Monday, 20 January 2014

Morrissey-Parody & Other Fruit-Loops

It's an old, old story. Someone succeeds at what they are doing--be they actor, singer, writer, or whatever. Someone else is a monumental failure at everything they attempt in life, personally and professionally, not specifically because they are no good at their trade, though this is often the case, but because their behaviour sees them coming across as barking mad.

First there was a monumental failure who has proved as popular to the literary world as a pork chop in a synagogue, whose fourth-rate works are as easy to buy as a bottle of whisky in a mosque. Then there was a dying woman who was proved to be as fit as a bug in a rug. Next up, a collection of barking mad housewives of whom the least said the better, some of whom could give lessons in family life to Freda Jackson.

Now, we have "Morrissey-Parody", who like all of the above is too spineless to write in its own name, but who says it is a woman, and who calls someone "c*nt" (now where have I heard that one before?) and then moans when there are repercussions. Oh, and two of the above are obsessed with the name Wilde. One thinks they are him, the other thinks he's still alive.

Morrissey-Parody says, of my denunciation of paedophiles, that my heart is "not in the right place". I think you'll find, my dear, that very few people are going to share your belief that harming children is a good thing. Maybe this is why you are too cowardly to use your own name? When it comes to hurting children, my heart is very much in the right place. IT IS WRONG!!!

You have to read Morrissey-Parody's thousands of tweets to see just how barking mad this person is. Maybe they should write their thoughts in a book, and it too can be  assigned to the scrap-heap? If I've said it once, I've said it a million times. Just as the only good homophobe and racist is a dead one, so too there is probably no such thing as a "normal" Morrissey fan.

Before the weedy little vegans start throwing tofu bombs at my kitchen window, let me say that there are thousands of people who like Morrissey's music, as indeed do I. Musically, the man is a genius. I am talking about the FANATICS. I've met many of them, and they are genuinely weird. I was standing at the bar of Sheffield City Hall with a very well-known journalist who observed of the line of fans outside the venue, "A good shit or shag would kill them!"

They are pasty-faced, they copy his hairstyle even if they don't have much hair left, they have his name tattooed all over their bodies--I was in the toilet at Drury Lane when a young American showed everyone his cock, which had the word MOZZA emblazoned on it. They don't eat meat, they don't have sex--well, they reckon that--and anything that he doesn't do, neither do they. I went to one fan's house to interview him. His room had a shelf lined with glass jars filled with leaves, grass clippings and soil which they had purloined from his garden. I met Morrissey's lover, who had MOZ tattooed on his stomach, the O surrounding his navel.
May I say too that he was a genuinely nice young man who also thought that the some of the fans were not just bonkers, but potentially dangerous.

They all read Oscar Wilde, and play whatever records he plays, even if they dislike the artistes. He hates the royal family, so do they. These people do not have minds of their own. He has become a cult, but he is by no means the leader of this cult because, privately, he is more normal and rational than they could ever be. They share their barking mad theories, which he finds humiliating because they are giving HIM a bad name. I checked a few sites recently. Nutcases such as those I met twenty years ago still tweet about him a hundred times a day, and have had him on the brain twenty-four hours a day since 1983. Comparatively few of them are married, or in relationships. Who would have them, or even want them? If he's in Vienna one night, Melbourne the next, Oshkosh after that, there's a handful of fanatics who will always be in the front row--they will have slept in doorways and gone without food to be there, and feel better for it. There are few things that the genuine Morrissey fanatic likes better than making himself suffer. They like to think themselves Christian martyrs, and enjoy nothing more than throwing themselves to the lions.

Morrissey recently said that paedophilia was no worse than eating meat. I criticised him, not just publicly but personally. He is man enough to take such criticism. I wrote to his record company, well aware that this would do him good. I have my reasons--he and I are team-players fighting the same crusade. People write to my team, and in doing so earn me a lot more money than I might normally earn. They write that I'm this and that--all water off a duck's back, and of course they never like getting a taste of their own medicine. I can think of at least three of my books which have attained six-figure sales because small-minded people have gone out of their way to label me a failure. Long may they do so! It's like one pig telling another pig that it smells. They like to think that they see in me what others see in them: self-important little nobodies. But, I hasten to add, not all of them--just the fanatics who have achieved little in their lives other than one self-inflicted failure after another. Lanza, Formby, Harlow, Valentino, Dusty et all would be laughing their socks off at these silly people who succeed only in making themselves look like prize tits--and I am sure, indeed I know, that Morrissey feels the same. Not that the loonies would ever accept this. Their heads are made of granite, and are empty within.

And the most laughable thing of all--these ENJOY being failures, and relish their oft self-inflicted illnesses and dramas!

Morrissey was wrong to say what he said, but he and I are just the same as we were before he said it. We were bound long before Winnie Johnson. It's got him a record contract, two more book deals--and it's also got ME several more book deals, a film contract, and a possible US television series. I still like him, he still likes me, while neither of us has any time for the "danger" fans. These people have written some of the most ridiculous hate emails to me--one sent a picture of a cow, "crying" because its calf had been taken away! Most animals discard their young, it's nature--but this one, according to the fruit-loop who sent it, was crying because it had been told that its baby was going to the abattoir. Talk about being as daft as a brush!

To end on a hypothetical note--I wonder what these acknowledged lunatics would have to say if, for instance, their idol said that he admired Fred West. Would Morrissey-Parody and their "barmy-army" admire him too? Undoubtedly, they would! 

And if, God forbid, anything bad happened to this wonderful man--and I'm not taking the piss, this is how I see him, for with every silly theory that he has, there are a dozen very sensible ones--what would their reaction be, then? Would there be hundreds of charabancs rushing down to Beachy Head?

What a sad world they live in...

No comments:

Post a Comment