It was always my ambition to talk like Oscar Wilde. Sadly, my disposition being morbid and the sole delight I derive from social intercourse being that of imagining my interlocutor is dying a hideous death, I trade rather in epitaphs than epigrams.
It was suggested to me that I might benefit from Gay Conversation therapy. I said 'fuck off and die already, you great big ponce.' 'You are repeating yourself', was the reply. 'Fuck off and fucking die already, you big fat poncey ponce.' I shot back, surprising myself by my own lapidary felicity of wit. Then it occurred to me- perhaps Oscar Wilde's secret was that he found his own repartee as astonishing and intoxicating as I had discovered my own to be. Maybe that is the only real Gay Conversation Therapy we all need.
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