Reviewing Morrissey’s memoirs seems a peculiarly pointless exercise. If you were ever going to read it, you’ve read it by now – bought it within 12 hours of its publication, read it, reread it, covered it with annotations and red underlinings and marginal exclamation marks emanating from the eternal existential bedsit of the moaning adolescent soul. If you haven’t bought it by now, you’ve probably not much interest in Morrissey or The Smiths, or any of that. 

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