SLIM. Fey. Sensitive. An outsider. A poet singing of the disaffection of unemployment-hit youth. Ah, that’s how Morrissey used to be. Now I’m your bigoted old dad.
The signs were always there, let’s face it. Obsessive letters to the NME or the Banbury Guardian aren’t so different. And I was always a bit keen on being English.
You want to look at my Facebook account now. It’s wall-to-wall hate speech. Me and all the other expats, we know what’s going on. Britain isn’t Britain anymore.
I was always uniquely, painfully attuned to the suffering in the world. I felt it more keenly than anyone. I’m delighted to know it’s all foreigners’ fault.
Now you can’t even chat to me without queasily skirting the pits of my prejudices. Anything sets me off. Holly Willoughby triggered a rant about grooming gangs yesterday.
Oh, and talking of Willoughby; I like birds now. Yeah, the old Islamophobia’s not the only turnabout. I’m well into me tarts.
Her off the front of Saturday’s Star? I’ve had her. That Lucy Pinder? It wasn’t just a meeting of minds.
And I eat meat of course. You don’t get a chest like this on bloody vegetables, lad! Every Tuesday I’m down Wetherspoon’s Steak Club. He’s got the right views on Brexit.
There we are, son. Now at last will you shut up about me reforming the bloody Smiths.