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Friday, 2 October 2015

Day 1482 - Kunst Kunst Kunst

Following the Bitte Bitte Bitte of Frankfurt, Morrissey entered the stage in Cologne and greeted his audience with a, "kunst, kunst, kunst", which is German for art, art, art, but of course that was NOT why Morrissey said it. I was instantly reminded of the Three Lions '98 video, which features a set of England fans playing football against a group of German fans in a car park, and the German fans ALL (bar one) have the name Kuntz on the back of their shirts - is it just us English who have this ridiculously childish, and incredibly funny, sense of humour? 

Reader Meet Author remained in the set last night, and although there is no Youtube footage yet, footage of it from Wednesday has appeared:

An a cappella snippet of Françoise Hardy's I Will Change My Life was sung just before The Queen is Dead at the encore. This Hardy song also featured during the Speedway pause in Paris last year.

Once again there was no sign of You'll be Gone in Cologne, but I have managed to find a clip of the three times aborted attempt to play the song in Paris, and it would appear that Moz came in too high on the first two attempts, and then lost the will. I feel we may have now lost the song forever. Aggghhh:

There is virtually ZERO Youtube footage from Cologne, except for The World is Full of Crashing Bores with Moz also explaining about trying to learn German. There has been no word from the fruit, so as to whether she managed to get a blue rose to Moz or not, is unknown at this stage.

Tonight Morrissey will be appearing on the TV show, Chatty Man, having already recorded it when in London last week.

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Meanwhile, the tour party moves on to Lausanne, where on Sunday, Moz will be playing in front of his home town, although Lausanne is about as synonymous with Morrissey as Guildford is with Zola Budd.

I continue to slowly pour my way through List of the Lost, and last night I was drawn to Morrissey's description of youth on pages 7 & 8:

"on these days that seem like nothing yet might have great meaning in years to come"

"None can be patient enough to let life take its course as the years creep upon us like energy thieves, and to be twenty years old has no vague importance to those who find themselves in such infancy, for time a-plenty to waste, and indeed to enjoy wasting."

"Somewhere alone within the hole of the soul it is known that the page is already turning, and the future is a time when you will only watch. Fully present in today, you will make the most of yourself as you dig deep to bring out whatever will save you, for isn't it true that we have within us everything that we seek outside, from others?"

I decided to try and enlighten the permanently embarrassed one from The Guardian this morning, by sending him a link to my Virginia Woolf piece of yesterday. I was of course wasting my time, with him stating, "It doesn't matter what inspired the novel. Or whether it is unconventional. It is a piece of crap." The poor chap, having made his bed, is now bedridden forever. Maybe one day he will see it differently. He was at least good enough to re-tweet my link, although so far, yesterday's piece has received fewer hits than any other entry this week, so I don't think he has much pull!

That will do for today. I shall next return when there is either ANOTHER 'coincidence' relating to the BRS, or when that promised parody piece appears. I wonder what happened to that treat we were promised in early August?


  1. hmmm Three attempts at the Elvis cover and it sounds like he says "Three of us are human." Very interesting!

    As for that vile, "permanently embarrassed" reviewer, you cannot enlighten the un-enlightenable (apparently this isn't a word, but you see what I'm saying). Those who are closed-minded tend to remain that way, sadly. I would send him my review too, but he obviously isn't giving the book a chance, which is his loss. I'm also unsure I want to sully my twitter feed by @'ing him.

    What I find quite appalling is that he tells people "NOT to read the book." How dare he tell me what I should or shouldn't read?! The only thing his review ended up doing was stop me from reading any more nonsense articles from critics who probably haven't created a thing in their lives except for cliche-drenched, clumsily-pieced-together reviews.

  2. Ah, I loved hearing Reader Meet Author! I love that song. And I finally received my copy of List of the Lost. I am going to savor this one.

  3. "A critic is a eunuch working in a harem. He watches it, but he knows he can't do it. Critics very often are failed writers and, like failed priests, they hate religion." Howard Fast

  4. Considering how little footage has emerged from Germany, we are extremely fortunate to be able to watch Reader Meet Author - such a terrific surprise in the set! Moz looked and sounded fantastic on Chatty Man - I especially love the new shirt. And I'm very fond of the description of youth that you quoted, Rats, especially the 'hole in the soul' excerpt. I'm really enjoying the book so far (but making slow progress due to life getting in the way), so who cares what the critics say? I know I certainly don't and don't need anyone to tell me what to think.

  5. How do the band find time to rehearse these new songs? They're like a well-oiled machine. I'm about halfway though the book, reading slowly and thoroughly enjoying it, some lovely writing in there despite what the art-hounds say.

  6. somewhere in Europe right now Morrissey is sniggering away, you see, he would have seen this coming make no mistake about that, I wrote to john niven who reviewed the book for the new statesman, as of yet nothing, maybe had I been an MP or someone famous I would have received some kind of a reply, a sad reflection of our times

  7. Last week I fell in love. My head, over my heels, over my heart, in love. Then over my legs.

    He was 27 years old. The most beautiful construct I’d ever seen, and quite possibly the most beautiful thing in the world. I was also only 27. Would you believe me, if I told you that it was the first time that it’s ever happened?
    I almost definitely never tell a lie.

    Then suddenly it was over, before it ever even began.
    Everything shattered. My heart broken. An explosion. Incinerated. And now where once beat my heart inside of me, there is only the deafening sound of my own silence.

    I listened to Francoise. I lay in the dark and closed my eyes. And she reminded me that I’ve always been alone. And that I’ll never be alone.

    Always. Never. Always. Never. Always. Never. Forever. It’s all exactly the same. With lilting rhyme and with no reason, some things never have to be explained.

    And then finally, I fell into sleep. When I did, I felt her hair brush my cheek. And then I knew, that this is what tenderness must be.

    Another night, one night, any night - I stepped outside into the street at midnight. Wind whipped my face, from every angle, from every facet, like small glass splinters coming from all sides. Thin dress. Too thin to be battered like this. I saw dark cars slow as they passed to look at me. No faces. Only darkened windows, to match the blackness of the night sky. Where are my stars, tonight?

    Two identical kittens, just two empty little sacks of nothing more than thin skin and small, delicate bones, smaller than my thinnest finger, were in the middle of a still very busy road. Playing together with the exalted, naïve, beautiful happiness that only those who are truly free, have ever, or will ever know.

    Playing together and with one another, and with a dirty mound of ash and used cigarette ends that the wind had swept into one single big pile in the gutter, as though the city’s mother, beleaguered but loving, had come at the end of the day to sweep up after her vagabond urchin tearaways. Love is blind.

    I called to the kittens and with big saucer eyes and the sweetest of all whiskers, they looked at me, and came. Inquisitive, precocious, brave. And those beautiful, trusting, loving, innocent eyes. Drowning in their turquoise.
    But don’t ever look away. Because then it stops. It all ends. And the clock starts to tick tock, tick tock, click clock, click clock again.

    Time only stops for as long as you hold a gaze.

    I picked the kittens up, and with one in each hand and under each of my arms, we looked and saw a restaurant across the street with flickering lights and a somewhat magical outside garden. Empty.
    Romance lurking in the shadows, but it didn’t look like anyone found her there that night.

    We went inside together. The waiters were completely disinterested, and then equally assured me, in broken English that could break no further, that the kittens were theirs.

    I pretended to believe them. Something I’ve been known to do on occasion, more than just once or twice. It’s the easiest exit from any conversation when I’ve already disengaged, and in my mind, walked away.

    I asked them not to make soup out of them. And then went back outside into the night, alone.

    Gentleness only exists if you know where to look. Usually, in the dark.

    And if you want a bit more, well, that’s always there too.

    There is no difference at all in between any yesterday, and any tomorrow. They are exactly the same. And this is because neither one exists, anywhere, in any dimension or in capacity at all.

    In the ether of every yesterday, with lilting rhyme, and with no reason,


    1. Thanks for this exquisite piece of writing. I have been missing you lately and wondering about your fate, so I'm very pleased to see that you're still hovering about somewhere amongst us.

    2. "Time only stops for as long as you hold a gaze." This is beautiful, Astraea


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