Oh Morrissey. Ohhhh, Morrissey. Good old Mozzers. Morrissey ya the more I love ya. England’s favourite lachrymose lyricist has been receiving quite a bit of media coverage lately. ‘Veggie-Mad Morrissey Searches Fans For Meat.’ ‘Morrissey Bitten By Dog.’ ‘Throwing out his own fans – has Morrissey finally lost it?‘ Lost what exactly, his faith in impartial journalism? “There were times when we could have killed him…”admits The Quietus, while The Guardian criticises his “dodgy new material.” This charming man seems to be the joke of the music industry at the moment. But that joke isn’t funny anymore.
(Just kidding.)
So what difference does it make?
Oh, it makes none. Morrissey is still the tits, and he always will be. He fronted The Smiths, called David Cameron a silly twat, and he still rocks out at fifty-two. Also, t.A.T.u covered one of his songs – which is pretty much the greatest honour known to man. He is a bad-ass veggie and also AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO REALISES HIS NAME SOUNDS LIKES ‘MISERY’ LOL ISN’T THAT FUNNY?
Morrissey’s songs transcend the waspish put-downs of critics and even the pretension of his own public persona; they range from the visceral to erudite contemplations of the human condition. You can mock his diva pretensions all you like, but his music is always going to be played by under-appreciated seventeen-year-olds with The Queen Is Dead posters on their walls, and you are always going to secretly listen to William, It Was Really Nothing and wish that they’d played it while Kate Middleton walked down the aisle.
Always.
Faevourite 
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