The Parasolvite delegation set off in high spirits and quaint and curious convoy. Dexter sat at the wheel of "Buffy", his scarlet, open-topped roadster; his stetson set at a jaunty angle, his jaw defying the wind. Beside him Astrid's scarf fluttered in the breeze, her flying goggles accrued pulped insect.

Matt Fnooker and his sister Millicent, with Belladonna Mistral riding pillion, flanked the sportscar on their souped up Vespas whilst I brought up the rear on a 1917 Harley Davidson to which was appended a sidecar bearing the wizened, wool-wrapped frame of Henri, my constant companion.

Above us fluttered ATM, strapped tightly to the wooden structure of his balsa wood Ornithopter. His hemp and canvas wings cast shadows across all six lanes of the motorway as we gobbled up the hundred or so miles of M1 to Leeds

As we sped we Hydrated; deep and hard to achieve a measured freddle. At this stage many things became possible not least of which was the brain to brain short wave transmission known as the Harmony of the Hydrator. So it was that ATM guided our journey from above with etheric ethanol mind messages, alerting us to traffic problems, round churches, crop circles and speed cops…

The founding Congress Of The Stewart Home Society took place on the field to the right of the Royal Armouries in Leeds on Sunday.

Although we arrived in the City in good time, Henri had seemingly over-indulged in a claret based Hydration liquor and was much the worse for wear. The trek on foot along the canal was therefore frought with dangers. I feared for the old bastards safety but he refused my arm and would let neither Millie nor Matt carry him.

Once at the tented area we found a throng had already gathered and many a face pierced the crowd with its familiar cast. Here were jugglers and stalls selling cous-cous and garlic mushrooms. Brass bands plied their trade and brightly coloured barges gave pleasure cruises along the canal for the assembled neoists, footpads, astronauts and ethnomethodologists.

Misfortunately we had missed the opening speech by Micah the Space Bunny, High Priest of the Home Cult. But we knew much of the scripture by heart.

The Mission Statement of the SHS (based loosely on the preamble to the constitution of the Stalin Society) was to promote the work of Stewart Home and to document its myriad aspects. The Society would make preparations for the death of His flesh-form upon which it would step into the role of defending the Great Man's reputation against bourgeois / imperialist / revisionist slander and distortion.

The SHS, with Micah at the helm, had done a sterling job in setting up a website and assembling the key texts of the Home canon for sale and distribution.

In addition, the Society had invested heavily in a large fridge in which to keep various fluids and samples gleaned from Stewart's person until such time as cloning technology comes of age...

Hell! The tannoy announced that the next speaker was to be Beauchamp from the Red Republic of Parasol but Henri really wasn't up to it. Dex slapped him about the head a few times and threw iced water in his face but to no avail.

He rallied just a little when a passing flaneur by the name of Markie gave him a few sips of Pansie Cola yet narcolepsy soon strengthened its grip. Even his customary carafe of claret, delivered intranasally, and an amphetamine suppository, failed to rouse him and he remained unready and unsteady.

Nothing else for it. I took my lover's place and, mounting a makeshift stage of beer crates and wooden pallettes, I shouted above the din to outline some of our recent deliberations regarding a suitable burial site and / or monument for Mr Home.

We Parasolvites had suggested that a plot in the Pere Lachaise cemetary, Paris, was the obvious choice and we thought that if Home could be entombed somewhere directly between Oscar Wilde's Sphinx and Jim Morrison's graffitied grotto then a new and puissant mini-leyline would be created which would greatly enhance the psychogeographic ambience of the necropolis.

It had been intimated to us that the plot believed by us currently to hold Jim Morrison's formerly bloated corpse (and believed by an assortment of cranks to hold no such thing) was actually leased on a short-term contract and in due course the Lizard King would be exhumed and repatriated to America.

This might allow us to use the royalties from Home's Last Book to buy up the plot for our own recreational sex-death magicking.

However, to complicate matters Space Bunny had suggested a plot beside Simone De Beauvoir and Astrid favoured the leafy glade of Guillaume Apollinaire. Out of this web of grave confusion I declared the urgency of a full and thorough psychogeographic study of Pere Lachaise lest dangerous splits deplete our ranks…

Next to speak was Luther Blissett of the Plagiarist International who bore a letter from Stewart Himself, which he read aloud. The gist of it was that Home had always wanted to be cremated rather than buried but was willing to forgo that pleasure in the interests of Art.

His one stipulation was that He be buried face down so that, having done so much in life to promote the practice of radical necrophilia, any horny burrower would be afforded easy access to take their sordid pleasure.

Luther then told a string of dirty jokes and quirky anecdotes about Home's sexual delusions and beastly appetites.

Our stomachs turned to lunch and Micah distributed loaves of Hovis and diced fish fingers amongst us. We erected our finest travelling brolly, a Home from Home beneath which to entertain friends old and new.

As we munched and mumbled, a lively commotion erupted from the region of a nearby grassy knoll.

Dexter and Belladonna went to investigate accompanied by a squad of crash-helmeted stewards from Ante-Diluvian Action. They all returned minutes later frog-marching a pair of hapless gents by the neck scruffs and clutching a satchel of leaflets which sported the logo "Assassins Of Allah".

Fortunately it took but a couple of minutes to ascertain that the newcomers, although unable or unwilling to give a thorough account of their activities and proclivities, were neither fascists nor agents of the New Labourgeoisie. Judging them substantiallly harmless, we acceeded to their request that they be allowed to address the serried ranks of proletarians gathered here in conclave.

The Hasishim read from prepared texts outlining two further options for the disposal of Stewart's mortal cadaver.

Although I have now misplaced the relevant sheets from my notepad, I believe the jip of their scurrilous jive was that Home should have his ashes scattered in the Thames at the point where the shit barges formerly dumped, or his remains should be interred in Golders Green, so creating a 'skinhead shrine' in an area of Jewish population. Apparently there would be a subtle irony in this.

Suddenly a pair of scales fell from Henri's eyes and onto his lap. "Bugger me guv'nor" he quoth in his finest Dick Van Dyke chirpy cockney patter, "If it ain't Fred 'n' Ginger of the old Virtual Psychogeographical Association! Lord luvaduck..."

But, before he could finish, the Veepatistas melted into the proletarian milieu and were gone leaving my poor Henri to wrestle with a conscience torn between his membership of and cordial relations with the VPA and his active promotion of the Stewart Home Society. In the end Henri did what any man would have done in his untenable and attenuated position: he bent both ways, unzipped his skin and slid down the greasy pole of his spine and back to the Land Of Nod...

"And what of Home himself, on this fine late summer's day?" you ask.

Well, it had been strongly rumoured that he might put in an appearence, greeting the faithful, pressing the flesh and kissing unfortunate infants. Many had plucked out their own eyes and made themselves lame in the belly just for a chance to feel His healing touch upon their thighs, but it was not to be.

Yet, as the proceedings drew to a close with a rousing chorus of "There's No Place Like Home", a breathless idiot savant arose and declared that he had earlier seen a single-malt drenched, octogenarian tramp lavishing lewd affections on a sheep tethered outside The Three Legs on Head Row. He was reported to have been shouting at the various skinhead-types clustered about 'I am the last avant garde!'

"Shouldn't that be "avant baa'd" ?" weakly punned a wag from the crowd and we all fell about laughing.

The Stewart Home Society can be contacted at PO Box 1021, Edinburgh, EH8 9PW or

Send stamps and / or cash wrapped in a nice letter.

artschmart- journal of the plagiarist international, is published everywhere and at once but can be