BY NOEL FIELDING
I remember the first time I met Gust the Fox I was standing on his head and suddenly, completely out of nowhere he reached into his pocket, pulled out a rusty knife, and sliced open my nut sack. Hundreds and Thousands poured out all over the grass and I was rushed to hospital. Five minutes after we arrived Gus had sex with an Indian doctor in the bins where they keep used bandages. What a character.
The great thing about Gus is he'll go to extraordinary lengths just to have a giggle. One time he convinced a surgeon friend of his to swap our heads. When the anaesthetic wore off I spent the week scaring turkeys on an organic range with the canadian band Rush. Gus went completely mental and ended up on record breakers giving himself a blow job in front of Roy Castle.
As soon as I start thinking about Gus the memories come flooding back. One time we broke into Paperchase, flooded the place, and re-filmed the Life of Pi using an ashtray and a dead kitten.
I can also recall with great fondness the time Gus gnawed a perfectly formed hole in the shape of number seven through one of my ankles while I was asleep. He dragged me to an alley and shone coloured lights through the hole onto a series of dustbin lids, charging some posh people £15 to watch. We were immediately nominated for the Turner Prize. We were favourites to win until Gus urinated onto Nicholas Sorota's oyster card, then tried to pass off his actions as a statement in support of the rights for bears to have sex with Sean Penn. At this point Nicholas punched Gus in the face wearing a solid gold mitten. Gus' skull crumbled into a fine white powder and for a week his head resembled a woman's purse, soft and folding in on itself. I managed to give it back some shape using a wire coat hanger as the frame work and padding it out with pieces of ripped up dungarees from a clown we had accidentally murdered the night before.
He once told me he was allergic to sitcoms and ham and i'll never forget the day we visited Watney's pond and convinced 150,000 tadpoles that they all had Saar's. We laugh about that now but at the time it was hysterical.
When Gus told me he was planning to write this book I immediately stuffed him into an old rollerskate, forced some felt tips into his eye sockets, and pushed him down Primrose Hill into a barrage of heavy traffic. The last image I have of Gus is of him being dragged towards Camden under a black cab, sparks flying everywhere. I remember feeling a strange mixture of sad and horny.
I love Gus like a brother, even though he gave me a yeast infection. He is one of the truly great foxes. He's a top bloke, a good mate, and an utter penis. He's a one off, and in a world of reality tv and celebrity bullshit we need Gus more than ever. Enjoy his book (I reckon it will be shit)
Cheers Gus, (don't ever contact me again.)
Noel X
Get a 'Gus The Fox: Crapbook' right fucking now - http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gus-Fox-Scrapbook-Matt-Haydock/dp/1780721773