• A Fate Worse Than Life (Excerpt #2) •

• A Fate Worse Than Life (Excerpt #2) •

“I’d recently moved to Manchester and didn’t really know anyone, and what’s more, no one knew me, so whatever kind of delusional self-image I may have had at the time, I could leave it at the door. Rather as one would perhaps be prepared to engage in drunken karaoke on some shitty Mediterranean holiday resort but would never dream of doing so where anyone they actually knew may see them; I decided to do it, just to see if I could do it, if I had attained the mastery over myself that would make it possible for me to actually do it! So, with a feverish intensity, possibly matched only by Rodion Ramanovic Raskolnikov on his final and fateful visit to the money lender, I assembled a band, taught them the songs, and embarked on the most surreal episode of my surreal existence.”
Paul Blake, Manchester, 2015

 

Monday, June 01, 2009

Because I must…
Category: Religion and Philosophy
So what is it about Morrissey?

As a younger person I wanted to be Elvis, or George Best, or Marc Bolan, and as childish fantasies go they weren’t bad and although I no longer want to be anyone else, like most people I’d prefer to look like someone else. This may surprise you, but that someone else for me, is Morrissey.

Undoubtedly, I’m completely captivated, and without doubt the attraction has a physical dimension. I find him endlessly fascinating to look at. His impeccable taste in clothes makes him one of those rare characters who can wear virtually anything, while always looking effortlessly stylish. A great face, physically perfectly proportioned, immaculate personal grooming, stylish and tasteful clothes, and a permanently unruffled demeanour, he’s the physical personification of everything I aspire to be. The attention to detail regarding his personal appearance pleases me immensely, and I’m fully convinced that this man realises the importance of choosing the right socks, and understands that wearing the wrong shoes would spoil an otherwise perfectly pleasant evening.

Of course, because of the ridiculous way I’m forced to live, due to quite sickeningly tedious financial constraints coupled with my physical shortcomings, I’ll never quite reach those dizzying heights. However fastidious I am regarding my own personal appearance, I’ll never quite stand up to that kind of scrutiny. Under close inspection the cracks will always show and the veneer will quickly fade, and maybe that partly explains my tireless obsession with Morrissey’s personal appearance, which has so often appeared to me to be the ultimate in glamorous sophistication and sartorial elegance.

To the best of my knowledge there is no overt sexual attraction. That’s not something I’ve ever contemplated. Considering the number of bizarre, and commonplace, scenarios involving Morrissey and I, which I’ve absent mindedly imagined while asleep and awake, if it was there I suspect it would have manifested itself in some way by now, unless I’ve missed the Freudian symbolism. Most fantasies appear to involve us chatting in a cafe over tea, served in beautiful china. Morrissey always pours, although I’m not sure what Freud would have made of that. The attraction appears more profound than mere carnal lust, and has found it’s way into every corner and crevice of my existence, even the notion that I’m revolving on a rock, and hurtling around the sun at unimaginable speeds with only gravity preventing me from being sucked out into infinite space doesn’t stop me from wondering about the style, name and manufacturer of Morrissey’s shoes. I curse the fact on a daily basis, that we hardly ever get to see them up close.

I can’t really speak about his music anymore. Everything becomes a tired cliche, and every adjective or superlative has been rendered meaningless through constant repetition. It’s impossible for me to be objective anyway, all I know is that he still speaks to me, more than ever before, and I find life infinitely more bearable for having him and his music in the world.

I would never criticise any aspect of Morrissey’s behaviour, in the same way I wouldn’t be critical of a friend who’s heart I knew to be in the right place. It’s unlikely we’ll ever meet socially, which is perhaps just as well… I mean, look at me! I’d die of embarrassment. Still, that’s ok, I’m not looking to be Morrissey’s friend, it’s enough that he’s mine.

 

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