Where have you gone proud clown-artist? This was the cry across the country as things went ‘all quiet on the Bortuskan Front’. Which is a real front.
Speculation has been rife since the website of the in-famous Bortusk Leer mysteriously disappeared last year, much in the manner of the bodice of the count of Salzburg’s niece, last time Leer was in town (along with the family plate and her virginity. Obviously.)
But fear not, as ever reports of his death (or indeed life) are wildly exaggerated. Leer has been forced underground by the powers that seek to tear him from your hearts. But it will take more that insidious state sponsored suppression to hold back our man, Fearless, Reckless and Feckless champion of Art Comedy Bortusk Leer.
Brute-al
There are those, dear reader, in the former soviet state of Slovenia who don’t appreciate Art-Comedy. We call these people Cunts. Just not to their faces because make no mistake, they’ll wash your brain and sell you to the circus as a shaved ape from Borneo. It’s happened before. And it is these people who have sought to squeeze the life out of art-comedy and bind and kill it’s hero. Using chains. And death. But who are these sinister barbarians?
We’ve all heard of the Secret Police, but have you ever heard of the Secret Secret Police? Of course not, they’re secret. Do try to keep up.
Head of this den of vipers is the tyrannical Brute Hands, Monstrous She-Beast of Gorizia, Butcher of Basingstoke (whilst on holiday) and scourge of all that’s holy. Yes, she’s a twisted cow. Cursed by cruel fate with a body that rejects all but the blandest foods. She despises nuts, dairy, spice and variety in all their forms and has harboured a terrifying hatred of our hero since waking one morning to find a neon monster plastered to the inside of her toilet bowl. An obnoxious meal of decadent gluten puked unfortunately on the floor and a peanut spinning to a stop in the dawn light by a window slowly banging in a breeze that carried just a hint of fading laughter.
Well, who hasn’t gone out drinking accidentally climbed in through the window of the Stasi leader’s home, puked a meal of horrific wheat on the floor and then scampered off into the sunrise, cackling? YOU! That’s who. Leer’s was the crime and Leer be hounded…
Breasts
But what to do? What would you do? What did Leer do? Pursued by a raging alcoholic, allergy riddled monster from the depths of the primal subconscious with the full force of a government terror machine behind her. Go into hiding? You bet your arse he did.
Yes, our hero was forced underground. We can’t say where exactly. But it’s Bath. And there he bathes. Silently waiting, thinking, spraying, plotting his revenge on the on the merciless harridan who has attempted to keep him from you, his beloved public. But fear not. When you see the monsters capering across the walls of your city, you’ll know Bortusk Alan Leer is on the comeback.
This is the information age. The Internet belongs to all but so do the streets. So peer down alleys, trawl through websites, look for neon handprints on the breasts of ‘ladies’ and you will find him. Wherever the bland and boring threaten, wherever a pompous artist is blowing smoke out of his arse and up that of another, wherever all the booze is not quite finished and a young lady may be in need of a fluorescent hero. He’ll be there…
As for me, I will return when I have more news of our intrepid hero. Til then, farewell, and look to the walls…
