Morrissey can't even moan properly — here's a frontman who can

There is much to be said for Schadenfreude. (If it was edible, it would be a meal in a very expensive restaurant, for which someone else was paying.) So it’s probably inadvertently that Morrissey has added to the gaiety of nations this past fortnight with the publication of his autobiography, winningly titled Autobiography. So catastrophically bad does the book turn out to be that Morrissey-loathing critics have queued up to give it (and him) a damn good thrashing. It has been a long time coming. While it has always been clear that The Smiths were every bit as good as we thought they were at the time, it is even clearer now that Morrissey’s symbiotic working partnership with Johnny Marr was the reason why. Since the band crumbled in 1987, all but Morrissey’s most unhinged fans would struggle to name even three halfway decent songs he has written. I myself like ‘First of the Gang to Die’ and…that’s pretty much it. By any standards, it’s a pretty feeble catalogue. No wonder he is always so cheesed off.

The greatest disappointment of Autobiography, though, is that even the moaning is substandard. For someone whose hatred of himself is surpassed only by his hatred of everyone else, you would have expected Morrissey to have whined, whinged, grouched and bellyached with a certain style, at the very least. But no, it’s all so trivial and petulant, as if to confirm one’s suspicion that those who find fame when young cease to mature at that moment and just become saggier and ever more revolting manifestations of their youthful selves. Still, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.