I love Morrissey. He’s hilarious. His autobiography is being released on Penguin’s Classics imprint and everyone who gets upset about that sort of thing is getting really upset. The audacity of this man is unparalleled. Who in their right mind would insist their autobiography be published on an imprint normally reserved for books like Ulysses, Madame Bovary, and The Great Gatsby? Speaking of Gatsby, do not under any circumstances watch that movie. The book is one the best things you will read in your life, and that movie is on some garish Willy Wonka shit. Don’t do it.
Now, back to Morrissey and his book, which is due for release in a matter of days. You can’t get Autobiography (title) outside of the UK (where it will sell out immediately), but I have a friend at Penguin in New York and I called to beg her for a copy. ‘Please, please, please, let me, let me, let me, let me get that fucking book, please,’ said I. ‘But I don’t know if it’s true,’ said she. ‘It’s advertised on the Penguin website!’ Said I. ‘I know,’ said she, ‘but that doesn’t mean anything. He could pull it at any moment. He has done before.’ And he has done before. The first time was in October when there was a dispute over content; the second time was two weeks ago when Penguin balked at his demand the book be on Classics. Christ, he’s ridiculous. I love him. I already know what his autobiography will be about: 5% will be him gushing about James Dean, Sandie Shaw, and the New York Dolls; the other 95% will be him barbequing everyone he hates. This book will be so mean-spirited. I can’t wait. Stand by for a review.