After buying a stake in Vice, you went for a beer with Shane Smith in Brooklyn. Was this the exact moment when hipsterism died?

Are you into really experimental and kinky sex, Claire?

No, but serious now, my darling, before we start this interview I need to ask you two important questions:

—Have you ever made out with Tony Blair???

and

—are you wearing any cell phones ????

(forget Brooklyn and all its dark overrated beers and nightmare flea markets. I’ve got my eyes on hipsters in much cooler places. Like Boise, ID and Madison, WI, where after coitus and a little bit of ceremonial cuddling and tweeting I like to sing lullabies about a mouse I bled, I mean “read,” in Madison, WI, my dreams are laced with these cheesy, I mean “easy,” mice).

Why didn’t you drink tea?

I only drink tea with real rock stars like Barrack Obama!

This is a time of fascists. Young women of marriageable age are doing unconscionable things. I mean they are tearing down institutions and the free-nipple-exposure-zone-paradises of Page Three. And before I forget, Claire, why haven’t you accepted any of my invitations to network with me on MySpace? That’s the future, Claire, the future.

Not newspapers. Nah, now I only wipe my arse with toothpaste. I mean “newspapers.” You won’t believe all the things I’ve plugged, I mean “done,” with newspapers. I’m a paper Lion. I am a raging hardcore multilingual acrobat-bear-nose-Jobe fart. Did you know that in most of Asia and other Moslem places of worship and banter they paint my face on ducks they hang up in their tea shops (and this, I hear, is a sign of great abuse, I mean “respect,” for powerful, virile men like me and Bugs Bunny, I mean “Vlad the Impaler,” I mean “Putin” the impotent). Instruments on mermaids singing my headline face!

When you tweet, are you actively trying to appear a nutjob?

Pistachios have always been a great mentalator. I mean, “motivator.” They balance my ego like hot air. Or an old trombone. My mom used to give me pistachios for every squirrel I killed and gutted and skinned and put in the pot for that night’s dinner. I hail from the earth, Claire, and hence I would return draped in white, cold glowing transmissions of your bounty.

My trousers are a party, Claire. Squirrels gnawing away like a delivering Doglan Thomas, dancing away on the spongy cliffs. Are you Welsh, Claire? I mean you seem Bi-Polar? And was that an old slow mole I just saw scurrying down through the tunnel of my brain?! Make way, Claire, the mole is ready. The mole is leaping up, fork-tongued. The mole is gnawing at the flowers of the heart.

Ive eaten mushrooms like a God in every corner of this heathen planet. I’ve played Cricket. Ive excelled at Oxford. Ive gargled with Manchester United, pissed out BBC (big beautiful creampuffs). When you see yon splendid alban peacock climbing down sky on slumped-dick, I mean “judgment”, day, Claire, that will be me.

Are you not tempted to delete your tweet saying that all Egyptians are white?

These people, not aliens, built the pyramids. These people, not aliens, invented paper. I love paper. And I love the shape of Egyptian heads. You know, I’m something of an amateur Phrenologist. And this means I give good head. Rest your godhead in my lap here Claire and I’ll tell the future. And this future is filled with soft, luxurious toilet tissue: you hugging me while I’m on the toilet, Claire: me, as an old man! And complete at your mercy. Your deadlines and edits. Your scoops. Can you believe that? And you my Florence Nightingale. In tights. And biting at my neck like a stoat.

Thanks, Claire. You have midwifed me. The egg has dropped. The gravy.

99% are cheering in the showers. Egyptians included, with one big eye in each illuminated forehead. They are like a spread of caviar. I waltz through sampling with you on my arm. My altar.

Leave the alleyway Rupert. Show some fucking respect!

I knew you were a cop, Claire. I knew it. Dripping with cell phones. Hordes of little men looking to bust my balls and shake down my stories. But your fingers are Yale pretty. Yale effective.

One night in Madison, Wisconsin I was in bed with a mouse who had fingers just like yours. And this little mouse, so beautiful to behold, spoke in such blue tiltillating felch-tones. Such holes of office. And responsibility. And I was equal to the mouse in charge. In coy gentility.

Come visit me in my dwindling messiah space. wink-wink. For some tea or a pink marshmallow drink.

Not so rough with the handcuffs, Claire. I’m an old man. Tsk. Tsk. Tssssssssk.

I’m a frail old man. Nutting.

Just nutting, my darling. Nutting on your front door every morning.

 
 Bio: Rupert is waiting for you with a bowl of aged nuts