A HETEROPHOBE SPEAKS OUT

MR STEVEN FAG, TEE-VEE'S MR SPERM.

WELL, MY DEARS, I ABSOLUTELY CAN AND DO TALK ABOUT ANY OLD TOSH BUT MY FAVOURITE TOPIC IS SPERM; SMUT, SHIT, SPERM, THAT'S THE STUFF FOR ME. YUMMY, YUMMY, YUMMY, I'VE GOT SP[ERM IN MY TUMMY, AS OSCAR WILDE WOULD HAVE SAID, WERE HE AS LABORIOUSLY CLEVER AS ME. I MEAN I.

Pathetic tellypoof, Steven Fag, above, rejoices in a relationship with a young actor, less than half his age.  Steven Webb, 25 is probably with Fag not for his money but out of very genuine affection, and deep love, and the complete absence of self respect which only "actors" can manage,  the young tart. Having spent his life cottaging and squiring younger men, Steven Fry's acid  pronouncements on heterosexuality are fascinating.

The wretched, old degenerate, Fry, is rarely off the screens, his every laboured, not very  bon mot deemed by the Fag BBC to be worth recording and broadcasting;  his every barren, cliched inspiration worthy of a series; nobody has ever broadcast from America, let's have Fry do it, but, Hey, why don't we have him drive a London taxicab, to make it truly original, a left-hand drive taxi, obviously, he's not that adventurous.

  Clunking, leaden and as witty as a miscarriage,  Fry's ouevre is rooted more in Coronation Street than anything else, plummy and self-regarding, his delivery, stripped of it's rehearsed  verbosity, is just dismal tut-tutting soap opera.  But for all his forced, louche joviality, Fry  represents the dark underbelly of life, bruiting his hatred of normal people at every opportunity. No Quentin Crisp, he, dazzling, original and bold;  no, prolix knobjokes, year after year. Fry and his producers have relentlessly  mined the same, tedious, low-grade seam for decades, a faux coyness,  a facetious scholarship,  peppered  with  the occasional inflammatory jibe of the aging but always phony enfant terrible, he really is shit. Now, though, he exposes himself as more Kenneth Williams than Oscar Wilde, vicious and fucked up, nasty and spiteful.

Attention-seeking in a rag called Attitude, reprinted in the Observer this week - and let's face it, they don't have much else to print, Andrew Gobsley and Nick Cohn, Jesus fucking wept -  Fry claims that women don't enjoy sex but merely barter it in exchange for emotional security, only gay men truly enjoy sex, furtively knob-sucking in the bushes; risky, promiscuous anonymous sex is modern faggery's gift to the world,  and poor, pitiful, normal people can't enjoy it, thus:

Broadcaster and writer Stephen Fry has tried to establish himself as an unlikely authority on female sexuality, claiming that straight women only go to bed with men "because sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship".

In uncharacteristically extreme comments, the openly gay Twitter champion said he believed most straight men felt that "they disgust women" as they "find it difficult to believe that women are as interested in sex as they are".

"For good reason," he declares in a candid interview in the November issue of Attitude magazine. "If women liked sex as much as men, there would be straight cruising areas in the way there are gay cruising areas. Women would go and hang around in churchyards thinking: 'God, I've got to get my fucking rocks off', or they'd go to Hampstead Heath and meet strangers to shag behind a bush. It doesn't happen. Why? Because the only women you can have sex with like that wish to be paid for it."

Fry, 53, continues: "I feel sorry for straight men. The only reason women will have sex with them is that sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship with a man, which is what they want," he said. "Of course, a lot of women will deny this and say, 'Oh no, but I love sex, I love it!' But do they go around having it the way that gay men do?"

Of course, the nasty old poof is about as relevant  to debates about contemporary sexuality as is David Thank God I'm Gay Starkey,  less adroit than Fry at  disguising his  misanthropy but part of the same revolting spectrum of heterophobia. LipService, currently on BBC Three, says far more about  Queerlove than any of Fry's ghastly over-written double entendres, his mixture of paranoia and willy-waving.  You would think that his custard creme of spermjokes, knobjokes, arsejokes and  awful sub-Wildean posturing, all written for him by bright young things, would by now have begun to rot the naional tooth,  yet Fry is immensely popular on Twitter, whatever that is - and one can only guess  that it is one of those meaningless excuses for dialogue, for cyber avenue friendships - and surely his  fawning Twitterees can't all be sperm-guzzling,  young wannabe actors, cruising for a gobby SugarDaddy's bitter ejaculate, can they?

Maybe, Steven Fag is as aware as are we in Ishmaelia, of his fading charms, his increasingly lacklustre persona; his best work, truly comic genius, Professor Trefussis, for Radio Four, is twenty five years' passed now and he seeks the limelight of provocation. And maybe, for the best, the noblest  of reasons, we have indulged Fry and his chums a blowjob too far, too much smut cannot but be bad for the children.  He is perfectly entitled to his bizarre opinions  and  there is absolutely no reason for his voice to be stilled, it's just that, at our peril, we are too timid in response to him. Fuck off back to the cottage, gayboy, might better suit our purposes, and leave sex and reproduction to those best suited to it, best equipped for it.

"In the interview, he also speaks with frankness about his experiences in the "extraordinary underworld" of cottaging in his youth, cautioning, however, that while he was "slightly obsessed" with the clandestine practice as a teenager it was more for the graffiti and sense of solidarity."

QUEEN OF SMUT, STEVEN FAG.