"2:39am
Dear Mozzer
Dear Morrissey,
I write on Independence Day - of course, we still clinging to this chalky little island mark no day, but still, a thick smog of mugginess hangs over Manchester and prevents me from shutting my windows and curtains lest my lonely room become a sauna.
Anyway, I write from Manchester. Boredom, jet planes, silence I sense… but no human voices do I hear out of my open window.
I lie in my bed just as you lie on your bed. Manchester has changed dramatically since you you served your stint (sentence??) here; I have never seen anyone even remotely akin to a Marr here.My jaw never drops and my eyes never dilate. It has one foot stuck in a faded Bulmer photograph; the other trying to stride awkwardly into the future - but the words future and Manchester will never marry.
I swear I have survived mainly on a diet of Philip Larkin, and your music.I know it’s gonna happen someday - although what exactly I don’t know. I liberated myself on/off from Collyhurst by splitting my time between Zagreb - a city I know you’re fond of - as I acquired, somehow, a Croatian girlfriend. But she went the way of all things in the world…
Ideologically and genetically I feel close to you - my family roots can be traced back to Ireland; I also think myself an anarchist member of north-of-Hemel-Hempstead literati. Anybody who is remotely eloquent (read: self-sure) and has spent time in the annuls of the social security system in Manchester usually ends up turning it all on its head. It’s just getting a little late for me (27 years old)
You inspire me. I made the pilgrimage to see your show in Plymouth. And only a 3am coach back up North prevented me from following in the sailwinds of the Pilgrim Fathers.
Do you think you could show me Rome? I’ve never had a Roman Holiday.
People are the Same Everywhere and Everyday is Like Sunday, but what remains is my love to you.
Jonathan Doherty
@dohertywriter (Twitter)"