For you see, the decision to come to Manchester on exchange was fuelled almost completely by one thought; maybe I would see Morrissey! And I had thought this hope had been dashed by the fact that Morrissey's tour took him in June. But behold; a classmate gave me hope - he was pretty sure Morrissey was playing in Liverpool in November. I could combine two loves in the one place; birthplace of the Beatles during the day, witnessing the power of Mr SP at night.
But this news held a grave warning: "he starts late, he leaves early and he doesn't do encores. Oh, and he doesn't use screens, so if you're in bad seats you won't see him." I registered this but didn't care. Neither did I care that he had walked offstage at a festival in Spain because he could smell meat cooking. Even when he collapsed at a concert in Swindon, I felt sure that all my dreams would come true in Liverpool.
I should have known better. The day started with such a girly disaster; I stabbed myself in the eye with my eyeliner pen and some of said liner may have broken off in my eye. To counteract the indescribable pain and inability to open my left eye all the way, I did what any normal person would do: I crammed it full of out-of-date eye drops that I bought from home.
Prefrin - used to dilate blood vessels in England. In my eyedrops? Used to dilate pupils. I looked like Mr Burns after his weekly treatments, but only in profile. The rest of the time I looked like David Bowie. Grace suggested that if I were a tall, thin, white guy such as Bowie perhaps Simon Amstell, love of my life, might like me. Oh, well.
Eventually, sometime during our turn about Albert Dock, my eye resumed its normal dilation. But it went on to cause me great pain all day. It streamed tears intermittently, and of course when I cry my forehead sweats and my nose runs. My eye became sensitive to light, especially the overcast grey light of the Liverpool afternoon, and the diffused lighting of Costa at night. I was wearing sunglasses around, even inside, to complete the trendy modern blind wanker look I've so wanted to do for so long now.
This put a pretty big downer on the day, the whole inability to see thing. I was not defeated, though. I went to the Beatles Story, the coolest museum ever, and the Cavern Club. I even tried to make out with a statue of John Lennon outside the club. I also paid a ridiculous amount for a long-sleeved John and Yoko t-shirt. Good times were still had.
The show at Liverpool's Echo Arena started pretty well. The support slot, Doll and the Kicks, were really good. And halfway during their set I wiped crusty bits out of my eye and I could suddenly see out of it! Hurrah!
After a cool video projection including an interview from 1974 in which Lou Reed settled some stupid Australian journos' hash, Morrissey arrived. Grey suit, blue shirt, impeccable quiff. Amazing. He started with This Charming Man, and indeed he was charming. Then he started a song I don't know called Black Cloud.
I don't think I ever will know that song, to be honest. One, bad memories. Two, he didn't finish it. One minute he was being all lovely and cool and Morrissey, then with a terse 'goodnight,' he was gone. What! What! Whaaaaattttttt!!!!!!
Grace, who is not a fan of Morrissey and only attended the show out of a friend duty, informed me that someone hit him with a bottle of water. And he had stormed off. Like a grumpy old man...well, like Morrissey.
Clearly nothing and no one could persuade him to return to the stage, because about fifteen minutes later a representative of the Arena informed us that "Morrissey has been hit in the head with a bottle of beer. The show won't be continuing." More was said, the lights came up and everyone started walking like zombies to the exits. Not George Romero zombies, mind you. 28 Days Later zombies, really.
It felt like I'd just seen Dad dressed as Santa putting presents under the tree. The enigmatic, rakish, endearing scorn of the man who made me cry by plaintively asking that he get what he wants, was torn away. I just felt like I had wasted my life looking up to this grumpy, childish git. I do believe I called him a cunt on the night, such was my wrath.
I've since calmed down enough to love Morrissey again, but it honestly felt like a break-up. There was some previously endearing behaviour now revealed as bad behaviour, a storming off, and shattered memories of what had once been wonderful, seen from the perspective of a person who couldn't really remember anything positive. I could barely listen to the Smiths, and I immediately deleted all of Morrissey's songs from my iPod. I shoved the tote bag I purchased at the back of my wardrobe.
Well, I was warned (thanks, Sam). And the old saying about never meeting your heroes is an old one for a reason - because they turn into human beings. Flawed human beings. And you realise that you really don't know them and see that if you did get to know them you probably wouldn't like them very much. I can relate to Morrissey's feelings of isolation and loneliness as a kid, and this utter bafflement at the opposite sex, but I feel that now I shouldn't think this means we'll get along famously. Not at all. Some basic commonality does not a friendship make. Trust me, I'm learning this being away from home. I should learn to cherish Morrissey's creative input and what it has meant in my life and give up on thinking he's also a friend I just haven't met yet. He could be, but right now he's just tired, grumpy, aging, and a bit of a brat, to be honest.
But the best travel stories always involve absurd situations, right? And I think my friend Cameron said it best when he commented on Facebook that at least now I can say I've been scorned by Morrissey. Though I'm sure a lot of meat-eating residents of Spain can say exactly the same thing.
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