Tonight, if the sky is clear, look up into the orange, and there amongst the stars you’ll see it sparkle, placed there anew by the trembling hand of Lucifer, bright as a hooker’s eye, more beautiful than all the other stars in heaven (it thinks), shimmering like a hooker’s shoestrap, a silver drop of infected semen to shine down upon us forever, for alas – the thinkable has happened – Ô blasphème de l’art! ô surprise fatale! – Sebastian Horsley is dead.
L’éclat de ce soleil d’un crêpe se voila! as Baudelaire put it, thinking, no doubt, of Horsley as he wrote.
So that’s it. Game over. Horsley, the fool, has gone to shoot up with Jesus in the big whorehouse in the sky. And the world just got a little more boring. Although, on the plus side, there’s one fewer enormous arse living in it.
Damn, I’m actually sad. I can’t believe I’m sad.
I can’t quite figure out why. But perhaps it has to do with Horsley only just now turning his life around. Laying aside the crackpipe, putting down the hookers, and earning an honest living. The ink upon his contract with ExxonMobil barely dry. And only one tie-in product out on the garage shelves: a litre bottle of Horsley Ultra -
I will buy it tomorrow in his honour.
And drink it.
Funny (sad) how utterly YESTERDAY Gordon Brown feels after Obama’s inauguration. The whoop-it-up love-in that’s happening for Obama throws into relief how distinctly unloveable Brown is. And unfanciable. Ludicrously so. This is a serious question: should you vote for anyone you can’t imagine having sex with? (One of my lesser problems with Jacqui Smith). I know this is an awful thing to say, but Brown is such a distressingly ugly individual, with an ugliness rooted in his profound charmlessness, his shuddering sexlessness, and his detachment from reality. Anyway – to celebrate the hollow rubbishness that is Gordon Brown – here are two images: the second by me; the first very kindly submitted by Friend of Radio Kenneth (not a euphemism) Graham Bowers: an adaptation of some terrifying artwork made by a friend of his, John Smith:
And mine:
You can find more of John Smith’s artwork on monkeey.com. Some of it looks like Baxter’s Fish reimagined by Clive Barker — in a good way.
As 2009 dawns, and the dust rises over Gaza, Stebson produces his most politically charged work to date. Humble yet angry, his ‘Still Life With Peter Cushing’ is perhaps the sternest reprimand Israel has received to date from the West.
After Robert Hubert (1733-1808)
- but sometimes Baxter comes out different from how I’d hoped.
Or maybe in 20,000 years this will be considered High Art -
Fingers crossed.
That’s Anatoly Gutsol, by the way. Or most of him.
drawings found on hotel computers which have been created and left there by guests
sample 1 (of 2)
‘Boredddddd’ by Anon.
I can’t work out right now how to link to a full size version of ‘Boredddddd’ but when I do, I will. And then I will link to ‘Fucking you! BoBo!’ – sample 2 (of 2).
As depicted by Théodore Chassériau:
4 weeks, tending frogs and pumpkins. We hope.
