george rostov

Nursing a broken heart and broken nails, Rostov leads a disgraceful, dissolute life amidst the condom-clogged gutters of Soho. In his piss-stinking bedsit flat, frequented by lonely lawyers, bisexual builders, the perverts of Parliament and his part-time accomplice in crime, the three-legged Siamese cat known amongst Danger Mouse fans as Tripod, Rostov wastes his wit, his days (not to mention a large portion of his dole cheque) composing lewd lyrics to lost loves, sniffing pritt-stick, imbibing pilfered Lambrini from Cost Cutters and writing hate mail to Ben Fogel, promising all manner of unsociable nastiness. With a desperate desire to be the next Shakespeare, though, in all likelihood probably not even cutting it as Jeffrey Archer's cum-rag, poor Rostov is shunned by all, bar an occasional midnight visit from Marc Almond to borrow a bag of low calorie sugar. Close to both committing suicide and voting Lib Dem, his only hope it seems is finding the one thing that forever tantalised him as a child and that now cruelly taunts him as an almost-adult with its elusiveness: love. By posting these revolting recitals of his groundbreaking literary ouevre (the pages of which are currently being used to maintain a clean, wholesome-smelling poo-hole in the local old people's home) he hopes that somehow he'll attract a legion of devoted followers prepared to sacrifice their monthly allowance on his drug habit, or, failing that, a nice, friendly Arab with a fondness for felching.