A day in the life of Morrissey

My farts smell better than yours.

Hi, fans.  This week has been a bit of an odd one for me.  When I opened my front door this morning, I was rather shocked to see that the world wasn’t on fire.  I mean, it’s been at least three days since a journalist last asked my opinion on something, so naturally I assumed that something bad was happening.  As it happens, the last time I experienced such a lull of interest was when Princess Diana’s spleen was being smeared halfway across a highway in Paris.

Actually, that reminds me: I’m sick and tired of seeing her sons living the high life at our expense.  I’d love nothing more than to be able arrange for some scum-sucking parasites to chase my own mother down a French road in the middle of the night, if it meant I got to live in a big palace for the rest of my life.  However, that’s not an option available to us ordinary, hard-working folk who don’t have the luxury of relying on our past glories to make a few quid every now and then.

The other day I stepped out into my back garden, and accidentally trod on a snail.  Although he was technically trespassing, I actually felt sorry for the little blighter and I’ve decided to write a song in his memory.  This is what I’ve got so far:

I treaded on a snail

He made a noisy squish

We could have been buddies

He went nicely with my tuna salad dish

It’s still early days, but you can feel the emotional trauma coming off it in waves already.  I’m yet to commit to a name for it, as it’s all about getting the right balance between artistic integrity and the whole ‘Ooooh, me guts were squished on the floor and now I’m dead’ vibe.

I reckon I might settle with calling it Diana.

About these ads