I am in St John, in the middle of eating a small lunch of grilled ox heart, green beans and pickled walnut when one of the magazine’s junior staff, Sebastien, appears at my table, a compelling vision in a pair of remarkably tight jeans.“Sebastien! The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape,” I say although I doubt his education at a former polytechnic extended to Shakespeare.“The Editor wants you to check out the Queer British Art show at Tate,”…
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