The vegan munching nutter, Morrissey is back with more pulsating nonsense. This time it’s his first novel which is published by Penguin and entitled List Of The Lost. And no, it’s not a book of recipes for organic steamed kale. Nor is it a book citing the vegetarian rights of animals.
No sir. List of the Lost is Morrissey going full on Morrissey by spitting at the British royal family, Sir Winston Churchill and Fifty Shades of Grey author EL James.
The 128-page novel is rooted in the horror genre. The plot focuses on a relay track team in 1970’s America. Each member of the team is killed off one by one after they meet the devil incarnate.
I confess, I haven’t read the novel but from what the critiques have said this book was probably written after someone gave Morrissy a surprise prostate examination.
For example the Guardian’s revered critique, Michael Hann had nothing good to say about this wacky crazy of a novel. Here’s a snippet from his review;
“It appears to be unedited, the curse of the writer whose commercial clout is stronger than their publisher’s willpower. It’s not just the typos and grammatical errors – of which there are plenty – but the endless digressions, the inability to come to any sort of a point.
There might be a tolerable 20-page short story nestling in here somewhere (there probably isn’t, but let’s be generous for a moment), but no editor has been allowed to search for it.
It is an unpolished turd of a book, the stale excrement of Morrissey’s imagination.”
‘Stale excrement of Morrissey’s imagination’ – what can he mean?
Perhaps Michael was referring to the ketamine comedown that probably inspired these paragraphs from (surely) a winner of the coveted Pulitzer Prize for Irrelevance.
Of Sir Winston Churchill Morrissey writes;
Churchill himself would experience World War II safely and in a suite of rooms at Claridge’s most luxurious Mayfair hotel, with not a complicated twitch or pang to trouble his elaborate evening meal, often just he and Ivor Novello, like dons in senior common rooms, loaded on cognac and crashing into each other with doubled-up laughter, cigar-smoke being as close as they’d ever be to physical danger.
Of the Royal Family and the Queen Mother;
The names of the dead shall never be said, and those who insist upon being known as ‘the royals’ shall neatly and tartly cocoon themselves away in the preserved luxury of various country seats (as paid for by the dying poor), utilizing any rules within or without the game to avoid getting their hands dirty.
This, after all, is what the poor are for, and although the young men of England will die (unasked) to spare the self-elected ‘royals’ from Nazi Germany, the favor shall never be returned.
Queen’ Elizabeth and her mother were also hailed as World War II ‘heroes’, having done nothing throughout the war but dine lavishly in protected splendor with their manicured teeth ¿ always ¿ saying nothing, saying nothing, oh so royally saying nothing (lest they say the wrong thing ).
And on Fifty Shades of Grey author EL James Morrissy had this to say;
Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone.
Yup, punctuation. All wrong. See me. After school.
You know, I’m a little disappointed that Morrissey isn’t throwing a “meh” at the Labour Party. After all Morrissey hates everything and never misses an opportunity to go on and on about how much he hates things.
Actually I’m waiting for him to tell Jeremy Corbyn to eat shit and throw himself off of a cliff, and while it’s at it, take the meat eaters, China, the Beckhams, Paul McCartney, Elton John, and (insert everything else that isn’t a vegan cat) with it.