Waking up to a breakfast tray of sliced cucumbers on a bed of boiled Quinoa, sugarless Muesli, a peach medley and three gallons of overproof rum swilled in a Dublin spitoon with a slice of lemon, I take in the repast, before turning to the latest news from the world of rock and pop, the comings and goings of the Hit Parade, and so forth. My eye is first caught by news that the New Musical Express, sometimes known as the NME, has apologised for inadvertently implying that Morrissey, former lead singer of The Smiths, is a racist.
F*** me with a beached whale’s rib dipped in hot tar, Morrissey? A racist? Definitely f***ing not! A preening, bloviating f***ing sack of acrid, mouldering f***ing irrelevance, yes, but not a f***ing racist! A truffling f***ing attention hog who makes Stephen f***ing Fry look like f***ing Lord Lucan, but not a racist, certainly! A sub-Alan Bennettian, sub-Wildean, toxic, meretricious f***ing half-wit who actually looks worse than the f***ing portrait in his attic nowadays, but no racist! The hulking, clothbrained f***face and f***ing gullibility profiteer responsible for turning indie music into a funkless, monochrome perma-drizzle of f***ing underachieving, sullen, extraneous f***ing mediocrity, yes, but a racist? I f***ing think not! Never was an apology more f***ing deserved! If the f***ing NME had got any f***ing vestige of f***ing insight, they’d have realised that being one of the world’s most prominent anti-racists is the c***’s sole redeeming feature! You only have to look at everything he’s ever f***ing said and everything he’s ever f***ing done to see that! Duh!