*the seminal artiste juts out his jaw, nodding gently*
*Boz Boorer nods forcefully, spilling a little coffee down his West Ham shirt*
*the seminal artiste rolls his eyes and sighs*
Mikey Bracwell: "...For Boyd Tonkin, writing in this paper, Penguin’s decision to release the book as a Classic undermined “67 years of editorial rigueur and learning”. The Guardian’s John Harris was less damning in his review, but even he criticised the apparent “lack of editing..."
*the seminal artiste shakes his head, smirking, yet with pensive eyes.*
*Boz Boorer tuts and rolls his eyes, nodding at Morr-ee-say*
Mikey Bracewell: "If I may miss out a brief passage, Morr-ee-say...?"
Morrissey: "Which rag is it?"
Mikey Bracewell: "The Independent, Morr-ee-say."
Mikey Bracewell: *gazes down the webpage*... "ah, yes... What is so refreshing about Morrissey’s Autobiography is its very messiness, its deliriously florid, overblown prose style, its unwillingness to kowtow to a culture of literary formula and commercial pigeon-holing...."
*the iconic star brushes back his quiff, gazing sagely into space, then, lost in contemplation, sighs in agreement, or in recognition, or otherwise in disappointment*
Mikey Bracewell: "...A heavy-handed editor mindful of the book’s Classic branding might have abridged it down into a sedate, prize-worthy volume void of idiosyncrasy and colour. Thankfully – and yes, most likely because of Morrissey’s celebrity clout and reputation for intransigence – no such airbrushing has taken place..."
Morrissey: "A very thoughtful and true piece. I think he's realised my little book is about to redefine the literary zeitgeist in the same way as my music once redefined the musical zeitgeist."
Mikey Bracewell: "ONCE did, Morr-ee-say?"
*Mikey Bracewell gazes upon the artiste's oakish features unblinkingly, wondering*
Morrissey: "One can only redefine the zeitgeist once in any field of art by giving oneself entirely to it. Afterwards one's entire self is expressed in the art, so therefore how can one's own self change it again? One instantly becomes like a detonated hydrogen bomb... impotent, melted, unable to do anything of note ever again..."
Morrissey: "For f**k's sake. Help the illiterate meat eater, Mikey. I'm afraid my own literary genius (Penguin Classics, etc) cannot condescend to such levels of woeful ineptitude; would be like Newton trying to mark GCSE homework in Clapton."
Mikey Bracewell: "Morr-ee-say is speaking metaphorically, Boz."
Boz Boorer: "Does his doctor know?"
Morrissey: "Nice to know at least one hack can appreciate the iconoclasm and complexity of the book, and can comprehend the notion of the book not having to hide itself under the duvet of literary conventionality... edited beyond an inch of its soul..."
Mikey Bracewell: "Yes, Morr-ee-say. Of course they have no idea that, as editor, I had to do almost nothing-"
Mikey Bracewell: "Well, I did have to edit out a few of the fascinating and mesmerisings-"
Morrissey: "-But none of the extraordinaries, I hope..."
Mikey Bracewell: "It's a shame Penguin didn't fully appreciate your ironic-yet-sincere use of the words, Morr-ee-say. Irony, with sincere intent.. it hasn't been done before."
Morrissey: "If I'd wanted literary nous, true appreciation of one's ..."
*the artiste waves his hand aloft, seeking inspiration from the skies*
Morrissey: "... of one's... of one's essence... then... one would have chosen Faber. I realise Penguin Classics is rather lowbrow in so many ways, but this shouldn't necessarily be an obstacle in one's pursuit of literary perfection. Yes, they failed to grasp the structural importance of the M- and F- words; and yes they failed to understand irony-with-sincere-intent as a grand concept, but frankly what would one expect of a label happy to publish the dreariness that is Hans Christian Andersen? Besides with Winter coming, I need the coppers, what with the ever-rising overheads and severe levels of true inflation at least, Penguin Classics will guarantee I won't have to switch the lights off early on my next tour, won't have to truncate set-lists, won't have to shiver in the house all January..."
Mikey Bracewell: "Penguin Classics. It's splendid isn't it?"*Mikey holds up the book like an old antique in a shop, admiring the simple elegance of the black cover with blue portrait*
Morrissey: "Well, quite, Boz. Petriditis did once write in the G***dian that one singer in particular was fabulous because he/she sang OUT OF TUNE. Now in that context, isn't it a little ironic for the same publication to criticise a writer for being unable to write, as John Harris has apparently done?"
Mikey Bracewell: *smiles, sips some tea, squeezes his lips gently together*
Morrissey: "Typical Hack. Harris - isn't that the c**t that gave Quarry a bad review? Philistine."
Mikey Bracewell: *nods invitingly*
Morrissey: "Perhaps if he would wash his hair and lose some weight, he would grow to love my recent output. I'm afraid one's days of churning out tenement block poems and bedsit melancholia for the greasy-haired and plump are long-gone. Old Harris will need to adjust his perceptions, have a proper wash and go on a diet, if he intends to benefit from one's more recent works..."
Morrissey: "-That's not my poor grammar, old son - it's Mikey's. He's the editor and he's to blame... from THAT perspective..."
Mikey Bracewell: "Well, I-"
Morrissey: "-Besides, there is a reason the c**t can't get a novel published for love nor money, you know. Perhaps it has something to do with his more prosaic, less DELIRIOUSLY FLORID style... I'm more than happy to arrange a few creative writing lessons for you Mikey, if you're interested of course..."
Mikey Bracewell: "I don't think-"
Morrissey: "-Yes, five stars in the Telegraph. There, you see. Short hair. Decent incomes. Nice detached houses in the Cheshire green belt. Successful in their own fields. One's modern fanbase. None of these whingeing, greasy-haired left wing music hacks and council house wasters... Harris is, I'm afraid, like Petriditis, making a grave mistake. Credibility in tatters. Career in its terminal phase. Wheezing at rest. On home oxygen. Harris and Petriditis: they are to I as The Christian Monitor was to Old Oscar."
Mikey Bracewell: "Dreadful men."Morrissey: "Barely. Garrulous fame-whores... tarts... loose women..."
*the artiste taps his fingers on the coffee table irascibly before bursting into uncontrollable laugher*
*Mikey Bracewell raises an eyebrow, sips his tea and smiles to himself*