Morrissey's autobiography is out. Fuck, it's long. And overwrought. An excerpt from page 253:

It is sad, but the bough breaks. At JFK Airport, skinny Mozophiles are pouring through barriers and checkpoints, banging on glass as I hide in the airport lounge.

'We'll hafta take him through the back-way,' say police, and I am whisked through fish-stenched kitchens. I am Fabian in 1960.

'Would they believe this back in England?' I ask Linder, agog with her camera.

'They would never WANT to believe this back in England,' she says.

And she is correct. The most extraordinary tours of my life are never made known back in England, and attempting to recount the details becomes almost pointless.

I just hope this puts things in perspective for you.

ETA: formatting. fucking formatting.