My latest washing up violation has left me feeling irreparably damaged on a spiritual level. I think I left part of my soul in that sink tonight.
While I was locked in close-quarters combat with an egg whisk, I heard this beautiful old number that always twangs something deep down and dirty in the old heart locker.
It’s about a guy who’s had rotten bloody luck in life and, for once, it looks like something good might be happening, but he’s terrified it’s all going to turn to liquid shit and slip through his fingers like everything else.
OK so Steven Patrick Morrissey puts it better than me. Just. It’s a matter of opinion really though. (I secretly prefer mine if I’m honest)
So sit back, light up a blunt, stroke that docile overfed white cat in your lap, laugh in a manic villainous manner, start the launch sequence on a nuclear warhead aimed at Washington, inexplicably leave James Bond unattended in a precarious predicament in the same room as the nuke countdown, knowing full well how badly that has gone for you in the past, … and wrap your gorgeous face around The Smiths – Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want***:
*** Morrissey’s gifts in lyric writing sadly do not extend to his titular consissitude.
It is a word too so – I looked it up and everything.
If you google it though it means you’re an asshole apparently. I don’t make the rules.