List Of The Lost Comments

Apologies for that incredibely creative blog title. As you know, our blog shrank a bit recently, and hopefully the articles will one day be republished elsewhere, but of course the comment sections are lost. Well, not really, the comments are still visible in the admin part of the blog and in the associated email inbox, and Monsieur El Rat had asked me to go through them and collect the few lost anon gems, which was a great idea, some of those are wonderfully written. So after having successfully beaten my laziness, I compiled them this morning. They're a bit out of context, but it's questionable if there ever was much context anyway... So here is the (hopefully complete) collection.

The first set of comments was published around the time when we did our Q/A session with Morrissey; they all refer to questions that were left on that article, however the answers were distributed across the blog:


Published on "Poem Left on Following the Pessoas" (12/8/2015)

In The Decay of Lying, Wilde said, “Thinking is the most unhealthy thing in the world, and people die of it just as they die of any disease. Fortunately, in England at any rate, thought is not catching.” Do you believe thinking (or overthinking) can possibly be an unhealthy tendency?

Oscar always speaks sense and it is to Oscar I find myself returning to time after time. Although one must disagree with him on one point; “thought it not catching” is quite clearly a ridiculous statement in regards to England as in England nobody ever thinks so there can be no data on whether it is catching or not. The same opinions are repeated in newspapers, on television, on radio but with different words or perhaps a different style of speaking. The window of discussion in England has become so narrow, opaque, and dull that soon only one opinion will be able to be viewed, much like staring at the same view every day for the rest of your life. Anyone with a difference of opinion will be viewed as a crank, an idiot, or even worse, mental. Indeed if anyone ever managed to conjure a unique thought then they would become so shocked they would decompose into mush in the very spot in which they were standing.

I find that thinking or overthinking is an overtly personal affair. How many bedsit poets are there? How many box-room philosophers? We will, of course, never know. Those who are capable of thinking will never voice the true thoughts in their heads. They will suffer and probably plunge into a deep depression in the belief that they are outsiders and that the world doesn’t want or indeed need them. They don’t know, for how could they?, that it is the outsiders who make the world. I should know. Back in 1981, before the internet and before Tony Blair, I was an unknown freak. Today I am an icon. Why? Because I dared to say something different. In a world of grey, I was a spec of orange.

Thinking can be totally and incongruously ruin-able. A disease if you would. For to sit for days, weeks, months, and possibly years with your own thoughts, never to be able to articulate them is ruinous. That can kill the spirit. But we must plough on. It’s either isolation and our thoughts or the dumbing down of our minds thanks to television or the internet.




Published on "How old is Morrissey?" (14/08/2015)

You published your autobiography in 2013, and recently stated that you've finished your novel. When it comes to your literary choices regarding genre, do you prefer fictional or non-fictional books? Is a story more touching and relevant when/because it really happened, or are these unrelated subjects?

Sometimes the fiction of a story is actually the author’s true thoughts and experiences so should not be labelled fiction at all. Most non-fiction can bore the knickers off of a nun. We are told not to judge books by their covers although you are allowed to do so with musicians! How many more records would I have sold if people would dare scrape behind the public image?

I find that most non-fiction authors are emotionally detached from their subject matter; one could read a book about the genocide in Rwanda and feel absolutely nothing. Then there are books such as The diaries of Kenneth Williams which produce tears from the very first passage, a shovel to the head. ‘Britishness’ died when he snuffed it.




Published on "Demos, Demos, Demos" (14/08/2015)

Would you consider marrying me in an ancient occult blood sharing ritual in a graveyard at midnight during a full moon?

It’s already happened. Can you not remember? I shall not expect an anniversary gift then. Unloveable forever.



In case you're interested, other answers referring to our Q/A that are still available can be found in the comment sections of these articles:


http://theworldofmoz.blogspot.com/2015/07/beautiful-blue-roses-that-i-saw-in.html

http://theworldofmoz.blogspot.com/2015/08/love-in-morrisseys-songs.html

http://theworldofmoz.blogspot.com/2015/08/larry-king-tty-post.html



And here's the rest of the comments, in chronological order:


Published on "Astraea's comment on the FTP Blob" (20/07/2015)

I am the patron saint of lost causes. The purveyor of maladies. The conflicted court marshal of hope. Moving between different states appears to be a talent many humans possess however only a select few of them can achieve the required results. Well, what are the required results? Can you acquire the mental faculties to summon the answers for yourself or must I spell everything out? Liquid becomes slabs of concrete in the presence of the suffering masses. Nourishment of mental thought is lacking throughout the human condition. The ability to present oneself in many different guises is the only way you can hope to survive in the world. If you scrape beneath the mud, dirt and grime of the Id, ego, and superego you find only a shell on a man. This shell must, in whatever way possible, build up a front of character to bypass the hazards and suffering of existence. Traits from characters in literature, cinema, music, and even friends if you burden yourself with such commitment ,must be taken, consumed, and adapted to provide an ‘original’.

Of course such images are everywhere and there is much to choose from. Mobile’s bring us closer together but also further apart. Whereas before you had the excitement of the written word on paper in the form of a letter, now you have impersonal type fonts and instant messaging. Send a message and you can immediately see if it has been read and ignored. With the letter you could potentially wait weeks for a response, baited breath and tightened trousers. The world of instant communication is a distraction, it tricks us into thinking that we have ‘friends’ but really we only have screens. Whilst one message is sent on one platform, another is soon sent on another. The time where discoveries of art could be made is now taken up with messaging and television. We live in hope of a technological disaster. The primitive state has never and will never be bettered.




Published on "Boozey's Hammersmith review (2nd night)" (23/9/2015)

Hammersmith was not the end.


Published on "Boozey's Hammersmith review (2nd night)" (23/9/2015)

Beauty masks the ugly and ugly masks the beauty. Who has it in them to be unmasked? Starts feel like endings and endings feel like starts. Who has it in them to end a start? Art becomes distasteful but then distasteful itself becomes art. Who finds art distasteful? Life is death and death is life. Each second matters to no-one but ourselves. Selfishness accelerates at such a speed that whiplash is to be expected if the speed is to slow. My life has been given to art and yet art wants nothing to do with my life. Managers manage nothing but self-loathing. Artists must manage themselves but self-loathing in artists happens long before the management process. We spend each day processing smells, processing sights, processing faces but we do not process feelings. True feelings do not exist in real life. The only true feeling we have is the emotion that is a response to the singing voice. The singing voice can produce feelings of sadness, happiness, nothingness, loneliness etc.
The singing voice is all we have. The singing voice is all I have.

Yours unretired,
Nobody’s nothing



Published on "Walk of Sheame" (22/10/2015)

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: For crimes against animals, transgressions against anyone with a brain, and the shuddering, vomit inducing atrocity of cankles - not to even begin to mention the much, MUCH else (our lives wouldn’t even be long enough) that will NEVER be saved - It is hereby announced that Gail Shea has been FINED. Rest easy. Go in peace. And never, ever be afraid to send back a cocktail that isn’t precisely to your liking. Signed, The LEGSINSPECTOR



Published on "Intermission Blob - Morrissey's Christmas Photo" (9/12/2015)

As a street urchin lurches into song, my heart skips no beats. As cute as the soil and just as dirty he riddles with the fiddle and makes a flute out of foil. Carving crowns on the backs of necks to show loyalty to tryanny posing as royalty. The royal we, the royal she, the royal he, collapsing into their own history. The moments has passed, as the street urchin knows, to change anything. So the music plays. He is free and a libertine with no time for fairytales and kings. He removed the king from the thone and to the gulliotine he was shown. Madness elopes and disproves. Trousers sticking to legs in afternoon heat. A shirt untucked and buttons carassing the air. No care as he teases the passers by with a glimpse of his underwear. He knows no other life than the street. Stylishly unfasionable with hair from nowhere down to everywhere. Life begins when death is no longer feared.


Published on "Eboozer Scrooge in the USA - San Francisco LEG" (28/12/2015)

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.