Faggot throws the don

Don King hedged his political bets pretty well this time round, with contributions going to Dick Gephardt, George W and Carol Moseley Braun. He is not always so diplomatic.

A couple of years ago I went to the ICA to see an Israeli film about orthodox culture. There was a bomb scare just before it started, so I and half of Golders Green dutifully exited via the rear to Carlton House Terrace.

We’d just commenced the usual terrorism chit-chat when suddenly there was a shouting and and a hollering, and from Waterloo Place emerged a Cinderella carriage drawn by two white steeds and containing Mr King and a very large and aggrieved-looking man wearing pantomime crown and robes and flourishing a gold sceptre from Woolworth’s.

Seeing us gathered dumbstruck on the pavement, the great man’s brain whirled and clickety-clicked to a halt on the well-worn cogtooth labelled PR. As the carriage and accompanying stretches pulled up 50 yards down the road, my brain whirled too and I rushed up to the party.

“Mr King,” I panted, “I’ve always been an admirer of yours. Can I have your autograph?”

Mr King peered through his diamond-encrusted glasses, but not for long.

“Fuck off, faggot,” he said.

And, before I could thank him, he waddled off to stretch no 1, shouting “Mo mo mo, deme mas vino senorita,” leaving his companion, the future heavyweight deputy-champion of the world, to wonder why his manager’s London following seemed to consist almost exclusively of limp-wristed arty-farty Jewboys.

Don data via Tim Blair.

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