DamienDempsey
New Member
July 30th
My Dear Kate,
Yes you were the Kate to whom I referred in my blog post. Thank you for defending me on the so-low place over the past twenty four hours. Small kindnesses do not go unnoticed. I often say to fans that you should expect one reply for every three or four letters you send; similarly when I wrote to people I admired I did not expect a reply - and rarely received one.
I often ask fans to write me three thousand words about what I mean to them. Julia and many others began their friendships with me by doing this. I enjoy it and - for the most part - so do they. Would you like to send me a short essay about Morrissey? Kate it's not egomania. It's the hard simple fact that I do not know who I am. I find it fascinating to read about what I mean to others when, from my own perspective, I mean nothing whatsoever. I read them with famished eyes and re-read them and... I often print them out and read them in the bath. Is that too eccentric for you? I hope so.
M.
Aug. 1st
Subject: Introducing Morrissey...
... as Road Hog. Am I right, my darling?
Before I embark upon such a colossal act of devotion (prose composition candidly capturing my implicit adoration of you) I must ask, yet a-bloody-gain:
Are you indeed my Morrissey? Can you frankly tell me so?
Kate Ryan
His immediate response:
Then it is over Kate - almost before it began.
M
Later that day by me:
Any doubt harboured has now fully dissipated.
Am I beyond forgiveness, Morrissey? There is nothing I'd rather do than spend a day crafting a gorgeous essay for you.
Can I please redeem my pitiful self?
This is immensely distressing. I feel as if I destroyed something beautiful. Please tell me to proceed with the essay, it'll be the most gorgeous you've ever received. I promise.
Later...
Morrissey, I thought you'd be impressed with my wee discovery. I don't give a toss that you're Road Hog, really! I'm not going to tell anybody. I'm more friendless than you are. I only asked if you were indeed the author on Morrissey's World because I was momentarily confused. Is that so bad, my darling?
You cannot possibly ignore me, Morrissey, I'm infinitely more precious than any of your other fans.
So, sweetie-pie, send me an email saying I am forgiven. Please!!! I am nearly begging!
Later...
Through tears so plentiful they shroud me in a mist I'll ask, just once more: would you care to receive an essay from me?
Aug. 2nd
Dearest Kate,
Do please send at will.
M
Aug. 4th
Subject: All You Need Is Kate
Morrissey Magnifique,
Are you hungry for my essay? With famished eyes will you indulge fully? I'd like to think you find my Hallo Spacegirl emails amusing and worthwhile.
Today I'm literally going to a friendship group for the mentally-ill, I do so weekly. We really do make Christmas cards in the month of December. Typically, we sit around circular tables playing board games, in our incorrigible way. I keep asking the professionals to bring Twister to the centre, but they say 'it's not appropriate.' How abysmally boring! They feed us too and give away door prizes (everyone could use another tube of toothpaste or a razor). They, rather naturally, have rules. I'm always in danger of being asked to leave: I flirt with two of the only good-looking boys and a sexy girl too. I also say the word 'retarded' sometimes, they go stone-faced when I do. Know that I am without any sociopathic tendencies, my only madness is for words. I'm remarkably sane and only must wage battle on c***ish depression. I'm sure you can sympathize.
An email from you, however truncated or telegraphic, would delight me considerably.
In heady anticipation,
Miss Kate Ryan
This is where I, regrettably, became mean:
Aug. 5th
Subject: Jumped-up Vocalist
The essay will, sadly, not be written. I tried. I really, really tried. I found myself utterly bereft of inspiration. Hours upon hours I stared at pixellated bareness. No words of adoration for you visited, for I am scarcely a fan anymore. So-Lowers, in their frankness, may have actually pegged you with adeptness. Dull you must really be. With your tiresome set lists & perpetual moaning.
You are not nearly as clever or good-looking as you fancy yourself to be. Taking your shirt off in London will be most farcical. Expect audience members to flee through emergency exit doors. Perhaps if you drank less of your favourite Nazi beverage Fanta and gave up dairy (as any decent animal rights activist would) you'd weigh less.
Canada does not miss you in the least. Did I mention my father was a seal hunter? Cry into your croissant. The country I live in is a dirty word to you. It's better being Canadian than an inbred Englishman: does any other place have more rubbish ribonucleic acid?
Expect me to have a bit of fun on the site you loathe so much. For every fraudulent profile you have on there, in which you engage in constant self-stroking, expect three more from me. I'll use proxies from Antarctica if I must. My posts will not be adulating in the least, it will be a glorious verbal slagging.
By the way, your three new songs are dreadful: never have I heard more banal lyrics. Another album from you, how really likely is that?
This is good-riddance. Have a few good wanks and then kindly exit stage left. Cower in the wings, nobody will likely ask for an autograph. You're so antiquated it would likely be a shaky one anyway. If only your music was as majestic as Damien Dempsey's. Your prodigy surpassed you effortlessly.
Kate
Morrissey's final email later that day:
"If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do."
C'est la vie.
Farewell,
M
My Dear Kate,
Yes you were the Kate to whom I referred in my blog post. Thank you for defending me on the so-low place over the past twenty four hours. Small kindnesses do not go unnoticed. I often say to fans that you should expect one reply for every three or four letters you send; similarly when I wrote to people I admired I did not expect a reply - and rarely received one.
I often ask fans to write me three thousand words about what I mean to them. Julia and many others began their friendships with me by doing this. I enjoy it and - for the most part - so do they. Would you like to send me a short essay about Morrissey? Kate it's not egomania. It's the hard simple fact that I do not know who I am. I find it fascinating to read about what I mean to others when, from my own perspective, I mean nothing whatsoever. I read them with famished eyes and re-read them and... I often print them out and read them in the bath. Is that too eccentric for you? I hope so.
M.
Aug. 1st
Subject: Introducing Morrissey...
... as Road Hog. Am I right, my darling?
Before I embark upon such a colossal act of devotion (prose composition candidly capturing my implicit adoration of you) I must ask, yet a-bloody-gain:
Are you indeed my Morrissey? Can you frankly tell me so?
Kate Ryan
His immediate response:
Then it is over Kate - almost before it began.
M
Later that day by me:
Any doubt harboured has now fully dissipated.
Am I beyond forgiveness, Morrissey? There is nothing I'd rather do than spend a day crafting a gorgeous essay for you.
Can I please redeem my pitiful self?
This is immensely distressing. I feel as if I destroyed something beautiful. Please tell me to proceed with the essay, it'll be the most gorgeous you've ever received. I promise.
Later...
Morrissey, I thought you'd be impressed with my wee discovery. I don't give a toss that you're Road Hog, really! I'm not going to tell anybody. I'm more friendless than you are. I only asked if you were indeed the author on Morrissey's World because I was momentarily confused. Is that so bad, my darling?
You cannot possibly ignore me, Morrissey, I'm infinitely more precious than any of your other fans.
So, sweetie-pie, send me an email saying I am forgiven. Please!!! I am nearly begging!
Later...
Through tears so plentiful they shroud me in a mist I'll ask, just once more: would you care to receive an essay from me?
Aug. 2nd
Dearest Kate,
Do please send at will.
M
Aug. 4th
Subject: All You Need Is Kate
Morrissey Magnifique,
Are you hungry for my essay? With famished eyes will you indulge fully? I'd like to think you find my Hallo Spacegirl emails amusing and worthwhile.
Today I'm literally going to a friendship group for the mentally-ill, I do so weekly. We really do make Christmas cards in the month of December. Typically, we sit around circular tables playing board games, in our incorrigible way. I keep asking the professionals to bring Twister to the centre, but they say 'it's not appropriate.' How abysmally boring! They feed us too and give away door prizes (everyone could use another tube of toothpaste or a razor). They, rather naturally, have rules. I'm always in danger of being asked to leave: I flirt with two of the only good-looking boys and a sexy girl too. I also say the word 'retarded' sometimes, they go stone-faced when I do. Know that I am without any sociopathic tendencies, my only madness is for words. I'm remarkably sane and only must wage battle on c***ish depression. I'm sure you can sympathize.
An email from you, however truncated or telegraphic, would delight me considerably.
In heady anticipation,
Miss Kate Ryan
This is where I, regrettably, became mean:
Aug. 5th
Subject: Jumped-up Vocalist
The essay will, sadly, not be written. I tried. I really, really tried. I found myself utterly bereft of inspiration. Hours upon hours I stared at pixellated bareness. No words of adoration for you visited, for I am scarcely a fan anymore. So-Lowers, in their frankness, may have actually pegged you with adeptness. Dull you must really be. With your tiresome set lists & perpetual moaning.
You are not nearly as clever or good-looking as you fancy yourself to be. Taking your shirt off in London will be most farcical. Expect audience members to flee through emergency exit doors. Perhaps if you drank less of your favourite Nazi beverage Fanta and gave up dairy (as any decent animal rights activist would) you'd weigh less.
Canada does not miss you in the least. Did I mention my father was a seal hunter? Cry into your croissant. The country I live in is a dirty word to you. It's better being Canadian than an inbred Englishman: does any other place have more rubbish ribonucleic acid?
Expect me to have a bit of fun on the site you loathe so much. For every fraudulent profile you have on there, in which you engage in constant self-stroking, expect three more from me. I'll use proxies from Antarctica if I must. My posts will not be adulating in the least, it will be a glorious verbal slagging.
By the way, your three new songs are dreadful: never have I heard more banal lyrics. Another album from you, how really likely is that?
This is good-riddance. Have a few good wanks and then kindly exit stage left. Cower in the wings, nobody will likely ask for an autograph. You're so antiquated it would likely be a shaky one anyway. If only your music was as majestic as Damien Dempsey's. Your prodigy surpassed you effortlessly.
Kate
Morrissey's final email later that day:
"If you are happy to write to a man with no hope, a shadow dancing on the carpet, someone who is already dead, then please continue. But like the others, you will soon grow tired and leave. They all do."
C'est la vie.
Farewell,
M
