Sebastian Horsley

I LOVE ANIMALS - IN GOOD GRAVY

I have been off drugs for some time now. Virtue may be its own reward, but it’s not much of a reward is it? I used to be able to start the day with drugs, instead of with my own company. Chemicals may have been my anti-personality mine but I still look back on them as an exhilarating remembrance of the abyss. They were my death support system and they saved my life by removing me from the dull routine of Sebastian and existence. Lets face it - living on earth is boring and expensive even if it does include a free trip round the sun.

What shall I do today? I will visit the zoo, which is where I belong.

But first the doctor. No one fills such a large space and leaves it so empty as my doctor. She is a great ugly blubbernaut, a salvation salesman who finds deliverance in malevolence. Our exchange went something like this :

“I’ve stopped taking all chemicals, owing to side effects of euphoria,” I told her.

“Get to the point.”

Er ... can I have some sleeping pills?”

“No.”

“Then will you give me a lobotomy on the NHS instead?”
“No”

“I’m miserable”

“Have you tried NA? It is the spiritual, not the medicinal path that you need.”

“I don’t want cough syrup for the soul. I want drugs to make me feel better.”

“Look. I’m busy. Have you got any real problems?”

“Yes. I’ve got Tourette’s Syndrome, you fat ugly cunt.”

Oh how one cloud is enough to eclipse all the sun! I waltz though Soho determined to fling misery around me like confetti. I am allowed to see my flawed reflection in turbulent water - but her! I could have done with a little less frankness if you don’t mind and a little more flattery. What does she know? Of all the masks of modern man, from the clown to the priest to the junkie, by which we seek to disguise our fear of life and death, the doctor is surely the worst. I mean, what can they cure? Aids? No. Cancer? No. Me? No. And the worst disease of them all, being born - can they cure it? No. Well then, they can just fuck off. As for that spiritual lark. How much does it cost?

I’m at the zoo, What I hate most about the zoo is the animals.In fact, may I take this opportunity of being in print to say to animals, all animals everywhere : I fucking hate you. I hate the way you eat; I hate the way you shit; I hate the way you all swagger around as if your lives mattered as much as mine. Who the fuck do you think you are ? I hate you almost as much as I hate the RSPCA. The RSPCA! What the fuck do you want? The RSECA more like! The Royal Society for the Encouragement of Cruelty to animals. I say nuke the fucking RSPCA. Yes! And I say nuke all animals, all species, everywhere. But let me be more specific.

Right. First up. Dogs. Who the fuck do you think you are? Just because you are the only thing on earth that loves me more than I love myself and you’ve read Mein Kampf and all you do is follow leaders like me everywhere, do you think that gives you the right to do so pissing and shitting and carrying on? No it doesn’t. Fuck off and die all of you.

Next up - dolphins. What the fuck do you want? It is said that you are intelligent. If you’re so fucking intelligent why are you dolphins? Hey? Answer me that shitheads. It is said you can understand humans. Good. Then understand this : Fuck off dolphins.

What about pandas? Who the fuck do you think you are? Fat lazy fucks who can’t even be bothered to breed. No wonder you’re extinct, you stinking tubs of shit. Get a job.

As for the tortoise? What the fuck do you want? Why are you always so hysterical and out of control? I see you waddling around on the floor and I just want to run a steamroller right over you motherfuckers.

And the leopard? How dare you swagger around in that beautiful coat trying to be fashionable, when you know damn well that it would look better on my girlfriend. Have you no respect? You’re just like the rhino, you bastard, who hasn’t realised that it’s more important for me to have the horn than it is for that fat cunt to have a horn. But do you want to know what I reserve the bulk of my loathing for? Yes?

The sperm whale. Yes, you. Who the fuck do you think you are? With a name like that you deserve to be extinct, you wanker. Why are you so fat? Hey? Answer me that. Haven’t you had enough to eat for one lifetime? Instead you spend your life moaning and blubbering; save the whale! Save the whale! HA! Save the whale? What for? Dinner? I say : nuke the whale. Yes! Nuke the whale for Christ. Fuck off and be extinct.

As for those vegetarian wankers, I say this to you all - an animal should be delicious and fit well. You don’t agree? Well then, I goose step all over your wall-to-wall lentils in my Lobb boots and I piss in your weaved yoghurts, you cocksuckers. And I say this ; fuck off and die all peaceful, harmless vegetarians everywhere. You fucking nancy boys. You couldn’t kill a turkey unless it was in self-defence. How would you have got on in Vietnam , hey poof boys? Not too well eh? I say : napalm vegetarians everywhere! And you say : a vegetarian diet is best for those who would be beautiful? Well it doesn’t seem to have done much for the elephant or you ugly knob heads does it? You look so much like cabbages you should be called cannibals you moronic buckets of piss. What about this cunt suckers : I eat veal and I’m gorgeous. HA! So shove that up your museli- encrusted arseholes you shit lickers.

As you can see I’m quite a tolerant sort of chap. I believe it is important in life to give things a full and fair hearing. If I was an animal I would already be extinct. As a Horsley I would have been taken out and shot. As it is I am an endangered species ; beautiful, talented and rich. SOS. Save Our Sebastian. There are so few of me left.

THE LAST POST. THE PAST LOST.

I’ve had enough of this shit. 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. It is far too undignified for a man of my stature. 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.

I am the only thing of value on the internet and I am removing it immediately. Goodbye.

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.

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

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?

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?

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.

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 5TH

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

The Hallowed Queen.

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