SEB
It is upon the parchment of Turnbull and Asser’s sacred tomes that my great legacy is recorded: The Horsley shirt. Four button cuff. Five inch turn back. Collar point: five inches – wide enough to fly. But it will be the buttons I am remembered by – the covered buttons to be precise. There is something so rude about a naked button. I am the only male customer to have ever insisted upon covered fastenings for his shirt. I even had diamanté on the cuffs and engraved silver stays. Some dimwit once said ‘There’s no point’ instantly reassuring me that was precisely the point. Hats of course are the crowning glory of a dandy. Beau Brummell and Byron went to Locks and so did I. Four fur fedoras. Fur felt, antelope velour, grosgrain band and bow with feather mount, satin lining and roan leather. Few things look more ridiculous than a hat on a man who doesn’t suit hats and nothing looks more ridiculous than an ivory White fedora on a man who doesn’t suit hats, which is why I wore one. I spent over £100,000 on my wardrobe. I simply had to squander oodles of money as fast as I hadn’t earned it so as to escape the tortures of having to do something sensible with it. Once I had tired of a Huntsman special I would wear them as painting overalls. From Savile Row to B and Q with nothing in between. I think the drugs had a part to play in that. When I was using I didn’t care about my clothes. I once sold £20,000 worth of suits for three hundred quid to a man from Billy Smart’s circus who was re-costuming the clowns.
Looks out the window.
Talking of drugs the smack dealer’s out on Meard Street. For some reason he still hangs around outside my door even though I haven’t bought anything from him for an age. Heroin’s like a whore who gave you the best fuck you ever had. She may have stolen your credit card and given you clap but a part of you always feels like going back for more. The fixing ritual is one of the sweetest pleasures known to man. The only problem is the dealers end up stealing your life. In the case of my last crack dealer, English – quite literally. It was hilarious. When he first came to me he drove a Nissan Micra and wore a baseball cap swiveled backwards. I used to say to him ‘English, please if you are going to deliver me five hundred pounds of crack cocaine you could at least dress for the occasion’. But by the end of our time together he was driving a BMW and wearing smart suits and I was the one who looked like a tramp. Then to add insult to injury he took up art. He turned up one day and said ‘I’ve got something for you’. I said ‘I know – now give it to me’. But instead of spitting out a little cellophane package he unravelled some sketches he’d done. It was as if he’d gone to the fancy dress shop and asked for the Sebastian Horsley.