A Day in the Life of Morrissey – as told to Otto English

I wake very early. Usually around midnight. I’ve done that all my adult life. Although I don’t like to talk about the past. Or talk. I’m talking today. But that’s because you are here. And not from The Guardian. Maybe I will talk again tomorrow. Maybe not. I can do what I want. I’m Morrissey. That’s not arrogant. It’s a statement of fact. It is who I am. Not who I choose to be.

Breakfast is quickly over. I despise coffee. I spurn tea. I abhor muesli. If milk is murder then soya milk is mass genocide on a nearly unimaginable scale. What people – or sheeple – don’t realise is that in order to make soya milk, a soya plant has had its children slaughtered. Pillaging soya beans from a soya mother is no different to bombing kids with mustard gas. Actually worse. Because soya plants can’t speak English. We can’t send anyone to interview them. We can’t hear their pain.

It takes a genius to state the obvious. That’s what John Riggers thinks. And I agree with him.

I do most of my ranting before my cat wakes up. Once he’s showered we might acknowledge one another – otherwise we’ll agree to meet up at lunch. He’s unreliable. Mostly I eat alone. Cats have the right to live their own lives. Humans are so self-absorbed. My cat can live as he likes. He is just like me. He likes to be alone. He doesn’t care what the MSM or anyone else thinks of him. The morning is spent searching myself on Google. People are so filled with hate.

Sometimes I might write a song. Some very unhappy people are obsessed with me. They say all my best work is in the past. The past is dead. And they are dead inside. I pity them. The work with that band was such an insignificant part of my life. It was derivative. It is over. Nobody will remember me for that. Not that I care. I don’t. The Queen is alive. The Smiths aren’t. Move on.

‘And if a double decker puss crashes into us.’

I never learned an instrument. I did not want to repeat those mistakes. I now write all my music using a referee’s whistle and a tin cup. Elliott Carter the American composer wrote 8 etudes and a fantasy in just one note – G. The Guardian hated him for it. I don’t know what the pitch of a referee’s whistle and a tin cup is, but all the music I write in future will be written in that key. Carter was a genius and so am I. I am comfortable with it. The Guardian will never accept that. They don’t want me to be Morrissey. They want me to be Stalin. The Musical.

Lunch is brief. I may eat some grass or gorge on a tub of wood shavings. I source all of my shavings from a shop in Bhutan. They are certified as ‘ethical’ and taken from trees which have had long happy lives and died from natural causes. I have always had a lot of sympathy with wood. I used to talk to the trees in my neighbour’s garden. But they got a restraining order.

I despise xenophobia, bigotry, intolerance and racism. All of those things arrived in Britain with mass uncontrolled immigration. The brutal illegal so-called asylum seeker and their bigoted faiths have been imported into Britain in order to destroy it. In 3 to 6 months everyone in Britain will be black. And Muslim. And dead. England is mentally ill. It is suicide to even have tourists or people with foreign sounding names here. Everyone should stay in their own countries. And preferably in their own bedrooms in their own homes. This is why I live in Italy. And rarely go out.

Halal is ritual sacrifice. You will never read this in The Guardian. It can only be authorised by Sadiq Khan under the authority of Sharia courts funded directly by ISIS in Saudi Arabia. Those are the facts of the matter. Sadiq Khan does most of the halal killing himself. I read this in a dream. I don’t vote. But if I did. I’d vote to repatriate everyone. Except myself. Italy needs me.

I don’t eat dinner. I may read my blog. People rarely visit me. I don’t know why. As I drift off to sleep I think about the future. I will be 60 next year. It doesn’t bother me.

I have only one happy memory of the past. As a child once my grandfather took me to Blackpool. There was a machine there where you could make a laughing policeman sing. He gave me a shilling and I put it in and we stood there and watched it laugh. It wasn’t funny.

old man
Happy memories

We bought an ice cream. Just the one. And sat in silence watching the sea as he ate it. Then he said we should go home because he was bored.

“That is the man I aspire to be.” I thought. And in a way it is the man I have become.

The cat is still not back.

I try to sleep.

It is midnight again.

Satirical content… no soya was harmed in the making of this blog


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