one could dim our lustre. Nor even Tracey Emin.

I looked over at her.

“Nice tits.” said Babette.

“She’s right” echoed Rachel. “You know Bast her body's not bad.”

I looked her up and down.

“Hmm. Body Baywatch, Face Crime Watch.”

The real trouble with her was that she was not as nice as she looked. I had made a film with her years ago. She said such stupid things. Try this out.

“I don’t mind serious art criticism but you can’t attack me and my work by accusing me of being a publicity seeker. That really winds me up.” Tracey Emin.

Unbelievable. I guess the last thing we ever understand in life truly is the way that others perceive us. I simply had to respond.

“I don’t mind being criticised as a publicity seeker but you can’t attack me and my work with serious art criticism. That really winds me up.” Sebastian Horsley.

Anyway, none of this mattered this evening. If you have never seen a total eclipse just watch our subjects as Rachel, Babette and I strode invincibly through the party and the streets of London. In case we doubted it, a piece appeared in the next days Telegraph:

EMIN UPSTAGED

Poor Tracey Emin. After spending a week in Kenya with her boyfriend, the Brit artist was keen to flaunt her winter suntan at publisher’s Sceptre’s annual bash on Thursday night - only to be upstaged at the last minute by fellow artist Sebastian Horsley.

“Seb arrived at the exact same time as Tracey, dressed in a flamboyant silver suit with a white fur coat and a scantily clad lady on each arm,” I’m told. “The hordes of paparazzi outside immediately forgot about Tracey and focussed all their attention on him. Tracey looked rather put out.”

Milkbottles

Well, I have to say I didn’t see any Paparazzi but promenading through St James with a gorgeous darling on each arm is an image which will endure ... too much pleasure! How can the soul of Narcissus be filled with such love and joy? My prayer to the Lord last evening was this : - I have been a great sinner. I do not deserve Heaven. Let me stay here.

Posted at 04:14 PM |

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