A bored bawd, George Rostov decided to chronicle his repulsive life as a wart-ridden Soho escort specialising in 'perversion, philandering, and the petting of portly politicians" in the form of a series of vulgar novels and poetry collections, some early (and somewhat dog-eared) editions of which now fetch upto 60p on ebay. Despised by the literary scene, hated by the intelligensia and quite often harrassed by unruly (not to mention perpetually inebriated) members of the Croydon Women's Sewing Society, he leads a lonely life in a flea-infested bedsit in which his only occasional visitors are married men dressed in grey raincoats asking if the Swedish masseur still lives in the flat above.

Here, gathered for the first time, are an assortment of video clips and live performances of the modern day Baudelaire, a writer whom the Thamesmead Times proclaimed as 'the scandelous saviour of queer-lit', and whom CrimeWatch branded as 'a cheap and nasty handbag snatcher'.

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 Dangermouse 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 calory 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.