Sebastian Horsley my dear friend this past twenty five years has been found dead in his Soho apartment. Heroin overdose. Good God. How many more friends will I lose this year to the disease of addiction?
He struggled so hard to stay clean and sober. Endlessly failing, endlessly trying again. He had the sweetest soul.
Hopefully I will be in London for the funeral.
Too many friends found dead on their own. A ghastly yet familiar story.
The truth is, he should have died years ago. He cheated death a million times. I will miss him but somehow this particular ending for Sebastian was inevitable.
From an earlier post:
Sebastian lives on Meard Street in Soho. On his front door are the words, THIS IS NOT A BROTHAL, THERE ARE NO PROSTITUTES HERE which is total lie. There are always prostitutes there..in Sebastian’s bed.
Recently, I took a genuinely normal boy to meet Sebastian-my very sweet friend Chris Parker the TV actor from Eastenders. Chris is utterly charming. Previously I had taken him to The Colony in an attempt to delight him with a glimpse of an alternative London. My experiment failed. Chris thought that the Colony, the great beating bohemian heart of London was horrible. He didn’t like it. He looked scared. He was not interested in the art or the characters dressed in huge jewels or zoot suits. Those people in that tiny room shocked him, he was unaware of the history of that room. In that room the greatest art dramas had been played out, that Francis Bacon held court there, destroyed the confidence of his boyfriend publicly in that room. Go see the film: Love is the Devil if you want to know more about The Colony.
So, Chris and I are shopping in John Pearse on Meard Street. I bought a pink linen shirt. You know who John is? He made The Sargent Pepper uniforms for the Beatles. John owned a shop on the Kings Road called Granny Takes a Trip in the 1960′s. As we were on the same street, on the spur of the moment I wickedly decided to introduce cautious Chris to Sebastian. Chris is 5’10″. When Chris met Sebastian, 6’5″ tall wearing a lurid cerise tie, his raven black hair swept into a huge bouffant in his rooms in Soho, he was struck dumb.
Chris looked at the pictures of the crucifixion, the limbless woman and the sharks. He was visibly distressed when he saw the nails that been nailed into Sebastian’s hands during the crucifixion. He was appalled when I told him that Sebastian had fallen off the cross. Chris noticed the gun by Sebastian’s bed. “What is that for? Is it real? Why do you have it by your bed?” Sebastian, picking it up to show us the real bullets said, “I don’t believe in unprotected sex.”
In his own words:
“When I was young I thought the recipe for happiness was devastating good looks, a blazing talent and a colossal income. I was right. As for love? The rich think that the most important thing in life is love. The poor know it is money. It is the only thing poor people do know. Given that money is the root of all evil, they should be very virtuous. But they’re not. No, they just moan, groan and drone, looking for a loan. Why don’t they just get rid of such luxuries as food, clothing and shelter, and give us all some peace? Give me the luxuries of life and I will dispense with the necessities. Fancy a fuck?”
9 replies on “Cancer of The Heart”
Duncan,
I don’t have to tell you how fucking hard it is to lose people that were close to you. I have so many people I’ve lost over the years, many by their own hand, and I’ve been close to being that person to someone else as well. You can always message me for some sporadic venting. You have my email.
I am sorry for your Los I
I am sorry for your Los
I echo Jacob’s post to the letter.
Really sorry, bro. Unfortunately I know far too well what you’re feeling right now. Sebastian sounded like quite the interesting guy.
Duncan,
I’m so sorry. I remember reading up on Sebastian after you mentioned him in another post. I realized that I had his book, “Dandy In The Underworld”, on my reading list after having come across it in a book store. Reading the autobiography of such a flamboyant, sardonically witty man really intrigued me. The first line of “The Guardian” article described him as “Sebastian Horsley, the dandy, writer and artist …”. From what I’ve read of him, I think that he would have liked that. Dandy, first.
I read that the play based on his book had just opened and I kept thinking of the scene from “Man of La Mancha” where a mirror is held up to the face of Don Quixote and it devastates him. It destroys for him, his beautiful dream world that he had made so real that other people were able to see it’s beauty and want to be part of it. I wonder if Sebastian saw something in the play that he didn’t like? Poor man. He seemed so cynical but I read a couple of great quotes from @Lotay that: “Cynicism is deeply rooted in fear and distrust; distrust of other people as well as oneself. Don’t give up on cynics, however. Cynics care; they are simply committed to never been hurt or disappointed again. Cynics lack both courage and faith. They’re fearful of being hurt and disappointed, and thus are afraid of believing again. Give cynics what they lack: encouragement and faith.” I think that he would have rallied if he’d had the chance. I’m so sorry that he didn’t.
From the Sarah MacLachlan song “Angel”: “In the arms of the angel, fly away from here, from this dark cold hotel room and the endlessness that you fear… You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie. . . you’re in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here.” I really believe that if he never found comfort in this life, that he will now.
Twenty-five years. It’s so hard losing someone who shares memories with you. Who remembers places and times… and you. In your 20’s, 30’s and beyond. I’ve lost a lot of my old friends to moves, marriage, a combo of both and some to death. Too young. I told myself that I would have to make new friends with whom I could share the old memories and make some new ones. That we might not have history, but we would be able to share the people that we used to be with each other and become the people that we growing toward. I know that you are and will do the same.
You’ve had so many shocks lately. I hope that you will do what it takes to take good care of yourself and to let your anger and frustration out. And your tears. Pounding pillows or a heavy bay or driving on the PCH with the windows rolled up and screaming at the top of your lungs. Or crying. And reaching out to the people that you trust. Like Anna and John.
Please be gentle with yourself and take good care.
Blessings,
Amanda
It’s MERCER street not Merde street you moron. You live on Merde street (with c. Love). That’s pretty funny tho.
On this occasion girl genius..you are the Moron. In Soho London…there is a street called Meard St. Where Sebastian Horsley lived. So madame, less of the insults and more of the genius. Thanks!
Meard Street in a street in Soho, London. It runs roughly East-West (properly, East-Northeast to West-Southwest, as elsewhere in Soho), between Wardour Street to the west and Dean Street to the east. It is in two sections, with a slight bend in the middle: the west half is pedestrianised, while the east half is a narrow single lane road.
The street is named for John Meard, the younger, a carpenter, later esquire, who developed it in the 1720s and 1730s.
It is prominently featured in photographs and postcards for the tourist trade, due to the pun with French: merde (“shit”).
I would have liked to have met him. Not for the infamous things he said and did, but to see what he was really like. Anyone who is intelligent and thoughtful has interesting things to say about life.