March 19, 2008

IT'S OFFICIAL : I AM ILLEGAL

THE NEW YORK TIMES

March 20, 2008

British Memoirist Is Denied U.S. Entry

By MOTOKO RICH

Sebastian Horsley, a British author who has written an eyebrow-raising memoir detailing a life of rampant drug use and voluminous encounters with prostitutes, was turned back at Newark Liberty International Airport on Tuesday as he tried to enter the United States for a book party and New York news media tour.

Mr. Horsley, whose memoir, “Dandy in the Underworld,” was published last week in paperback by Harper Perennial, a unit of HarperCollins, said he was detained by United States customs authorities for eight hours and questioned about his former drug addiction, use of prostitutes and activity as a male escort.

“I’m absolutely shattered and upset and gutted about not being able to come to America,” Mr. Horsley said in a telephone interview from London, where he had returned on Wednesday. “I was very much looking forward to meeting everybody.”

Lucille Cirillo, a spokeswoman for the New York office of United States Customs and Border Protection, said she could not comment on specific cases. But in an e-mail message, she said that under a waiver program that allows British citizens to enter the United States without a visa, “travelers who have been convicted of a crime involving moral turpitude (which includes controlled-substance violations) or admit to previously having a drug addiction are not admissible.”

In “Dandy of the Underworld” Mr. Horsley, who is notorious in Britain, writes of being raised by alcoholic, sexually promiscuous parents and bouncing through several schools. He details a debauched life of cocaine, heroin, opium and amphetamine use, writing that he spent more than £100,000 (nearly $200,000) on crack cocaine and £100,000 to consort with more than 1,000 prostitutes. He also chronicles his trip to the Philippines to be hung from a cross, an event that was recorded by a photographer and videographer and formed part of an art exhibition that was extensively covered by the news media in his home country.

Carrie Kania, publisher of Harper Perennial, said Mr. Horsley’s party, which was scheduled for Wednesday in Manhattan, would go on without him. “I believe this book is very important,” Ms. Kania said. “It certainly moved me, and we’re going to continue to back it 100 percent.”

British public records are not available in the United States, and it was not possible to verify independently many of the details in Mr. Horsley’s memoir.

In interviews, though, he has been repeatedly coy about what is real and what is contrived. “It’s better to be quotable than honest,” he told Time Out London in February. In an interview with The Independent last September, he said: “I don’t speak, I quote. I am a fraud. I have cobbled together my personality from hundreds of little bits. I am simultaneously the most genuine and the most artificial person you will ever meet.”

In his interview with The New York Times on Wednesday, Mr. Horsley insisted the memoir was true. “I’m a dandy, so I like to play with words,” he said. “I am real, but in an artificial way, because I like to play with language. But my story is completely true.”

Ms. Kania said that the book, published in Britain in September by an imprint of Hodder Headline, had been through a “lengthy legal review” by the British publisher. But Harper did not independently fact-check it.

Mr. Horsley said he was surprised he was deported, since he had previously traveled to the United States six times, twice to visit relatives in Boston and four times to New York.

“God bless America, land of the free, but sadly not the land of the depraved,” he said. He referred to the recent resignation of Eliot Spitzer, the former governor of New York, in the wake of revelations that he had frequented prostitutes. “I’m not a politician, I’m an artist,” Mr. Horsley said. “Depravity is part of the job description.”

He added that he regarded his memoir as “a very moral book in the same way that Bret Easton Ellis’s ‘American Psycho’ was a moral book.” He added, “I’m not a bad person.”

Jack Begg contributed reporting.

March 12, 2008

MY GOD WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO AMERICA - A WOMAN, A NIGGER AND NOW SEBASTIAN HORSLEY!

My book Dandy in the Underworld came out across America yesterday. 31 years ago Marc Bolan’s album Dandy in the Underworld was released on the same day. Its for you Marc.

America is going potty. TV shows. New York Times Book Review, Village Voice, whole page in the LA Times. And much much more. I am so tired. Of being admired. I have been offering myself gift wrapped to the world. Every day for the last two months I have been either interviewed, filmed or photographed. Even I am getting bored of talking about myself. I fear I am an amateur narcissist after all. I am sure it won't last and I shall finally give in to my narcissism and marry myself.

Does Christ never get tired of bleeding? I’m sure he does - but the show must go on.

I arrive in the USA next week. God knows how they shall take me. Does getting shot hurt? Actually, I am sure the marksman will be dazzled by the sight of me and consequently miss.

In truth if I do not return it will only be because I have been murdered by love. Like Quentin I have always felt American in my artificial heart. We are all English at puberty; we die American.

I’ve always felt the book would do better over there. I hate Britain’s rugged will to lose. In America, they love a loser turned winner as much as we love the opposite. As St Quentin knew : it is because of our hearts. The English have shrivelled hearts. The Americans plump, peachy, warm ones. Success in England inspires only envy. In America : hope.

It is because life for the Americans is always becoming, never being.

It is because of the cruelty of England and the generosity of America. In America people will only come to see you if they like you, if they wish you well. In England they will come because they despise you, to laugh at you.

It is because Americans are unafraid of being positive.

Poor old England ; sometimes negativity don’t pull you through.

I broadcast to 12 million of the US nation this week. Harper tell me that all Things Considered is probably the biggest radio show in all of the US.

The lady producer liked me

I said to her :

“Can I get my cock out on live radio?”

There was a deadly silence. “Oh No” I thought! “I’ve have blown it!”

Then suddenly she said :

Awesome.”

12 million yanks is like one brilliant Brit really isn't it? Me. You see, what is good about England is that it prepares you for the world. Censure and criticism never hurt anybody. If false, they can’t hurt you unless you are a wimp, and if true, they show a man his weak points, and forewarn him against failure and trouble. It is through the snipers and vipers that we develop ourselves. Only the best get through so by the time we arrive in America we are ready to rule the world.

And rule it I shall. I have lost my reins and shall begin my reign. I am off to America for a week. I am sure everyone will be expecting me to go by boat and as I sail through the harbour, 'Wilde-like,' announce, 'I have nothing declare but my genius.' But I am not Oscar Wilde.

No darling, Whoresley-like I shall announce, “I have nothing to declare but my genitals.”

“My heinous, genius, penis.”

Bon Mot Voyage

March 01, 2008

ALL PETS ARE FLUSHABLE

The mice are back. I guess it is that time of year. I have to say I don’t mind them. When I was on heroin I would just lie in bed all day staring at my big toe. They realised that the Lord of the house was…well, indisposed. They got cockier and cockier. They would come out and dance in front of me and eat my Kraft cheese squares. And then one day suddenly they disappeared. I don't know what happened to them. Maybe the rats ate them?

I always feel that they have as much right to this place as me. But then shouldn't they be helping with the mortgage payments? Last year after two sleepless nights I decided to get traps. I set them up with cheese and biscuits. Within half an hour an hour I heard the satisfying crack as the wire smashed the brittle crust of its neck.

The big male mouse was dead. It's little head to one side, blood oozed onto the floor. Ten minutes later the female lay dead by his side.

My first thought was : Fucking hell - are mice that stupid? "Oh there's my husband dead with his head in a trap. Fuck it, I'm hungry." Or maybe it was it suicide? Dogs sometimes commit suicide usually by drowning or by refusing food, for a number of reasons - generally when the animal is cast out from the household, but also from regret or remorse or even sheer ennui. Animal suicide of these kinds is capable of being regarded as a manifestation of intelligence.

I felt terrible. I was a murderer. I was overcome with remorse.

I could see the headlines : "Prince of Darkness Slays Mouse."  "Dracula Gets Mouse Counselling."

I guess I could have done it differently. A friend of mine set the humane traps. Two of them. In the morning she thought she had caught one. Set a mouse free. Off it ran, straight into my house no doubt. Then a few days later she realized there had been another mouse in the other trap. It had starved to death.

I’m not sure what to do this time. I could get a cat? But after it had eaten the mice what then would I do with it? I guess a cat has got nine lives - which makes them ideal for experimentation.

Surely I can get rid of the mice by telling them I want a long-term relationship?

February 01, 2008

READY, FIRE, AIM

Don’t you just loathe the environment? Why don’t they just drop an Atom bomb on the place?  The environment is everything that isn’t me. So of course I’m not interested in it. And neither are you. You pretend to be because it is fashionable. But we must choose our opinions, not just wear what ever happens to be in style. Do you think the dinosaurs were wiped off the face of the planet because they didn’t recycle? You morons. When you turn proud, remember that a flea preceded you in the order of divine creation. Remember that the life of a man is of no greater importance to the universe than that of a cockroach.

As for me? Well, I am the happiest man on the planet. It is a win win situation. I don’t believe your green money making propaganda. I despise your charity beanos - all you rich fuckwits buying a reputation for generosity on the cheap. Caron footprints, Aids, cancer, starvation, nuclear war, pollution, and the end of the world, are no more solvable than the problems of finding a smudge proof mascara. The depletion of my hairspray is more important to me than the depletion of the ozone layer. The least pain in my little finger gives me more concern and uneasiness than the destruction of millions of my fellow beings. I remain deaf to the call of social justice. 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.

And if you are right. Hooray! Becoming extinct is a perfect answer to everything and I defy anybody to think of a better. Do you think we leave behind us footprints on the desert sands of time? Who cares? The meaning of life is that it stops. So let it stop. Infact, I alone hold the solution! If everyone on earth stopped breathing for just an hour, the greenhouse effect would no longer be a problem. And the bore galore would be no more. Fancy a fuck?

January 18, 2008

IF THIS IS LIFE, ROLL ON DEATH

What, in the last resort, is there to be said for January and February? They are the months designed to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like. It is so cold. In winter the temperature falls well below the legal minimum in my flat. You see, I have no central heating here. I live alone with my gas fire and we are happy this way. None of us go out when unattended.

Has the weather been privatised? Even wearing two pairs of arctic quality gloves my finger joints remain iced shut. Even with a polar hat my skull is cold as a cannonball and - worse still - my hair style is squashed. Ice is forming on the upper slopes of Sebastian. Fuck it - I‘ll be alright. Has a gentleman who knew he was well dressed ever caught a cold? I suppose I should think of people less fortunate than myself. The best that can be said for the cold is that it exterminates the old.

It is January. Another fucking year. Look at me. I am a useless dandy. I am almost bankrupt. I will either commit suicide or die at the age of 45 because I will have said all there is to say … will you marry me?

The Lord of Abominations. God of Dispersal and Emptiness.

December 06, 2007

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.

November 05, 2007

NOVEMBER 5TH

Guy Fawkes had the right idea : blow the whole shithouse sky-high.

The Hallowed Queen.

November 02, 2007

I AM THE MAMA OF DADA.

Here are some happy customers of my book :

Posted by: DT | October 30, 2007 at 03:09 PM 

I'm sitting here in the book club at The Hospital where we have been discussing Dandy of The Underworld.

Our verdict: Nobody has finished the book. All of us are leaving our copies here so we don't have to bother carrying them home. Except me - I left it at home because I couldn't be bothered bringing it in.

Posted by: Damian | October 30, 2007 at 08:12 PM 

It's also the only book that has prompted us to get online, seek out the author and sledge him.

Posted by: Damian | October 30, 2007 at 08:13 PM 

AMAZON REVIEW Oh the pain..., 30 Oct 2007

By

Damian Clarke (London, UK) - See all my reviews

There is so much to say about how boring this book is, but honestly, it's not worth the wear and tear on my keyboard, or fingers.

Damian, on behalf of The Hospital book club.

******

Dear Damian and the Hospital Book Club Group.

I am delighted you got as much misery reading my book as I got pleasure spending the money you paid me for it.

Suck My Nazi Cock

SH

September 29, 2007

SUCK MY NAZI COCK

This Questionnaire has just been published in Hotpress. It is entitled Mad Hatter’s Box.

******

Who would be the last person you would invite to your birthday party?

Myself. To be an ideal guest, stay at home.

Who would be the first person you would invite to your birthday party?

HRL His Royal Lowness - Satan.

Favourite saying?

Act like a pig, feel like a God.

Favourite record?

Appetite for destruction - Guns N' Roses.

Favourite book?

Dandy in the Underworld. I express in prose of incomparable grandeur thought of an unparalleled brilliance.

Favourite film?

Any film, even the worst, is better than real life.

Favourite author?

Am I the best author of my time? I'd say I was in the top one.

Favourite actor / actress?

None. An actor is a man who tries to be everything but himself. A ghost looking for a body to inhabit.

Favourite musician?

Marc Bolan. He had one foot in heaven, the other in Woolworth's.

Most embarrassing moment of your life?

Being born.

Favourite food/drink/stimulant?

I like to be woken every morning with stimulants in order that I may drift through the day on sedatives.

TV programme?

None. Television is an idiot lantern. Don’t you wish there was a knob on the TV to turn up the intelligence? There’s one called “Brightness” but it doesn’t work.

Favourite TV personality?

TV personality is an oxymoron. Like the witty woman or the happy Horsley. God forgive us for putting two such words together.

Favourite item of clothing?

At the moment I am swanning sexily around in a haze of self-adoration and a shimmering red sequin suit.

Most desirable date?

The advantage of poor vision is that you can date anybody.

Favourite method of relaxation?

I like to go off to the brothel to get a good housemaids wank.

If you weren't pursuing your present career, what other career might you have chosen?

I have never had a career - but I think I would do a splendid job as one of the handsomest men in the world.

Biggest thrill?

Collecting Gloriana. What’s that? My own press cuttings.

Biggest disappointment?

I have such a strong sense of the disappointingness of existence and the even more mortifying inadequacy of the illusions with which we distract ourselves.

Your concept of Heaven?

Hell. Hell is the red-light district of Heaven.

Your concept of Hell?

Heaven. Heaven is the bourgeois district of Hell

What would be your dying words?

"If this is dying, I don’t think much of it. For the amount of publicity its got its a bit of an anti-climax."

Greatest ambition?

To rest on my laurels, until they become wreaths.

Period of history you'd most like to have lived in and why?

The Regency. Whatever happened to the good old days when children worked in factories?

If you weren't a human being which animal would you have chosen to be?

Any animal that was delicious and fitted well.

If you were told that the world was ending tomorrow morning, how would you react/what would you do?

Celebrate. I eagerly await the end of the world as the ideal solution to all of its ills.

Your nominee for the world's best-dressed person?

Myself. I always dress well beyond the call of beauty.

Favourite term of abuse?

Showing off. It is the only sure bait when you angle for abuse.

Biggest fear?

None. When you're fallen you fear no fall.

Humanity's most useful invention?

Me. I am someone who could not have been invented if the whole world had sat up all night.

Humanity's most useless invention?

Me. I am intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a purpose.

September 23, 2007

THE SCARLET HARLOT

I have just published this piece in a woman porno magazine called Scarlet :

******

I keep reading that practically everyone on the planet is a dandy and it most annoying. We can’t all be stars because someone has to sit on the curb and clap as I go by.

So what is dandyism? Dandyism is a form of self-worship which dispenses with the need to find happiness from others - especially women. It is a condition rather than a profession. It is a defence against suffering and a celebration of life. It is not fashion; it is not wealth; it is not learning; it is not beauty. It is a shield and a sword and a crown - all pulled out of the dressing up box in the attic of the imagination.

Wilde and Brummell are usually held up as the progenitors of dandyism but neither of these men were dandies in my not very humble opinion. Mr Brummell was aspirational and no real dandy is aspirational. As for Wilde? What a phoney he was! And not even a real phoney! He bred for a start, and no dandy worth the name breeds. He must defeat the species role of his body at all costs. The only place a dandy would push a pram is into The Thames.

This misrepresentation continues in modern times. The idea that David Beckham is a dandy is absurd. Dandyism is social, human and intellectual. It is not a suit of clothes walking about by itself. If Mr Beckham’s IQ had been two points lower he’d have been a tree somewhere.

Russell Brand is called a dandy. I suspect he is in costume. He practices Yoga, vegetarianism and other diseases of the soul. Hare Krishna? A real dandy is more Hari Kari. He fucks Miss Moss. A real dandy would tell Miss Moss to fuck herself. Worse, he recently did Earth Aid! This is unforgivable. The dandy remains deaf to the call of social justice. The depletion of his hairspray is more important to him than the depletion of the ozone layer. Convictions are for dullards, whose earnestness - the worst crime in the dandy’s book - is there to be mocked. As for human rights? Quite obviously he couldn’t give a toss ; he could hardly manage to be interested in the rights of his cock.

Tracey Emin has been called a dandy! The idea that a woman can be a dandy is preposterous. There are no female dandies for the same reason that there is no female Mozart or Jack the Ripper. The key attribute of dandyism - detachment - cannot come from someone with womb. How can one possess style with some pissy farty stink-grub hanging off one’s blubber udder? Forget it, darling. Women are on this planet only as trumpets of our glory.

So who are the real dandies? Baudelaire, Quentin Crisp, Bunny Roger, Tintin, Marc Bolan, Johnny Rotten, Robin Dutt and me - not in order of importance, I hasten to add. All these dandies are roped together like mountaineers heading for the summit of beauty. You see my darlings, true dandyism is rebellious. The dandy is part warrior, part stargazer, part gambler, part crusader, part plunderer, part violator, part martyr. He is fit for the highest and the lowest society - and keeps out of it.

To be a dandy is to aspire to the sublime. Dandyism isn’t image encrusted with flourishes. It’s a way of stripping yourself down to your true self. You can only judge the style by the content and you can only reach the content through the style.

Dandies are a brotherhood of higher types. The true princes of the world. The true priests of the world. Like precious stones, their personalities derive their value from their scarcity. Fancy a fuck?