My husband is reading Marc Almond's autobiography, Tainted Life. Earlier today he brought the book to me and told me to read page 424.
You've probably seen this before, but in case you haven't:
I was dragged out to meet Morrissey for dinner once. A mutual friend of ours -- Jill Smith, a journalist with the now defunct Record Mirror --- wanted us to 'hook up' because she mistakenly thought we would have so much in common, what with our respective styles and lyrics. Early dinner in a London restaurant was arranged. I was my usual nervous self, but determined to see it through, and Jill was in her element, accompanied by her two favourite singers. So there we all sat, Morrissey across from me, and both of us guarded and reluctant to open up or chat. Morrissey was concerned with being Morrissey as much as I was concerned with being Marc Almond. The small talk remained so polite and charming that it was all but nonexistent, and there were long, long pauses, fake laughter, much lingering over the menu, much filling time. Jill proceeded to get so drunk that she ended up crying in the toilet, and Morrissey and I had to help her out. Sniveling and weeping, she was overcome with the experience of having dinner with the both of us. We loaded her into a taxi. Poor Jill! Morrissey and I at last managed to have a good laugh as she was driven away.