So Morrissey has written an autobiography. That’s hilarious.
I haven’t read it yet but given that it appears (from the reviews) to be a masterclass in compressing the greatest possible number of words into the least possible amount of thought, I reckon it should be pretty good.
And here’s what I hope it’s like:
“….As I stared silently at the Kellogg’s Frosties in the bowl, a belligerent sense of dread kneed me in the solar plexus. The milk was scarcely seconds out of the bottle but already the nethermost of those synthetic, saccharine slivers was succumbing to sogginess. Such senseless destruction. All is decay. Everywhere, the stolid stench of death.
I had been forcing down the tasteless gruel for four dismal, rain-spaffed days on the plod and this morning, there was only one consolation for the calamitous chagrin of finding myself, once more, alive. The one thing which gave me the strength to part pillow and head was the hope that today, the cereal box would finally yield up its prize – a collection of multi-coloured clickety-clackers earmarked for the rusting spokes of my bicycle. I ransacked the packet like a poet-laureate of the dispossessed possessed but to no avail. Just like the seeming eternity of days which parted me from the grave, all was a grey emptiness with bits of cereal in it.
Later, I saw Johnny in the park with my clickety-clackers on his bicycle. FML….”