A: Or so you think. I might be Boy George pulling your leg.
Q: Pull my leg and I'll break your nose. You're not that guy Tate, back from the dead?
A: The one painted up by some attention-seeking twat? Wow, look at that!
Q: Peace and Love, Twat. Wham Bam, Thank You for NOT Fucking Me, Ma'am. So, David, how's heaven?
A: Great: all the toothpicks and twat I can get into my gob! No, seriously, it's not nearly as nice as that 20 million dollar vacation home I had.
Q: In Brixton?
A: Are you fuckin' out of your mind? Are you from Mars or something? It's on the Caribbean island of Mustique.
Q: Ah. Very nice. Glad you made a lot of royalties before mp3 sharing came along.
A: I sold a lot of t-shirts, too!
Q: I'll bet you did.
A: The best seller said on it "I'm with Stupid." I wore it when I was out with Angie.
Q: I remember the one that read: "I was in bed with Mick Jagger but all I got was this t-shirt."
A: How about "I'm Putting Out Fires With Gassy Farts?" Nah. That didn't sell too well. I wrote "Heroes" expecting the Subway sandwich company to pick it up for an ad campaign and promo t-shirts and hats. Never happened. Next question?
Q: When was the last time you thought of Brixton?
A: When was the last time I had a hemorrhoid? I miss Brixton like I miss having somebody punch me in the eye. Those yobbo-slobs want to pretend that I'm their boy? That Brixton creates genuises? That's pathetic.
Q: You can't blame people from being in a state of shock, grief and sadness.
A: Jerry Hall engaged to Rupert Murdoch? Yeah, I know.
Q: NO, I mean YOU dying after recording a mediocre album that's supposedly about your own death.
A: Blackstar? What makes you think it's about ME? BLACK STAR, get it? It could be about my wife, iPod.
Q: Iman.
A: Whatever. Jeez, speaking of twat, did you see Angie on that "Big Brother" show? That slayed me!
Q: Oh, you still have that wicked sense of humor.
A: That show has that guy David Gest doing a tribute to me. Puts make-up on his face and sucks cock.
Q: It must be gratifying that your death is being treated like the crucifixion of Jesus, the assassination of Lennon, and the jailing of Gary Glitter, all rolled into one. Look at that shit down there.
A: Yes, it's remarkable. Keith Richards didn't get anything like that.
Q: Keith Richards is still alive.
A: WHAT?
Q: Before you go-
A: I'm already gone!
Q: I mean, before you go back to heaven —
A: Christ yeah, it takes a LONG time. I have a connecting bus and train that takes me through Grimsby and Cleethorpes and Hell —
Q: I'd like to know, is dying difficult?
A: Oh, it's done every day on Kickstarter. Ask Shauna Cuntwell. Ask Barren Lock. Ask any of those gits who die when some wanker doesn't give 'em money for some toy they want. Me, I put out an album and was walking around New York City being recognized by assholes every fucking day, and I could've been kicking back at my 20 million dollar vacation home on that island in the sun. I could've bought a fucking rocket and launched myself toward Mars and ended up falling back down to Earth. That would've been spectacular, huh? Instead I just plodded along, did publicity, hung around with iPad —
Q: That's Iman —
A: And SHE was on fuckin' Twitter, man. Does that tell you that dying is no big deal and doesn't mean that much? It does give a bunch of gits in Brixton an excuse to feel good about living in a place that I sure never wanted to see again! Hey, my ride's here.
Q: Is that Brett Smiley driving?
A: Who?
Q: David, will you be coming back soon?
A: Yeah. I put in a bid on some used knickers on eBay. Let me know if I win, will you?
Q: Sure.
A: Oh, and there's a guy selling a subliminal audio CD on how to wet your nappy! Ch-ch-ch-CHANGES!!
Q: Please shut up.
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