Get Well Soon, Morrissey

I have just seen the news that Morrissey may have cancer. As ever, he was enigmatic, cantankerous and just Morrissey like about it, marking the only breaking of cancer story I can think of where the sufferer’s opinion is, “Whatever… If I die, then I die”.

Like the millions of his fans worldwide, I truly hope he gets better, there are few enough of his ilk in the world, and those there are make the world a richer place for their being in it.

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Anyway, the remainder of this post is purely some very amusing things he’s said, interspersed with his music, as I’d much rather do this while he’s alive.

When I’m lying in my bed I think about life and I think about death and neither one particularly appeals to me.

The Brits are ghastly. I never would accept a Brit. It would be like Laurence Olivier being happy getting a TV Times award.

Nothing is important, so people, realising that, should get on with their lives, go mad, take their clothes off, jump in the canal, jump into one of those supermarket trolleys, race around the supermarket and steal Mars bars and kiss kittens.

In England, pop music seems now to be exclusively for children. If an artist is no good, why is it necessary to have that artist repeatedly rammed in our face?

What’s the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning? Wish I hadn’t.

Artists aren’t really people. I’m actually 40 per cent papier mache.

When they bury me in the earth and chuck dirt on my grave, I’d like the words ‘Well, at least he tried’ engraved on my tombstone.

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