Thursday, October 17, 2013

MORRISSEY: THE LOST EXTRACTS

But for a father's whim, young Steven could have been a Blue

On Childhood heroes....
"It had been insufferably warm. The flow of sweat I could feel dribbling in rivulets down the arc of my spine. My father had taken me along to Maine Road, that ancestral edifice of my childhood dreams, a place held together by shirt-drenching shrieks and own goal heartbreak. We drifted up those relentless stairs and into a tunnel as dark as it was dank and, as I emerged into the harsh sunlight and clapped eyes on the unmistakeable figure of Barney Daniels, doing a stunningly lop-sided version of keepy uppy, I fainted...."

On youthful exuberance....
"It was in the late seventies that I began to frequent the Kafkaesque drinking dens of Rusholme. One night, as misty as it was putrid, I was relaxing alone in the City Social Club, sipping non-alcoholic creme de menthe and acting enthused about Colin Viljoen when a dark figure walked in. His muscular build, framed in the craggy doorway, fair left the room without light. I was momentarily stunned by the weight of his presence. Taking another sip to steady myself, I became woosy, the air clinging at my shirt and tightening in my young lungs. I felt cold and clammy. "Ahoy there...," the figure carped. "I am hated for loving and I am haunted for wanting, but at least I'm here!" I squinted through the half light at this intimidating giant and felt the earth shift gently beneath my feet ..."  It was Bernard Halford with our tickets for the League Cup tie at Chesterfield.

On noble beasts....
"They are no more these great noble beasts of the dark continent. Soon we will only see Rhinos with their small tales and batty eyes, in Whipsnade Safari Park. An overwhelming loss of words hits me and I find myself momentarily catching my breath. No snakes in the jungle, no brave polar bears on the wafer ice sheet. My heart beats for these noble beasts big and small. And it's not because of global warming or shrinking habitats. It's Steven Ireland and his snakeskin stack-heel creepers...."

On meat is murder....
"We were all there. Mikey, Reve, Johnny, The Florist, Big Kev and Shades. We all, in varying states of ignoble quiffishness. Gitanes with Baileys and Vimto at the ready in small plastic cups with our names written roughly on the sides, like a bunch of gypsy kids waiting for the charabanc to set off. The air was wet and heavy, the wind carrying in riplets of rough shouting from a distant alley. Karma Chameleon or some such drastic, mind-numbing dross. Then it hit us. I was the first. An acrid pall of smoke, the deathly mist of burning bodies. I turned half gagging and shouted as hard as my voice would carry, "I hope it is humans you are cooking on your death grill, your hell's kitchen!!! Or better still, the Prince of Wales and his fat-buttocked imperial offspring!!!". As it turned out, it was Jimmy with his hamburger trolley, peddling disease and nausea to the denizons of Moss Side. I took up the guitar immediately, driven on by a thirst for the untenable, but was taken ill before I could strum a good note...."

On hero worship....
"Here I am, Steven Patrick Morrisey, of noble heart and medium build. I am but a young man, but today I feel the years of old Albion across my poor tired shoulders. Picking up a copy of Time Out magazine before our soundcheck, I was surprised to see they had quoted me in full. Must have been short of copy. At least the dear boy who they had sent to interview us had got his zeds arranged correctly. All I had said to the lad, who resembled a startled young ferret on a bromide diet, was that "I am deeply fond of Jimmy Frizzell as long as he doesn't open his mouth."

On tank tops....
It had been a good gig. Most of the boys were happy with what had transpired. Mike thought the
Reeves: maroon tank top
drums a bit tight and I had had to suffer some idiot transgender throwing daffodils at me throughout, but the gig was done and the clamour was mercifully dying away like the waves on Southport seafront. I sat down and poured a britvic orange and alkaseltzer and waited. The tension of a moment that should only have brought release and freedom from fear. The door slid open and in walked Kevin Reeves in a maroon tank top and slightly scuffed brown office shoes. "To me you are a work of art," I shouted through the cigarette haze, "and I'd give you my heart if only I had one.". If it hadn't been for the toe ends of Johnny Marr's winkle pickers, upon which my glistening hero stepped, to the mirth of all around, I would surely have been in a dishevelled heap on the cracked wood floor that raging night...." 

On Bobby McDonald....
As I looked at the prone body, hooked but flat on the wet crimson gravel, chest pumping in and out in and out, as if the very lifeblood of it was heaving itself out from between those bent shoulders, one eye, muddied and strange, opened and looked at me. I smiled, for it was the unmistakable face of Bobby Mac. "Artists are not real, as you are not," I said. "They are 40% papier maché and in your case possibly quite a lot more.".






1 comment:

Other Tedious Stuff

Poets and Lyricists