Tag Archives: Morrissey

Coz Everything That You Say Rings True

The last of the famous international playboys are Bowie, Bolan, Devoto and me.” — Morrissey Perhaps it’s just Bolan, Devoto and Morrissey now.

Morrissey Hasn’t Changed

Essay at The Spectator by yours truly on why Morrissey is constantly going to disappoint those who want him to be some kind of ‘singing Stephen Fry with a quiff’.

Shelagh Delaney Finally Sails on the Alley Alley-Oh

Shelagh Delaney the Salford-born child-prodigy author of the ground-breaking, hugely influential — and touchingly funny — 1958 play ‘A Taste of Honey’ died at the weekend from cancer, aged 71. Below is a classic Monitor profile of Delaney and Salford from 1960, directed by Ken Russell, no less. Fifty years on Delaney the provincial working class girl comes across

Mozburger

A Nation Turns Its Back and Gags

I shall never be able to play The Smiths again without thinking of Prime Minster David Cameron and Foreign Secretary William Hague sharing a hotel room — and Cameron complaining about Hague’s disappointing endowment.

Dad Rock

Morrissey’s Seven Inch Plastic Strap-On

There’s a naked man standing laughing in your dreams. You know who it is, but you don’t like what it means.   A number of people have forwarded Morrissey’s pubes to me. (For which, many thanks.) I thought I could get away with not discussing the Moz minge, but this Red Hot Chili Peppers pastiche, nostalgic

Morrissey Throwing His Lallies Around Paree

Only stone and steel accept my love…’ Or can handle it.  ‘Throwing My Arms Around Paris’ is the swooning new single from the (Moz-cara wearing) old groaner, full of his curiously uplifting despair throwing its empty arms around… his audience again. The perfect companion piece to last year’s bottom-spanking ‘All You Need is Me’, a song

All You Need is Me

A man of great Euro-vision

(Originally appeared here 10/1/07) First the Tory party, now the BBC. Is there any daggy British institution that isn’t scrabbling for a sweaty piece of Mozza’s gold lamé shirt, like an especially wild-eyed fan at the end of a gig? You can hardly have escaped the news that, after last year’s grinding nadir of Daz Sampson, the rapping metalwork