I’ve long come to terms with adolescent infatuation with Morrissey and am quite happy to build a metaphorical wall between his early work and the blimpish buffoon he’s become in recent years. (And in similar terms, I feel no need to boycott Gauguin’s art or Ezra Pound’s poems or the Gill Sans font, just because of their creators’ various misbehaviours.)
Steven Patrick himself, however, seems determined to punish his fans from 40 years ago if they haven’t kept the faith all these years:
They also strongly allude to an imaginary time when I was somehow their actual flesh-and-blood friend, and this claim allows them full rights to enlightened bitterness.
PS: Remembering that time I asked Mozz to shatter my youthful delusions once and for all.
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