I was sat on a train waiting to depart from Liverpool Lime Street this afternoon when I saw a poster discouraging people from avoiding their fare. The penalty, it warned, could be three months in prison.
Now you know my theory on this. How the poorly motivated self-employed person could benefit from going to prison on a short term sentence to finally get some work done. It’s the writers dream punishment. One cell. One laptop (and they allow lags anything these days, don’t they) and whole months of nothing but studious and zero-distraction work time. It would be the salvation of so many.
Obviously I’ve always said all that as a kind of joke, because prison would be a terrifying place to go and in the unlikely event of anyone ‘inside’ reading this now or in the future I’ll bet they’re thinking “Okay, I’ll swap. You have my cell for a few months and I’ll swan about like a tit as you do every day, doing what I like.� Still, if anyone were thinking of going to prison on purpose, and be thinking of ways to go about it, dodging a train fare is a pretty harmless way of securing your passage. I don’t know if that’s the best terminology if reference to prison but we’ll let it go. It doesn’t hurt anyone… It also gets you out of the house.
So how would that work? You’re on a train, the ticket inspector comes down and says “tickets please� and you say… what? “I don’t have one. I am dodging my fare. And now you have caught me�?
The ticket inspector would just say “Well, you have to buy one now.�
And you’d say “No. I’m dodging my fare. I am a ticket dodger. We don’t pay.�
And he’d say “But you’ve not dodged it now, because I’ve caught you dodging. You have to pay now. That will be £3.70 please.�
And you’d say “No! I’m not paying under any circumstances. I have my dodging principals to think of.�
And he’d say “In that case, I’m going to issue you with a fine which you’ll receive through the post.�
And you’d say “No! I don’t want a fine, I want to do some chokey. Can’t you see I’m a writer? Look at my scarf. I need to do that 3 months inside you’ve advertised on your poster. My agent’s going mental for a first draft of my latest.�
And he’d say “Well, the best I can do you is a fine. If you don’t pay it, you’ll have to go to court. And then they’ll probably just give you a bigger fine.�
And you’d say “But my book! My beautiful book! When will I ever finish it if not for some time at Her Majesties’?�
And he’d say “That’s not my problem, mate. If I were you I’d contact the rail authorities or something.�
And you’d say “I’m going to sue you for false advertising. That poster back there clearly said three months in prison.�
And he’d say “Yeah, I think that’s there as more of a warning than anything. It’s not like our prison system can take the extra demand of fare dodgers. It’s a fine or nothing I’m afraid.�
And you’d say “You’re worse than those scratch cards. They promise you a million quid but you only ever get some holiday that you have to ring up for and then doesn’t exist after you’ve spent £10 on a premium rate line. You’re scum, the lot of you.�
I was on the train because I was going to Manchester to see Morrissey. Not for coffee, sorry to say, but in concert. He was appearing tonight at The Lowry on the first date of his UK tour. He’s a cheeky one because he’s chosen all these medium sized venues, when he can sell mega-arenas, which means the entire tour sold out in 25 minutes and most people were either unlucky or had to pay £300 on e-Bay. I was very fortunate because a lovely man called Andrew Laing sold me a ticket for tonight’s show at face value. And so, knocking back some beers in the venue’s bar, we prepared for Himself to grace the stage.
Morrissey concerts are funny things, and increasingly more so. His fans are the most passionate in pop – no question. Always have been. He’s by no means the biggest artist in the world but holds all sorts of world records for selling venues out. He beat Michael Jackson and Madonna for selling out the Hollywood Bowl in 20 minutes. His fans can’t be beaten. I’m proud to be amongst their number.
But of course Morrissey first came to prominence as lead singer of The Smiths in 1983. The fans that were 18 then are now 41. The quiffs have shrunk as they’ve moved into middle management, some are even bald. Some have families, and have to excuse themselves from the wives and kids to attend these concerts and bellow messages of devotion at their spiritual leader and reminder on years gone by.
Morrissey himself just seems too aloof and above it all to even acknowledge the madness. He’s never really been part of the real world at any point in his existence, which makes him all the funnier and all the more fascinating. He strolled on stage tonight looking immaculate and, as ever, shrugs off the howls of devotion, flowers, outstretched hands and screams that meet him. “You must be Salford� he deadpans at his home crowd, and the band launch into First Of The Gang To Die.
I was unsure about the well appointed Lowry for a Morrissey gig because it’s an all-seated affair and that can never be appropriate. All music gigs worth their salt must be standing, that’s a given, and Morrissey gigs need to be by their very nature. It’s all about the jostling, the trying to get on stage, the need to steal an inch closer to The Master. Thankfully, from the moment he walked on to the moment he left, the audience stood without exception. There wasn’t a seated arse in the house.
“Welcome to a night of torment.� announced the wittiest man in pop, warming to his task. Morrissey is the funniest man alive, as a comic I can say that absolutely. I am correct. Each and every song is separated with some little bon-mot, mostly off the cuff. “Take your shirt off!� bellowed a heckler. “And what would the point be? You can’t be that starved� answered Moz immediately, before continuing “According to the newspapers today, I’ve lost out in a lyrical contest to Bono. I mean, he’s very nice, but REALLY….� The whole theatre applauded. Morrissey sniffed. He’s the greatest lyricist the world’s ever heard and he knows it. Everyone knows it. His lyric for ‘How Soon Is Now?’ lost out yesterday to ‘One’ by U2 in a poll. It’s not clear how.
There’s no better evening’s entertainment than watching Morrissey. His voice has got to a stage where I doubt it can ever now improve – it’s a classically trained instrument, and used to dazzling effect. He could pick better songs from his back catalogue but doesn’t – the arrogant mutt. That’s all part of the frustration of being a Moz fan – you won’t get the hits. What you get is a master class in stagecraft, almost Sinatra-like charisma and performance, casual and effortless wit, a great band, complete theatre, the hint of violence, and an early exit leaving you desperate for more. It’s ridiculously compelling. I honestly think he’s the best showman in pop.
The most fascinating thing is the fan worship. It’s not like going to see Oasis, or U2, or the Arctic Monkeys. This is unwavering fanaticism, on a ludicrous and inexplicable level. And it’s all men. There are women there who love him just as much but it’s always men with their hands outstretched, wanting to touch his hand. You might assume this is a homosexual or homoerotic thing, but it’s not. Well perhaps homoerotic, but certainly not ‘gay’ in the strictest term. Morrissey does have a gay following, and is himself gay although he’s never said as much, but the fans who leap at him are all straight. It’s the strangest thing. It’s completely inexplicable actually. Morrissey’s been quizzed on it and he’s at a loss to explain it too. As a heterosexual man with a Morrissey fascination, I can’t even explain it. I think it’s because… No, I honestly don’t know what it is. Good hair?
Anyway, it’s all terrifically entertaining and as Mozzer barks “Ciao�, runs off stage to let the house lights go up and Sinatra’s ‘That’s Life’ play over the PA, we’re all in no doubt as to have being in the presence of probably the classiest man alive.
I found this review on the BBC site.
Viva Morrissey.
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