PRAISE MAKES ME HUMBLE BUT WHEN I AM ABUSED I KNOW I HAVE TOUCHED THE STARS

I am feeling very happy. I have spent the day collecting all the bad reviews of my book. And you know what? The more one is hated, I find, the happier one is.

Of course, it is salutary to train oneself to be no more affected by censure than by praise. To be unworthy of praise, and undeserving of blame. But I ain’t no holy old Ghandi-man of the mountains. Fuck that. You can calculate the worth of a man by the numbers and quality of his enemies, and the importance of a work of art by the harm that is spoken of it.

I've always believed that I have the ability to arouse instant enmity in certain people. They meet me and hate me on sight. Sometimes it gets to me and I mope about the studio wailing “Everyone hates me.” But then I come too. “Don’t be silly darling. Everybody hasn’t met you yet.”

It seems that, within me, there are two profound needs at play : the need to be liked, and the need for exactly the opposite. And I’m happy with that. When my enemies stop hissing, I shall know I’m slipping. Besides, a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand kisses. The former come more directly from the heart.

Few people can be happy unless they hate some other person, nation or creed. I hate every thing. Well, just two things actually. Living things and objects. Oh and miscellaneous, just in case I left anything out.

As for you lot? It does not matter much what a man hates provided he hates something. So hate me cocksuckers. I only want negative comments on this diary. If you can’t say anything good about someone, sit right here by me.

See if you can match any of these : -

“Sebastian Horsley, a man who has absolutely nothing to declare but his own lack of talent.  He is a prat ... a wanker. This book should be avoided by anyone of a nervous disposition or by anyone who has a fondness for the female sex. The question that may enter the enquiring mind is this : what exactly is the point of Sebastian Horsley? Do him a favour and bin it.”  The Standard.

“An emotionally infantile spoiled brat, a vapid poser, he has less talent than a used condom”  QX magazine.

“An insufferable cretin.” The Leeds Guide.

“An attention-seeking tosser.” The Telegraph.

“This book is forced and embarrassing. He is a show-off who can’t do anything. He has a wild artistic temperament, but no talent.” The Telegraph.

Horsley is the grubby/moderately brighter equivalent of the model/actor. His heroes (Brummell, Byron and his namesake Sebastian Flyte) wouldn’t have liked Horsley.  The chip on his shoulder squeals from every page. Spare yourselves this trivial autobiography and wait for him to appear on Celebrity Big Brother. The Literary Review.

Do your worst tosspots. Use me and abuse me. Marks will be given for the most wilfully offensive. We are going to use them for the American publication next year. Remember : that which cannot be wholly concealed should be deliberately displayed.