Parody of Morrissey's autobiography

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http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/...Morrisseys-maliciously-memorable-memoirs.html

It is a labour of lovelessness, literally littered with liberally literary alliteration, pungent with puns and pugilistically pulsing purple prose, a muscular mire of mixed metaphors that at times rhymes and chimes, each swooning sonorous sentence a tremendous tremulous tongue-twister. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper and promptly puked, poisoned. She sells sea shells on the sea shore, till she’s shamelessly smothered on the sickening shingle by a smirking shoplifter from Salford. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck had been roughly raised in the noisome north, ten aunts to a room in some slumping slum, with no more for tea than half a handful of grim grey gravel and a clip round the ear if it was lucky?

And then there’s the tense, the present tense, forever present, forever tense, like the tense present. And the quite queasy quoting of our helplessly humble hero’s languidly lustrous lyrics. Oh I didn’t realise that you wrote prose. (I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful prose.)

Are you sitting uncomfortably? Then he’ll begin. Meek and mild Morrissey is made miserable in malevolent murky merciless mysterious murderous monstrous MWA-HA-HA-HA Manchester, where brats wrestle rats for spilled chips, and the bleached bones of the poor are ground down into sherbet dips. Taunted and tainted by tyrannical teachers (horrific Mr Hitler, malicious Miss Mussolini), sorry Steven sits sobbing on the doleful dole, rigidly frigid, a wally estranged in Whalley Range, mournful as a mouse in a mangle, ambition squished by anguish.

But then you open your eyes, and you see someone that you physically despise: it’s the other members of the Smiths. A beautiful band is bewitchingly born. The great group grimly grip with their gracefully grand gruitars. Tragically they are prevented from becoming the most popular act in musical history only by the refusal of their rotten record company to spend more money on posters. But alas! After five years it’s suddenly all over for reasons that are never made clear but are definitely everyone else’s fault. The dumb drummer and the base bassist sue to scandalously snatch the spotless singer’s rightful royalties. Cue a crushingly complex court case described in deep detail for a Dickensian duration. Unbelievably, the grudging drudge of a judge, flagrantly fuelled by a lifelong loathing of a pop singer he’s almost certainly never heard of, fiendishly finds against our horrified hero, before probably clobbering a kitten with his ghastly gavel.

Marred by Marr, wrecked by Rourke and juiced by Joyce, Morrissey flees from these fleas to amorous America, where he’s wonderfully welcomed with the worship he is worth, despite relentlessly ruinous reviews from the perniciously poisonous parochial press (five stars in The Times and the Observer, four stars in Uncut, 8/10 in the NME).

Superannuated scores are supremely settled with Mike Joyce (“exclusively absorbed in self-pity”), journalist Julie Burchill (“a bully” who would “complain to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen”), and someone from a record company who once denied Morrissey permission to include an obscure track on a compilation CD (“When he dies in 2008, I think, Well, that’s what you get for being so nasty”). His favourite words appear to be “lest”, “pitiful”, “savage”, “stupid”, and in particular “fat” (“a fat shop assistant”, “a fat-assed woman”, “you can sense fat-person pain”, “I am nixed like a fatty on the church steps”). Obese beasts, begone!

Then after 457 passionately packed pages the circumlocutory chronicle curtly curtails on a curious coda in which, after yet another towering touring triumph, a frantic female fan calls out to Morrissey and he ignores her.

And they all lived unhappily ever after.
 
ever read any melville? from your parody im gonna say no
 
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