A po­lar­is­ing per­sona and oc­ca­sional comic thief he may be – though few match the so­cial me­dia hype this guy de­liv­ers. We run riot with Josh Ostro­vsky for a day, to see what all the fuss is about.

"You should see this. I’m just out get­ting cwaf­fee and there’s two – what are they? Al­pacas? – in the back of a beat-up con­vert­ible with some fat dude with crazy hair at the wheel. I don’t know what the ac­tual fuck is go­ing on. Shit is se­ri­ously fucked up. Wait, I gotta take a pic­ture. Call you right back.” So says a be­mused se­cu­rity guard on his phone as he walks by. It’s an ac­cu­rate, al­beit salty, de­scrip­tion of the scene. And if we’re go­ing to split ul­trafne hairs, they’re lla­mas, not al­pacas. A run­ner then rounds the cor­ner and per­forms a text­book dou­ble take. “Fat Jew!” she screams. It’s not an anti-semitic slur, rather, she’s recog­nised the driver with the ridicu­lous hair as the @the­fat­jew­ish of In­sta­gram fame, aka Josh Ostro­vsky, a 33-yearold New Yorker who over the past year has blown up to be­come the most in­fa­mous co­me­dian in the world. It’s 9.30am on a sunny Oc­to­ber Fri­day and we’re un­der­neath Man­hat­tan Bridge in the DUMBO area of Brook­lyn. Ostro­vsky is here or­ches­trat­ing some “per­for­mance art” which he’ll re­lease on his In­sta­gram to help pro­mote forth­com­ing book, Money Pizza Re­spect. The lla­mas are get­ting feisty so Ostro­vsky leaps out the car while the an­i­mals’ han­dlers at­tempt to soothe them. They’ve been brought to the city from a farm in up­state New York, not in a truck but in the back of a saloon car, which smells, strongly, of the drop­pings that now cover the fat­tened back­seat. Even the lla­mas don’t seem happy about it. “Can I get a pic­ture?” says the run­ner, spot­ting her chance and hand­ing over an iphone. She con­tin­ues to jog on the spot, along­side Ostro­vsky, as GQ snaps away. She quickly views the pic­tures then hands the phone back de­mand­ing a bet­ter shot. It’s the frst of many pho­tos we’ll be asked to take for elated mem­bers of the pub­lic to­day – a day spent shad­ow­ing The Fat Jew. A crowd’s gath­ered as Ostro­vsky strips down, lit­er­ally stop­ping traffc while re­mov­ing his white hoodie (em­bla­zoned with the logo of a porn site) to re­veal a ro­tund, tat­tooed torso. A gold ‘chai’ (He­brew for life) medal­lion nes­tles in his cleav­age. One of his tat­toos reads ‘Mazel Tuff’; an­other is the Star of David formed by two pizza slices. “This is my re­li­gion,” he says while pluck­ing a chop­stick from his car­pet­bag to feed into the ver­ti­cal pony­tail of Jew-fro that shoots straight up from the crown of his oth­er­wise shaved head. He has var­i­ous names for this sig­na­ture hair­style: the “hair dildo”, “jew­ni­corn” and the “hairec­tion” which, he quips, he’s un­able to main­tain for long with­out sup­port. On top of his 111kg, 6ft 3 frame, it’s a foot­long divin­ing rod for trou­ble. Con­cerned the GQ shoot is at­tract­ing too much at­ten­tion, we move to a qui­eter lo­ca­tion a few streets away. As Ostro­vsky and his long-term col­lab­o­ra­tor Baron Von Fancy (a mul­ti­me­dia artist and child­hood friend, real name: Gor­don Steven­son) set up the next shot, a group of girls walk by. One of them is un­com­monly at­trac­tive and not shy about it, grab­bing one of the lla­mas by its leash and pos­ing next to Ostro­vsky like a pro. Turns out to be Martha Hunt, a Vic­to­ria’s Se­cret model. She im­me­di­ately posts the pic­ture to the 1.1 mil­lion fol­low­ers of her @marhunt In­sta­gram feed. “I haven’t been able to get an erec­tion in months but I just came close,” says Ostro­vsky as she skips away. The dick jokes are in­ces­sant. Mo­ments later, a van cruises past, one of the pas­sen­gers tak­ing a drive-by snap be­fore fick­ing the bird and shout­ing, “Fuck you, Fat Jew! Joke thief!”

Ostro­vsky is quite the opin­ion-split­ter. There are those who belly laugh at every­thing he posts and con­sider him a so­cial me­dia master. But haters also ex­ist, those who think he’s a par­a­site get­ting rich off oth­ers’ tal­ent. His In­sta­gram han­dle is a blend of his own pro­fane sense of hu­mour and a stream of un­known peo­ple’s jokes which, un­til be­ing re­cently called out, he used with­out at­tri­bu­tion – of­ten re­mov­ing the orig­i­na­tors’ de­tails. In Au­gust, when it was re­vealed he’d signed with top tal­ent agency CAA to push into Hol­ly­wood, the back­lash be­gan. Co­me­di­ans who’d been jus­ti­fa­bly grum­bling about hav­ing their jokes stolen joined forces to loudly call foul. Damn­ing ev­i­dence of his pla­gia­rism was com­piled and shared as stand-up comics wrote em­bit­tered pleas for peo­ple to boy­cott. It later emerged that Com­edy Cen­tral dropped a planned TV show they’d been de­vel­op­ing with him – though the net­work sub­se­quently claimed the de­ci­sion had noth­ing to do with the con­tro­versy. Ostro­vsky, who also has a tat­too of New York Mag­a­zine’s mast­head on his chest, re­sponded to the up­roar by is­su­ing a mea culpa, of sorts, via an in­ter­view on the mag­a­zine’s Vul­ture web­site, stat­ing: “I get it, I should have been pro­vid­ing at­tri­bu­tion for all posts.” And this: “I’m work­ing to add at­tri­bu­tion to ev­ery one of my posts, and will con­tinue to do so.” Also: “I will never again post some­thing that doesn’t have at­tri­bu­tion, be­cause I re­alise now that when the stage is large enough, and the voice is large enough, th­ese things mat­ter.” He has so far stayed true to his word. The portly dig­i­tal star is by no means the only per­son re­pur­pos­ing jokes in this man­ner. But along­side fel­low Insta-comic @fuck­jerry, he’s the most high profle. In­sta­gram, a stick­ler for strict rules on pla­gia­rism, took no ac­tion in this in­stance, though they’d pre­vi­ously sus­pended his ac­count on three sep­a­rate oc­ca­sions for in­ap­pro­pri­ate con­tent (the frst time af­ter he pho­to­shopped an adult man’s pe­nis on to a baby), hence hav­ing to change his han­dle from @fat­jew to @the­fat­jew and now, but who knows for how long, @the­fat­jew­ish. Af­ter be­ing banned in 2013 for rea­sons un­ex­plained, the self­con­fessed “ha­bit­ual line-crosser” chained him­self to In­sta­gram’s New York of­fces wear­ing a sand­wich board that read: ‘They’ve stolen my mem­o­ries, my free­dom of speech and the joy of those I bring laugh­ter to ev­ery sin­gle day… Join the fght, use #freefat­jew and de­mand they re­turn my In­sta­gram to me. Free­dom!!!!’ Within 15 min­utes of the protest be­ing live-blogged by – where Ostro­vsky was a then con­trib­u­tor – the com­pany re­in­stated his ac­count. As one of In­sta­gram’s big­gest stars, his posts av­er­age 200,000 ‘likes’ a pop. The images might not be orig­i­nal but his cap­tions are. One re­cent pic­ture showed the mes­sage ‘Home is where your Wifi con­nects au­to­mat­i­cally’, be­neath which the caption read: ‘Mean­ing not my par­ents house where the Wifi pass­word is RHXFGJIJ0000055$T.’ An­other is a pic­ture of a man who lives by the air­port in Mil­wau­kee stand­ing on his roof next to a huge sign he’s painted say­ing ‘Wel­come to Cleve­land’, in or­der to con­fuse pas­sen­gers as they fy over­head. The Ostro­vsky caption: ‘This dude’s name is Mark Gu­bin, and he’s a great fuck­ing Amer­i­can. Why can’t my dad be more like this? FUCK YOU DAD.’ In the past 12 months @the­fat­jew­ish’s fol­low­ing has ex­ploded from un­der 500,000 to… how many is it now? “I don’t know, I don’t keep track,” he dead­pans be­fore adding mock-pre­cisely: “6.1572 mil­lion.” Even his pet King Charles spaniel res­cue dogs, which he car­ries in a day-glow Baby­b­jörn, have size­able ac­counts. At the time of writ­ing Toast (@toast­meetsworld) had 311,000 fol­low­ers and mod­els Karen Walker sun­glasses, while Mup­pet (@mup­pet­sre­venge) claims a more mod­est 43,800 devo­tees.

Ostro­vsky’s rapidly be­come one of the most pow­er­ful author­i­ties of mil­len­ni­als, with the odd Bloomberg TV ap­pear­ance. In March, TIME mag­a­zine named him one of the ‘30 most in­fuen­tial peo­ple on the in­ter­net’, along­side Barack Obama, Bey­oncé and Justin Bieber. What the hell is an in­fuencer? “In lay­man’s terms, it means if you have a large fol­low­ing, either on­line or in real life, you can get paid to talk about stuff,” he says, can­didly. “Com­pa­nies pay me to put their prod­uct on Face­book/twit­ter/in­sta­gram and pre­tend that I use it so that teens who fol­low me will buy said prod­uct.” In the past year he’s shilled for brands in­clud­ing Burger King, Vir­gin Mobile and Bud Light. This New York sum­mer he was plas­tered top­less all over subway trains and buses as the bearded face of take­away app Seam­less. “Look at me. I’m the un­of­f­cial poster child for in­ter­net fame.” The Financial Times re­cently re­ported that Ostro­vsky earns around $8000 per spon­sored post – a size­able in­crease on the $3500 fgure quoted a year ago. It means he can com­fort­ably pay a month’s rent with just 140 char­ac­ters. Then there are per­sonal ap­pear­ances – for which he’s also hand­somely re­mu­ner­ated. Last year Ostro­vsky headed to Tampa, Florida, to judge a wet T-shirt con­test for preg­nant women (true) while Stella Ar­tois paid him to hit up the Cannes Film Fes­ti­val where he par­tied on a yacht with bil­lion­aire Saudis, a pet os­trich called Bradley Cooper and ac­tual Sharon Stone. He tells us a bil­lion­aire has just booked him for his daugh­ter’s ‘sweet’ six­teenth. “It’s an easy gig but it comes fraught with mo­ments of deep, deep self-ha­tred,” he quips. “But that’s ev­ery job, right? Over­all I feel in­cred­i­bly blessed to be able to call it my life while some peo­ple are slav­ing away do­ing lame stuff like be­ing teach­ers and doc­tors.”

Ostro­vsky grew up on the Up­per West Side, one of Man­hat­tan’s more salu­bri­ous neigh­bour­hoods, and was ed­u­cated at pri­vate school. His fa­ther, Saul, is a ra­di­ol­o­gist; his mother, Re­becca, was a nu­tri­tion­ist. How Jewish is the Fat Jew? “Re­li­giously, hmm, I used to go to the syn­a­gogue to pick up girls; cul­tur­ally, very much so – I have so much un­founded anx­i­ety; ge­net­i­cally, 100 per cent – my pu­bic hair’s longer than my pe­nis.” He has a body­build­ing younger brother whose name he tries to keep out of the press be­cause he works at the Pen­tagon. “[Your brother] makes up for every­thing you fucked up,” his fa­ther told him in a vice. com video about par­ent­ing a cou­ple of years back. “The fact that you are not dead or in pri­son is an ac­com­plish­ment.” Young Joshua had his frst taste of fame as a child ac­tor in a few TV com­mer­cials, though he says the ex­pe­ri­ence turned him into a brat. “I was like Mariah Carey at the height of her ca­reer, ex­cept with a tiny, lit­tle pe­nis.” He’s al­ways been pre­oc­cu­pied with his gen­i­talia. His Wikipedia en­try – which looks sus­pi­ciously like it’s been doc­tored in places for comedic ef­fect – says Ostro­vsky was ex­pelled from both Skid­more Col­lege and New York Univer­sity (rea­sons un­specifed) be­fore en­rolling at the State Univer­sity of New York at Al­bany from where he grad­u­ated with a de­gree in jour­nal­ism. It was here that he de­cided to em­bark on a ca­reer in be­ing “pro­fes­sion­ally ridicu­lous” mak­ing per­for­mance art. Not every­thing he’s done has hit the mark, but two of the more suc­cess­ful early videos in­volved run­ning spoof ft­ness classes for the home­less. One was a spin class con­ducted on New York’s pub­lic hire bikes in their dock­ing sta­tion, the other a Bikram yoga ses­sion held on a fe­ro­ciously hot subway plat­form in the height of sum­mer. And we rec­om­mend googling mock re­al­ity show, Girl­hat­tan, in which Ostro­vsky played a New York fash­ion PR girl – think Chris Lil­ley. What does his Dad think of him now? “Dad doesn’t ex­actly know what I do. He tells his friends I’m an adult en­ter­tainer, which is prob­a­bly not the best thing to tell them. He lit­er­ally can­not be­lieve that this is some­thing that makes money and that I have em­ploy­ees who I give den­tal in­sur­ance to.” Ostro­vsky has three in­terns – each re­port­edly forced to en­dure a Hunger Games type trail to get the po­si­tion – who work out the back of a nail salon in Queens, min­ing the in­ter­net for meme gold. Oc­ca­sion­ally, they get caught up in the car­nage. One of his as­sis­tants was pic­tured be­ing tat­tooed by a ‘grandma with cataracts’ as part of Bud Light’s #up­for­what­ever so­cial me­dia cam­paign. An­other was flmed top­less get­ting into a bath of ra­men noo­dles for a video stunt.

The llama shoot in Brook­lyn wrapped and it’s lunchtime. The orig­i­nal idea was to head for a mani-pedi, then on to Ostro­vsky’s favourite strip club where they do a three-course meal for $10. “I don’t go for the girls, I go for the cae­sar salad.” Plans have changed and in­stead we’re head­ing to the Mu­seum of Nat­u­ral His­tory cafe on the Up­per West Side, near where he grew up. We meet Ostro­vsky’s man­ager, Alex, out­side the mu­seum. Both men place a pro­tec­tive hand in front of their tes­ti­cles on greet­ing each other. Ap­par­ently they try to catch the other off guard with a punch to the balls. It speaks vol­umes for their work­ing re­la­tion­ship. The en­trance hall, with its life-size di­nosaur skele­tons, is heav­ing. “This is where I used to meet my pot dealer, in the foyer,” re­calls Ostro­vsky. “He wasn’t very well – he used to drink those milk cap­sules you get in ho­tel rooms. He’d sip them like es­pres­sos. But he sold great pot.” Ostro­vsky’s ex­per­i­mented with drugs a great deal – there’s noth­ing he hasn’t tried. “I love drugs. Love them. Love-love-love them. Kids, stay in drugs – don’t do school.” Like Jamie Oliver’s worst night­mare, the mu­seum cafe­te­ria’s menu is com­i­cally bad. And it’s full of kids. Ostro­vsky or­ders the house spe­cialty: a plate of di­nosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. We opt for a hotdog be­fore tak­ing a seat. Again, ev­ery­one is star­ing. “Let’s Lady and the Tramp that dog!” bel­lows Ostro­vsky, putting one end of it in his mouth and en­cour­ag­ing GQ to eat from the other, so as we meet in the mid­dle. The cou­ple on the next ta­ble get up and move. Over lunch we dis­cuss his many busi­ness in­ter­ests. As Woody Allen fa­mously said, 80 per cent of suc­cess is show­ing up. And Ostro­vsky is do­ing so every­where – you can’t fault the guy’s work ethic, he’s a doer and he’s pro­lifc. “I’m try­ing to go a lit­tle more off the URL and get a lit­tle more into the IRL,” he of­fers. Trans­la­tion: off the in­ter­net and into real life. “Some peo­ple say, do one thing and do it well, I say, do many things and do them very mediocrely.” As for over­ex­po­sure, it’s not some­thing he fears. “Set the bar low and step right over it.” In the sum­mer of 2014, the Hamp­tons – New York’s an­swer to Syd­ney’s North­ern Beaches – ran dry of rosé. And so this past sum­mer The Fat Jew launched White Girl Rosé in part­ner­ship with

“Celebrity is su­per crazy, it gives me a fear-boner. But as ter­ri­ble as get­ting slan­dered in the me­dia is, I’m into it.”

his co-writer David Oliver Co­hen, his brother Tan­ner Co­hen and Lara Schoen­hals (the writ­ing team be­hind @babe­walker on In­sta­gram and Twit­ter’s @white­grl­prob­lem). ‘It’s free range, mac­ro­bi­otic, fair trade, grass fed, con­fict free, cage free, low carb and gluten free,’ reads the de­scrip­tion on the wine’s web­site. ‘And de­li­cious enough to put in your ce­real, yet in­ex­pen­sive enough to fll a Jacuzzi to sit in with some close friends.’ If you call $25 a bot­tle in­ex­pen­sive. One Man­age­ment Agency – who boast su­per­mod­els Bar Rafaeli, Clau­dia Schif­fer and Karolina Kurkova on their books – signed Ostro­vsky as a plus-size model this July. GQ frst met Ostro­vsky dur­ing New York Fash­ion Week a month back, when he put on a ‘Dad­bod’ cat­walk show mod­elled by real dads he’d mainly found on Craigslist. At the time it wasn’t clear whether or not it was a joke. But plus-size mod­el­ling is some­thing he’s tak­ing se­ri­ously – as se­ri­ously as it’s pos­si­ble to take any­thing from a man who ea­gerly in­hales bread­crumbed stegosauruses. “I was [orig­i­nally] do­ing pho­to­shoots be­cause I en­joy be­ing in front of the cam­era. But then, all of a sud­den, I started get­ting th­ese emails from kids say­ing things like, ‘Thanks for mak­ing it cool to have some small breasts as a man.’ And I was like, ‘Wait a minute, maybe I can do some good here.’ There are no guys with girthy bod­ies be­ing repped. Plus-sized fe­male mod­els have be­come re­ally in­spi­ra­tional but men don’t have that. Not ev­ery guy can get those weird deep lines that go down to the gen­i­tals, you know? I want to pop­u­larise the Shrek- bod. I’m try­ing to in­spire peo­ple with medi­ocre bod­ies as it’s OK to let your­self go and not care. It’s all good.”

At the end of 2014 Ostro­vsky mar­ried his long-term part­ner, Katie Sturino, a strik­ing 5ft 11in, 34-year-old who runs her own Pub­lic Re­la­tions com­pany called Tin­der. Her In­sta­gram profle reads: “I was Tin­der be­fore it was Tin­der but now ev­ery­one thinks I’m that Tin­der.” On re­cently be­ing asked by Mash­able what she does day to day, she said: “I’m ba­si­cally a pro­fes­sional selfe taker. Peo­ple throw their phone at me on the side­walk.” We feel her pain. She also has a plus-size fash­ion blog called The 12ish Style with the tagline, ‘Style for the size 12ish-18ish girls liv­ing in a size two world.’ Ostro­vsky’s new book, Money Pizza Re­spect, won’t trou­ble the Pulitzer Prize com­mit­tee, but to use the acronymic par­lance of our time, there are many LOLS, ROFLS and LMFAOS. Ul­ti­mately, read­ing it will leave you queasy – with a need to re­bal­ance the de­praved de­bauch­ery by com­sum­ing Wordsworth while lis­ten­ing to Beethoven and drink­ing kale juice. The book will doubt­less sell well. If it reaches No.1 on The New York Times best­seller list, Ostro­vosky has vowed to le­gally change his name to ‘#1 New York Times best­seller Josh Ostro­vsky’. “I’m do­ing this to be­come the book industry’s ac­ci­den­tal hero, to rein­vig­o­rate read­ing on a mass scale.” Eigh­teen months was spent writ­ing it, “dredg­ing up hor­ri­ble mem­o­ries from my past to en­ter­tain you.” He says he’s never worked so hard. “I haven’t sniffed coke off a strip­per’s C-sec­tion scar in months,” reads the in­tro­duc­tion. “My pe­nis hasn’t been used in so long that it’s col­lect­ing dust – if you wanted to give me head, you’d have to blow on it frst, like peo­ple do when they fnd an old book in movies.” It’s part mem­oir, part fan­tasy. It in­cludes, for ex­am­ple, a bizarre short story of erotic fc­tion about an imag­ined three­some with Kim Kar­dashian and Kayne West. But even the au­to­bi­o­graph­i­cal chap­ters should be taken with a sea-ful of salt. (The book’s de­scrip­tion of his web se­ries, ‘Hook­ers Do­ing Non­sex­ual Stuff’, doesn’t quite tally with the videos on his Youtube chan­nel.) The chap­ters are in­ter­spersed with ‘chill zones’, to make the book more di­gestible to those usu­ally ac­cus­tomed to bite-size so­cial me­dia graz­ing. “It’s pretty crazy that peo­ple still read books at all. It’s so ’90s,” he says.

Ev­ery so of­ten there are a few pages of off-colour car­toons, or a haiku, such as, ‘Please don’t hold the door / If I’m like 12 feet away / I HATE THAT WEIRD JOG.’ The most trou­bling chap­ter is one de­tail­ing Ostro­vsky’s de­praved sex with groupies. “Most hu­mans aren’t on my level of de­viance,” he writes. What must his wife think of all this? While he’s only too happy to em­bar­rass his par­ents and even his grand­par­ents for the sake of a cheap laugh, he leaves Sturino out of it – not once men­tioned in the book. “The in­ter­net is beau­ti­ful, my favourite place on earth. And yet it’s also a fuck­ing trash can, an end­less ocean of hor­ren­dous­ness,” he re­cently told the FT. “And some peo­ple aren’t ready for it. I’m not hid­ing my wife – she has a nice sym­met­ri­cal face – but if peo­ple say hor­ri­ble shit about her on­line, she’ll take it per­son­ally, she’s an in­ter­net am­a­teur. Me, on the other hand, I’m the pres­i­dent and frst lady of the in­ter­net. I can troll bet­ter than any­one in the world.” What about fam­ily? Is he wor­ried they’ll hate the book? “They un­der­stand it’s all part of the game,” he says. “And I warned them years ago that I’m go­ing full speed at this and am defnitely go­ing to drag their highly re­spectable names through the dirt. I’m all about hav­ing no bound­aries and I’ve been putting it all on­line for years.”

Af­ter lunch we head to the Mid­town of­fces of his pub­lisher, to put the fnish­ing touches to the au­dio­book he’s recorded. Once again, this presents an op­por­tu­nity to flm con­tent. Ostro­vsky places scented can­dles around the record­ing stu­dio and strips com­pletely naked while Alex cir­cles him with a cam­era. The ques­tion’s asked whether GQ wants to par­take. We de­cline – though eye­ball more than bar­gained for when the fat man tack­les Alex, wrestling him to the floor. A scene from Bo­rat springs to mind. Urgh, that hotdog is re­peat­ing. As we fnish the record­ing ses­sion, his editor ar­rives with a timely sur­prise: the frst box of books from the prin­ters. The day Ostro­vsky signed his book deal, he cel­e­brated with a night out at Julius, his favourite West Vil­lage drink­ing hole and “gay bar for tough gay dudes who watch sports and can kick your arse”. So it seems only ft­ting to fnish the day back there for a cel­e­bra­tory drink. The cab down­town is the last op­por­tu­nity to en­gage Ostro­vsky in se­ri­ous con­ver­sa­tion – not easy for some­one al­ways ‘on’, al­ways per­form­ing, al­ways re­vert­ing to the gag re­flex. It’s pos­si­ble to sus­pect the non­stop stream of jokes come, in part, as a defence mech­a­nism – the co­me­dian’s way of de­flect­ing in­com­ing mis­siles. Af­ter a day rolling with the var­i­ous punch­lines, what of a few min­utes to de­liver straight an­swers to straight ques­tions? And so, what’s it like to sud­denly fnd this level of fame? “Celebrity is su­per crazy. But I em­brace that, it gives me a fear­boner. Scream­ing tweens, get­ting slan­dered in the me­dia, as ter­ri­ble as that is, it’s been ex­cit­ing and I’m su­per into it. And it’s been cool to see things come to life, like, ‘Let’s start a rosé com­pany, it’ll be fun!’ And then ac­tu­ally have it be­come real.” Come on, you can’t pos­si­bly en­joy the hate en­dured of late. “It’s defnitely not awe­some but I’m from the in­ter­net,” he says. “I like to think I was birthed out of a wire­less router. It’s not fun but it was an im­por­tant dis­cus­sion that was had and we all learnt some­thing and I was cool be­ing in the mid­dle of it. It’s part of the in­ter­net – for all the love thrown your way and girls be­ing like, ‘I want to rip your dick off and bronze it and wear it be­cause I’m ob­sessed with you and I need your pe­nis with me at all times,’ some­one’s al­ways go­ing to scream some­thing ab­so­lutely hor­ri­ble at you. I’ve been on both sides. I recog­nise it’s part of the deal. It’s hor­ren­dous…ly awe­some.” And this no­to­ri­ety, or what­ever you want to call it, surely it’s changed him? “No, not re­ally. It’s taught me that I can use the plat­form for good things, which I never would have thought. Kids have come up and said, ‘Hey you’ve made it cool in my school to be Jewish and to have a shitty body.’ That makes me proud. I’m not sud­denly go­ing to be all like, ‘Let’s get clean wa­ter into Africa’, but I’ve re­alised I have an im­por­tant voice and I can use that in a pos­i­tive way.” We’ve picked up some of Ostro­vsky’s friends en route and on ar­rival at the bar play a game of ‘guess how ex­pen­sive the Uber was’ to de­cide who’s buy­ing the frst round. GQ loses. On re­turn­ing with the drinks, Ostro­vsky’s man­ager is dou­bled up in pain and those around writhing about in laugh­ter. What hap­pened? “Dick punch!” says Ostro­vsky. “Score!” n

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