about people who are 'nice'
'cause I have spent my whole life in ruins
because of people who are 'nice'
I haven’t written very much lately, and when I have, it has only been fiction.
The words won’t
come the way they used to; thoughts to pen would flow as if from
somewhere else, a place outside of my own head. So, perhaps that is
why I am late in putting these thoughts “out there.”
See, I’ve tried to detach myself from my past life. Not past life, as in whoever I may have been in 1824, but my old life, pre-covid. For me, detachment has seemed the best way to cope, because it would be crass to complain about all I miss, when so many other people have endured far worse through the pandemic: losing their jobs, the people they care about, their own lives. So, I’ve inevitably found the best way for me to cope is to detach a little: into fiction, into stories, into nature, and it’s what I do for now.
My mind used to flow quickly with images, thoughts, and words; it felt vibrant with life, love, movement, music, travel, art. Finding Morrissey in my 30’s, relatively late in life compared to my Mancunian pals, or Southern Californian friends, was a little like a personal Renaissance. So now, while his music and words stand by me like an old-new friend, a part of me is in lockdown, because I don’t really want to think too deeply about what, and who, I miss. At least not for now.
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| Morrissey during his Fall Tour, 2019 |
In 2015, I started following the Morrissey tour, in bursts, as much as I could. At my second-ever gig, I wrote him a note, which I never expected would reach him, and was able to give it to him. It felt like a surreal dream. We had never laid eyes on each other in person, and I wondered, how could he notice me out of this sea of ardent hands and faces? My heart, hummingbird-like, fluttered in my throat through each song, and then, during First of The Gang to Die, our eyes met – and he smiled – Morrissey smiled at me? And he reached down, and the little square of paper passed from my shaking hand to his.
It was probably nothing, but it felt like the world.
It really did feel like the world. And I was struck by this kindness, this gentleness of spirit. I wanted to see him again. So, on I travelled, as much as I could, because “I just can’t find my place in this world” no longer applied to me. I had found my place: with Morrissey, on the road, alongside my friends, international playboygirls I had met because of him. Years passed like moments, and moments lasted for little eternities, and I felt constantly inspired, and happy is a loaded word, I think, but I often felt happiness.
In a covid world, of course, I cannot do these things, so I have, as I said, found myself a little detached so as not to drown in missing things, people, and places. But I have massively derailed from where I wanted to go here, and must draw myself back to the point at hand. Maybe the words are flowing, but sadly not for the reason I would like them to.
Last Sunday, I decided to watch The Simpsons for the first time in decades. A character, Quilloughby, who was described by producer Tim Long as being “definitely Morrissey-esque, with maybe a small dash of Robert Smith from the Cure, Ian Curtis from Joy Division, and a bunch of other people” would appear on the episode, as an imaginary friend of Lisa’s. The episode seemed targeted towards fans, particularly of Morrissey and the Smiths, judging by clips and commentary on social media put forth by The Simpsons. However, by air time on the West Coast, I was already painfully aware that the show was not what fans had expected, and was something altogether very different. I no longer felt like watching it, but I did.
The episode began tamely enough, and was fairly enjoyable, the be-quiffed character befriending bookish Lisa had inspired her to stand up even more passionately for animal rights, and stick up for herself. Then, at the end of the episode, it all went horribly wrong: “Young Quilloughby” met “Current Quilloughby” and the show deteriorated into what can only be described as a cesspool of bullying. Slightly tongue-in-cheek critique or parody is one thing, a viscous attack on someone’s character is quite another. On cartooned stage stood a man who looked nothing very much like the actual man the show was having a go at (I should know, I have seen him with my own eyes from a mere few feet away, many times), as Quilloughby appeared an obese, be-jowled man, with shirt buttons bursting exaggeratedly. The cartoon was clearly borne out of a dark, vitriolic place of ageist and body shaming culture. And, such viciousness was not only limited to the skin deep, but went further, swelling into a tidal wave of character defamation, portraying ‘Quilloughby’ as a meat-eating “racist,” bizarrely peaking with him firing some kind of sausage gun into his audience (I feel ridiculous typing that). This figure was nothing like the real man they were so cruelly mocking; the actual man, Morrissey, holds our hands and accepts our letters, and shows us so much love no matter our skin colour, size, age, gender, nationality.
It was unwatchable.
I turned the TV off, poured myself a big glass of wine, and put “Rank” on the stereo, but my mind kept spinning through the tasteless episode.
I hurt for Morrissey, those close to him, and his fans. Many fans I’d already spoken to felt duped, believing the episode would be a tribute. My sadness, however, was entwined with anger at such hypocrisy. This was blatant woke warfare, and I believe at a certain extreme, or whatever it has now morphed into, wokeness is damaging; I say this as a lifelong political leftie. The sentiment appears to be, if we don’t agree with you, we will rip you apart, and tear you down. There is no room for intelligent debate, or education, only silencing. It is blatant bullying, in this case overflowing with ageism and body-shaming, and for people who are allegedly so supportive of kindness, tolerance, acceptance, individuality, and body confidence, it reeks of hypocrisy. People who are 'nice.'
The Simpsons, from what I have heard, have tried to portray themselves as more “woke” lately. A quick online search might provide you with synopses of these attempts. The new-found “wokeness” is no doubt too-little, too-late damage control related to the show’s past regarding racial stereotyping. Viewers have expressed concern over such stereotypes present in the program, so perhaps The Simpsons’ maliciously attacking individuals is a dirty attempt to deflect from the show’s own rooted flaws. It could also be an attempt to deflect from creator, Matt Groening’s, Epstein entanglement . The show still ‘proudly’ displays his name at the start of every episode. For what actions have consequences?
Hopefully, those with any degree of media literacy can see the holes of hypocrisy eating the show’s entire fabric, as ageism, body-shaming, character defamation, and bullying hardly send a positive message. In a programme so seemingly deprived of emotional intelligence except as image salve, its treatment of veganism in a world threatened by climate change is also appalling: it becomes a phase, or punchline. Kindness towards animals has been a core value of Morrissey’s for over 40 years, and to depict ‘Quilloughby” munching on deceased animals is not only defamatory, it is also a tasteless jab at the suffering countless animals endure at the hands of greedy humans. It is not clever, nor is it funny.
For all the criticism, hatefulness, and misunderstanding hurled at him, Morrissey continues to address, insightfully and elegantly through music, the topics of human rights (World Peace is None of Your Business), police brutality (Ganglord, Who Will Protect Us From The Police?) and animal rights (Meat is Murder, The Bullfighter Dies) to name just a few tracks. Meanwhile, The Simpsons try to cling to relevancy in a confused sea of ageism, body-shaming, and sausage guns. It’s not hard to see that Morrissey’s music will be what endures.