Late to the self-pity party: Morrisey's Autobiography

I'd read enough tweets about this to feel like I'd read all the good bits, but in fact Autobiography was compelling in ways I hadn't expected. There is something about Morrissey's waspishly camp narrative that kept me going until the end, and far from being distracting, I particularly enjoyed the detours and flights of fancy where you long since forgot what the starting point to his various rants and musings were. I loved his ravings about musical obsessions growing up, namely the New York Dolls thing. If I see their album on my travels I dare say I'll pick up a copy, such was the fervour of his adoration. It also makes sense of the compulsive chart position trackings throughout Moz's own career. The Dickensian childhood schtick was fun - not for Morrissey, obviously, but to read. It's hard not to think of your own school as the setter, and I end up having my own vivid flashbacks to using my first floppy disc to load Claxton (it would've been quicker to use an actual printing press). You know floppy discs used to be floppy? And like almost 7" single size? Anyway. My final observation is the strange but understandably necessary for him details of righting the apparent wrongs of The World vs Moz trial. It was salaciously satisfying - much like Heat magazine - but a bit overdetailed for what is ostentatiously an instant Penguin Classic.

Overall it's made me a.) want a dead meat burger and b.) desperately and uncontrollably excited about the prospect of a Courtney Love Autobiography.