Alice, what are you reading?

Actually, I'm reading some reviews of your tour and they are glowing.

This one says great material.

Oh, I hate it when they describe what I do as material.

What I do is weave art.

I don't really feel like that's what they meant by it.

But anyway, this one says really funny delivery, like several L's.

I can't handle this sort of negative press about my work.

I mean, even the word delivery.

I am a performer.

I don't work for yodel.

Somehow we're interpreting these really differently.

I mean, this one couldn't be better.

Top-notch impressions. Impressions. Like I'm some sort of jesterful impressions. I don't impersonate people.

I embody them. I capture their soul. I'm a conduit for existence itself. I don't know if your expectations are a little bit out of whack. I mean, these are all five stars.

I mean, there you have it, five stars. Everyone gets five stars. Find another star if you like it so much.

In fact, you'll have to find another star because I'm cancelling the rest of my tour. Someone else can do it.

Uh, okay. You know the business better than me.

Finally. A compliment.

November 2010, the Frontline Club, London.

Julian Assange adjusts his curly brunette wig,

brushes down his knee-length mauve dress, and checks himself in the mirror.

...