Sebastian Horsley

I have to get permission to use Marc Bolan’s lyrics in my book.

Ohh woman, I love your chests. Ohh baby I’m crazy about your breasts.”

________________

“You dance

With your lizard leather boots on

And pull the strings

That change the faces of men”

I find the whole idea of “rights” deeply irritating. We have no rights over anything or anyone. And as for human rights, quite obviously I couldn't give a toss. I could hardly manage to be interested in the rights of my cock.

Which brings me nicely to The Sex Pistols. I have used the mighty couplet from God Save The Queen :

“Where there’s no future, how can there be sin?

We’re the flowers in the dustbin“.

Marc may be dead but the Sex Pistols quite definitely are not.

Paul Cook happened to phone that week.

“Oi you cunt. It’s the King of punk here.”

“Fuck off. You may be a King you cunt but I’m an Ace so fuck you knob head.”

“You looked more like a fucking queen on that Paris runway you fucking faggot.”

“I need to ask permission to use you in my book”

“Well I hope you’ve slagged us all off.”

“What do you take me for you cunt. Of course I have - especially you. I mean what do you call a prick who hangs around with rock stars? A drummer. I wouldn’t hear a good word said about you. But just in case you doubt me, here’s a taste :

“Rotten was the only one of the Sex Pistols with moral conviction. The rest of the band were pretty ordinary although Sid was not as stupid as he made out - he went to the university of life and graduated with extinction.”

“You fucking faggot cunt.”

“Just use it, I don’t care. None of us will see it”

“Even if you do - your all fucking illiterate anyway”

I was taking tea with the King of Punk a few months ago. We were sitting outside on Old Compton Street when Paul saw someone he knew coming towards us. “Quick” he said pulling me towards me. “Talk to me, talk to me, don’t let this cunt see me.”

We huddled together in an exclusive bundle and pretended to be deep in conversation. After a little while I felt this presence next to me. There was a man standing there with his hand outstretched towards Paul. I looked up.

It was Glen Matlock.

Despite all this Paul still gave me the band’s publishing house. Paul said Lydon could be difficult describing him as “hard work” and when I spoke to the Publisher she confirmed this. The whole band have to agree before you can use anything so it could be tricky. I am such a fan of the band and especially Lydon - one of the few real heroes I have. Maybe my book is too positive? Shall I put some more insults in? I know how perverse Mr Lydon is.

Everything has to be done through the lawyers - all of which is the complete antithesis to everything I am. You should have seen the lawyers report to Dandy In The Underworld. It was about ten times longer than the fucking book. And as funny.

89 Please confirm Sebastian Horsley’s stepsister would not object to description of Sebastian Horsley masturbating over her.

158 Please confirm we could prove Jimmy Boyle defecated in the bidet.

The libel laws are really tough in this country. It really angers me. If you don’t like what I write, don’t fucking read it dick head. Or if it bothers you that much - write your own.

As for people who sue? God they are the most pathetic losers of them all. It's people like that one legged hoppity Heather Mills who are litigious. It is only people who crave a reputation which they do not deserve who must call in lawyers to preserve appearances. Mills wants an external authority to declare her to be a lady even if the rest of the world knows she is a tramp. Whatever you hear about yourself you should not challenge it in this manner. Resorting to the law to resolve a dispute is a declaration of spiritual bankruptcy.

As for lawyers? They are really an unnecessary profession. They don’t produce anything. All they do is guide you through the labyrinth of the legal system that they created : and they keep on changing it in case you start to catch on.

It is no coincidence that Barrister is a word in the dictionary that comes between bankrupt and bastard.

19th - 23rd FEBRUARY 2007

I am at The British Museum all week proof reading my book. I finish at 5.00pm if you fancy a fuck.

Have you tried the famous echo in the Reading Room of the BM?

I waltzed in the other day and marched to the front desk.

Me : "How much for French and sex?" I demanded.

Her : "Sir! This is a library!" She replied indignantly.

Me : (Whispering). "Oh I am sorry. How much for French and sex?"

It is exhausting proof reading. I have the original manuscript on the left and the proof on the right. I put my index finger on the left and my index finger at the same place on the right. And then I go through word by word, line by line, page by page, chapter by chapter, book by book. I have to say it’s rather alarming. I have found over 200 mistakes - and I’m fucking illiterate.

What is odd about the experience is that I spend my life saying “Well, nothing matters very much, and very few things matter at all” and now I have spent five days agonising over “Should it be a comma or a dash?” “An exclamation mark or a full stop?”

Suddenly, everything matters very much, and little things matter the most.

Valentine's Day

“Bast, I’m getting a little worried about your sex drive. I’m sending you over a little Valentines’ pressie”

It was Rachel 2 and I knew it wasn’t going to be a box of chocolates or flowers.

The door bell rang and I had this terrible anxiety that something really good was going to happen. She walked in and I almost fainted with pleasure.

Rachel had become by accident one of the most famous page three girls in the business. She had adorned magazine covers and sashayed through movies. And she knew all the other girls. Kathy was one of the most beautiful and the most famous.

“Hello Pussy cat” she said.

Kathy sat demure on my bed , armour plated by her vitality and her shelving bosom.

Look at you you ridiculous woman. Large dark eyes as beautiful as glass. Blonde hair that does not so much cascade as fly out from her divine face like the wings of an angel. And so ... voluptuous.

Don't you just love that word? I’m going to say it again. Voluptuous. It is my favourite word along with Chaise Longue and Assassinate.

The difference between Kathy and Kate Moss could not be more pronounced. Kathy is like a Bentley, with great curves in all the right places. Miss Moss like an old bicycle with spiky spokes for ribs.

Well darlings would you stop us? Would you stop a shooting star? We didn’t know where we were going but we were on our way. We were a crested wave of beauty vainly dashing ourselves on the ugly bald rock of the world. We were two stranded smiles in the desert.

Oh heaven! How can one live after tasting so many delights! Oh what a beautiful life I am having! It's a shame I didn’t notice it sooner.

Rachel wanted all the details. As I delivered my accounts, blow by blowjob I could feel her becoming aroused.

“You dirty bastard. You dirty fucker” she said.

“Well your cock seems to be working again.”

Hair Despair

I have always been hysterically worried about my hair. What if I were to go bald? Baldness runs in my family. Only losers lose their hair. Arthur Rimbaud, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron, Tintin, Marc Bolan, Johnny Rotten, Quentin Crisp, Francis Bacon - all had full heads of hair. Name one great bald person. (Oh! ... Shakespeare) See, you can’t.

Baldness is genetic - on the mothers side. I don’t have a indisputable case. Mother never met her father but her brother had a full head of hair after chemotherapy. Ok he’s dead, fair enough, but at least he died a great man.

Father and Grandfather however were both bald. This was extremely embarrassing. I would rather have inherited Fathers spastic condition than his conditioner problem. Apparently its to do with too much male hormone - (those eunuchs are shaven you know). I wish I’d known this earlier. Mother thought she was kind because she didn’t have me circumcised. I’d rather she’d lopped off my testicles. I would have got to keep my hair - and have no children.

This treachery of the scalp would not do. I have decided to keep my hair. By sheer force of personality. Only as a last resort would I try the fail safe cure. It was invented by a French doctor. His name was Monsieur Guillotine.

Lat October I went for a consultation on Harley street.

“Well, Mr Horsley your hair is getting thin.”

“Well, who wants fat hair?”

He prescribed pills for me called Dutasteride. Apparently these pills reduce some enzyme which reduces testosterone blah blah blah you don’t expect me to understand it do you? I glanced at the side effects column.

.Impotence.

.Decrease in libido.

.Problems with ejaculation.

.The development of breasts.

And took a years supply.

The first operation carried out in the private sector is a biopsy of your wallet. The pills cost me £ 300. Doctor, feel my purse.

For the first month I didn’t notice much. I was still doing a couple of whores a week. Rachel was happy. And the harem was fine too.

But now it is February. I have been taking the pills for four months and I am really noticing a chance. I haven’t fucked a whore since the first week of January. This is most irregular. Sometimes over a 25 year period I have stopped whoring. There was a time I was doing a hooker a day for a while. (A hooker a day helps you work, rest and get laid) I have to say it just got too much. I simply couldn’t afford it. So I would stop for a month or so. But I would always come to the conclusion that if I thought about whores that much I might as well do them. So I did - if that's alright with you.

In the past when I had stopped it was always, “look at me I’ve stopped whoring.” I would think about them all the time. I would sleep walk and wake up in brothels. This time I have just stopped thinking about it. It is most peculiar. Also, when I wasn't whoring I would masturbate furiously. Occasionally I would try to give this up - I couldn’t stand the rejection. But this time I’ve just stopped wanking without thinking.

Is there a connection with the pills?

Rachel certainly thought so.

I am so miserable. I don’t, after all have syphilis. I can’t believe it. I am so disappointed. When someone you love falls sick, you are always animated with a faint hope that they will die. And what a glamorous descent it would have been. Every luxury would have been lavished on me - atheism, alcoholism and insanity.

So what can it be? Vidi Veni VD I saw. I came. VD? Apparently it is not even that. “It is some sort of very rare virus” the doctors told me. “It comes and goes over a two month period.” They gave me the name but I’ve forgotten it. Virus is a Latin word translated by doctors to mean “your guess is as good as mine.” I left the clinic. My head was bowed, my shoulders hunched, I looked like a Carthusian monk about to dig my grave.

I AM AN EMPTY SUIT THAT GOES TO FUNERALS AND SHOOTS SMACK

An exhibition has just opened at the Palazzo Pitti in Florence called The London Cut. Savile Row Bespoke Tailoring it is to celebrate 200 years of the historic London Street.

Here’s the blurb : “Savile Row, has been the home of the world's most exclusive tailors who create unique bespoke suits for exceptional men. The Master Tailors of Savile Row have dressed famous and infamous men and women the world over who demand the Row’s touch of elegance and eccentricity. Icons of Savile Row’s past include Admiral Lord Nelson, The Duke of Windsor, Sir Winston Churchill, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant and John Lennon. Customers today show the Row’s spectacular diversity : The Princes William and Harry, Mick Jagger, Tom Ford, David Beckham, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise and Pete Doherty to name a few.

“Each tailor will recreate a suit inspired by one of his iconic customers in order to demonstrate the timelessness of great tailoring. Henry Poole, the oldest tailoring firm on the Row, will remake the midnight blue smoking jacket invented for Edward VII in 1865 when he was Prince of Wales. Anderson & Shepherd will re-cut the soft-shouldered jacket and flannel trousers the house made for Fred Astaire, while Kilgour will re-interpret the suit made for Cary Grant in Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest.”

I was in the maverick master tailors section. My suit was made by the Soho snob Mr John Pearce. Now, John’s suits are awfully expensive; I can afford them only when I am in debt. But in the past we have done art barts. I gave him a painting and he gave me some suits. At the time when my stock was riding high I felt that he had got the better deal. But now my work is worthless I always stride by his shop thinking “Who’s laughing now?”

Naturally, if one had enough money to buy one of John‘s suits, one wouldn’t buy one. But he made me the greatest pink suit I have ever seen. I have a lot of pink suits I’ll have you know : soft pink, hard pink, petal pink, shell pink, shocking pink, even more shocking pink; flamingo pink, salmon pink, prawn cocktail pink, spam pink. In the pink pink.

John’s is the even more shocking pink and it really is shocking. It would attract attention at a Liberace concert. John customised all my suits including this one to hold syringes. Like cowboy’s slot their bullets into belts, I could slide six pre-filled spikes into the inside lining of my jacket. Ideal. Never offend people with style when you can offend them with substances. I was a disciple of satin and Satan.

At the show the suit was on a mannequin. The suit jacket was open and pinned back. Six syringes were in the lining. There was a photograph of me beside it nailed to a cross.

“Well, I say” said Prince Michael of Kent who opened the show when he got to my suit. “Who on earth would do a thing like that?”

“You are causing an absolute consternation over here.” John told me later.

My quest to become deeply superficial seems to be going rather well. It actually started at the end off last year when I was turned into a cover star cartoon for the ABC magazine in the Independent.

What a lesson I learnt here. Fame doesn't have to ruin you! Look at Skippy and Tintin. I determined to use them as my role models.

Then I was a mannequin on the catwalk.

Now in Florence I am an expensive suit with nobody in particular inside it.

Slowly but surely I am at last shaking off this reputation for integrity.

Terrible News. The blood test for syphilis has come back negative! It confirms what I always suspected : I am not a genius. The doctors are worried that my blood could have got mixed up, so sure they are that I have it. “We have to do one more test just to make sure” There is still hope. Pray for me will you?

Meanwhile there is a double page spread in The Independent. Entitled HOGARTH THEN AND NOW it is a modern update of The Rake’s Progress. There is Pete Doherty in The Sent to Bedlam plate, Jeffrey Archer in the Sent to Prison plate, Russell Brand in The Musical Soirée plate and in plate three : -

The Party at a Brothel

Plate Three depicts an inebriated Tom at an orgy in Covent Garden’s Rose Tavern. As the debauched scene rages, the Rake is robbed blind by a gang of opportunistic prostitutes.

Sebastian Horsley knows a thing or two about brothels. The London artist claims to have slept with 1,000 prostitutes, and says: “In my romantic view a woman may be a prostitute, she may be a destitute but she can never be less than a lady.”

I’m not sure what that means but who cares? It is hardly necessary to talk sense if one speaks well enough.

It really pisses me of that “claims to have slept with a 1000 prostitutes.” It is completely untrue. It is actually more like 1,200. I wonder if I should demand an errection correction? Or sue them?

There are other mistakes :

“Ultimately the rake is defined by his lack of shame. As the artist and serial sexual athlete Sebastian Horsley admits, a genuine rake does not concern himself with ethics.

“Ethics are for dullards and they’re to be mocked,” he says. “Right and wrong doesn’t stop people sinning; it just stops them enjoying it. You should just be whatever you are without shame. It is better to be hated for what you are than liked for what you’re not.”

As to its hazards, he adds: “I’ve think I might have syphilis. I’ve got to go to the doctor tomorrow. Actually I’m delighted, because it’s inconceivable that a proper rake could reach middle age without getting it. Of course, it also means I’m a genius. All geniuses get syphilis.”

Like every proper rake, Horsley is looking on the bright side. Every cloud, even syphilis, it seems, has its silver lining.”

I’m not a rake. I’m a dandy. I did the interview as a dandy and they substituted the word dandy with rake. Idiots. A rake is selfish, greedy and not true. I have my standards you know. They may be low, but I have them.

Also I don’t like being in it with these other knob heads. I am an electric eel in a pond of Gold fish.