Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Never Meet Your Idols


It was miserable day on Briggate. I had just decked out an LSD Christmas hologram window with diamante covered mannequins crawling across the floor dressed in haute couture festive snazz, and was stood outside checking out the display. As I stood back to check the dimensions, the structure, the placing of my masterpiece I caught the reflection behind me of six burly bounders.Unusual really, to see six beefy blokes at 11AM on a Friday in Leeds. Bet they’re hiding someone famous? I noticed one of the men was wearing a Crossroads Benny beanie hat, and the other one had a rockabilly quiff with brothel creepers. I recognised him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place him.


Out of curiosity I decided to stalk the party into the department store. Now this wasn’t any old bargain pound shop, I happened to be working for one of the top notch couture markets outside of London, let’s call it by the staff’s favourite nickname, Hairy Nipples. The store policy is that you are never under any circumstance to approach a celebrity at anytime that they are in the shop, otherwise you will be fired. When you sign your contract, you even have to sign that agreement before they’ll employ you.I was still intrigued to find out who this hidden man was nestling between the bouncers, so followed them upstairs with some hanging graphics to conceal my face. It wasn’t until they reached the underwear department that I realised exactly who the mystery man in the woolly hat was. He happened to be headlining the Town&Country Club that night. It was the man who I had spent my entire teenage years worshipping at the feet of, covered in daffodils, bitterly re-enacting scenes of Oscar Wilde in the cemetery, it was him.
What exactly are you meant to say to a man like that without sounding like an idiot fangirl?


What I really wanted to say was this: Steven Patrick, you are my life, my love, my total inspiration, and have guided me through my dark years of teenage life, giving me hope through the journey of literature that you laid down to me at an early age. If there is any small way that I can repay the favour, then don’t be afraid to say. I’ve always dreamt that one day I would meet you, and would be able to tell you in person how much a soul like you has rescued a whole generation of smalltown nobodies like me. Thanks Morrissey, from the bottom of my heart.


I would then peck him on the cheek, he would give me a hug and say ‘Thanks, that really means a great deal to me. Here’s a VIP ticket to my show tonight. You know what, why don’t you come along and hang out with me in Los Angeles, I’m sure you and Nancy Sinatra would get along a treat!’


I had this dream of who he was in my head. You build up these people, stack up your idols, and when you find out they are just as much of an idiot as you and me, then it breaks your heart.As I peered at Morrissey through the Prada underpant shelves, I could see the security guards watching over me, one of them said ‘We know you are following him. Stop it before we grass you up love.’


From what I could see from my overhead view, and this was look don’t touch, he was leafing through the silk underwear with Boz Boorer (his guitarist) and a very camp suntanned lizard who I presumed to be his boyfriend. This was the first time I realised that Morrissey is infact 100% gay, and not straight, and definitely not celibate. Morrissey is also partial to very expensive designer clothing, and does not, contrary to popular belief wear Oxfam shirts. He is also very handsome in the flesh, but he works on that suntan.


It was an Ally McBeal moment, but I kept stalking the fucker some more. It was shattering my dreams just seeing him there in the flesh, he’s only ever been a thought in my head. But he was there and for real, and I saw him spend £2000 on designer underpants. That’s Morrissey the whole hog. He sells the poverty dream to you and me, makes the money, then wallows like a fucking fat cat in LA, spending my hard earned pounds on 4 pairs of silk underpants totalling £2000 in Hairy Nipples.The dream was dead.


As I saw my once favourite miserablist hand over his Amex Gold Card, my love affair with him was over. I sat on the steps to the store and played with my rotten shoelaces, thinking how can something so special be ruined so quickly, and so out of the blue?When I got home, I chucked out Viva Hate through the bedroom window, as it smashed on the concrete below I said my last goodbyes to the man I always loved but never met.


Last Chance Disco

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

WOW. =(

Ash said...

Dude...real sorry to hear it but that's why people should idolize celebrities that have died! I worship a musician that's been dead for 17 years.