Tag Archives: rock debate

Stuff on My Morrissey

I just know that Morrissey has a softer side than what he just presented to us and our advice-hound readers. I will not fail Morrissey. I will help him come to terms with the fact that some people are quite content to be alive.

Look, maybe he’s not so uncharitable to his fellow man after all:

Lord these words I beg of you
As I kneel down at my bed
Because soon I will be dead
Let’s face it soon I will be dead
And I just want to
I want to see the boy happy
With some hope in his pale eyes
Is that too much to ask?
Before I die
I have one final dream
For my own life I don’t care anything

There, see! He wants someone happy. He IS capable of it!

Oh. Wait. What’s that, speak up?


He was talking about a cat.

And I suppose that cat will rightfully eat him once he is dead. Carry on, Morrissey. Sorry to bother.

Life is Nothing Much to Lose

The more I ignore you, the more laborious you get.  In come the botherers, the interrupters and the hecklers to scold us into abundance and industry.

A fanciful head needs neither hat nor occupation.  I require only my wits to accompany me through this doleful semblance of existence.  That leaves the majority of you in the cold.  Well, allow me to suggest an anorak of some type.

And wherefore all this joie de vivre?  Have you all won some kind of lottery in which good looks are dispensed?  Alas, no.  Some English fool wrote “Give the People What They Want”, but I haven’t a bullet or a pill to spare, I have only as many as all of my cares.

So you persist in living, in dragging your pulchritude around like a sack of suet on its way to the butcher.  You may be a freckle on god’s massive scrotum….oh where was I?  You are still here.  You have thoughts and opinions after all.  I have spent my entire career giving you advice, and it has gotten us exactly nowhere.  Well, it has gotten *you* exactly nowhere.  I actually have a rather nice house and some truly exceptional bedding. 

Let my words take over, and remind you of all you should be thinking, and all you should be singing:  Life is a Pigsty!

Dandy in the Underworld


Wait a tick, let me get this straight: you natterers are complaining about boots and hats? Are you unaware that I DIED TOO YOUNG? That’s right, there are no hats where we’re going, people. No heads, really, either. But let’s not dwell.

Life’s a gas. Bang a gong. Rock on. Roll on. Sedately, ideally under the power of your own two feet.

I’ve had a lot of time to do some studying, and I have learned to use this internets thing from the Beyond. They have free wireless at Bed, Bath and Beyond, you see! There are a lot of facts floating around out there about me:

1) 3 days before his death Marc and David Bowie played together on Marc’s BBC series. During this performance the stage turned out to be too small for the two flamboyant performers. Marc got a little too close to the edge and fell over it, perhaps in a final sign that Bowie was destined to become the full legend in life that Marc would sadly never have the chance to be.

2) David Bowie once went to some sort of palm reading or something along those lines and was told that He, Jimi Hendrix, and Marc Bolan were some sort of mystic phenomenon that was only destined to be here for a few years. At the time it was laughable, as Hendrix was the only one who had passed. After Bolan’s death Bowie was devastated and fairly scared. Luckily whoever the prophetic individual was turned out to be only 2/3 right as Bowie is still alive and performing today, some 25 years after Marc Bolan’s death.

I shall neither confirm nor deny, as I know you cads have nothing better to do than speculate. You’ll have to ask Mr. Bowie as to whether or not he shoved me off a stage.


Oh boys, can’t you see that the people are trying, yet still they fail?  They seek to swim, but can only flail.  You cannot point out the splendour of being, unleashing that inner frabjousness, when most are confounded by the vast number of choices of peanut butter available to them.  (Your mistake was going to the grocery store in the first place.  They have people to do these things!)

So you can barely get your head off the pillow, blighted as it is with thoughts of your insignificance,  as well as combination skin.  I was not born with peacock quills cascading daintily from my bustle to my hustle.  No, no, what is needed here is Structure and Discipline, and the sooner you learn it, the less time we have to waste with this mollycoddling.  You don’t need a mother, she was a useless gin-soaked rag the first time around, tearing up the linoleum and screaming at your uncle.  And your feelings, well those can go by the wayside, too. They have gotten puffed up with far too many trips to the walk-in freezer, from the look of it.

We don’t like the cut of your jib, if you can call that a cut.  It has gone all wobbly.  It is time to wring out the tear stained hanky that is your life and start afresh, with nerves of steel and an unrelenting program of work, fitness, and severely cut trousers.  And for god’s sake, acquire a timepiece.  You are going to need it.

You are a special star/never marry an icon

Pete Burns

Bonjour, my star babies, I sensed through the ethereal veil that my presence was desperately needed (my call waiting beeped). Yes, you have problems. Your cheekbones are practically nonexistent. Your hair is but a sad opossum sitting on your head. You would have no idea how to apply eyebrow crystals if I left you alone in a Swarovski-studded room full of tweezers and glue and absinthe. Your garments are not made of anything endangered, although your ermine socks are nice on cold mornings, I allow.

I know, it’s all bloody tragic. But take it like a man, tee hee, if you dare! We do not traffic in complaints here. We take action. Lots and lots and lots of action. I don’t want to see you snuffling around, plying Steve Strange with questions in a transparent bid for attention. That’s a cheap thrill, a tiny pellet of cocaine wiggling down the chute because you yanked the lever, then, didn’t you? Did you get a shock, or does wire mother (Steeeeeee-eeeeve) love you today?

You forget that life is a glorious mystery, you sodding twits! Black, white, man, woman, animal, vegetable? Why does it matter? If I can get up and have at the day, so can you!  I have just put out a new single! No lying about all soppy, drowning in a tub of your own tears, waiting for attention to come to you. You shan’t be rescued by a strapping merman. Or even a fireman for that matter. You will have to drive yourself to the ER after your own suicide attempt, and the trauma team will sigh and avert their gaze because your eye makeup is smeared and your patch is flipped round.

So here is the Answer, babies: bootstraps! Preferably from boots with 2-cubit platforms. Come on, they are so shiny and sleek, and they make you look at least a stone lighter. If you wish, you could pull yourself up by someone else’s bootstraps, but you don’t know anyone fabulous enough, to be honest. And that person might consider it sexual harassment, which is sometimes but not always undesirable. You can do this, babies. Tug! Tug!

Ask Steve Strange


You are ever so fond of that randy pirate, Adam Ant.  What about me, the Peacock Prince?  It’s about time my Visage popped up around here.  I am ready to share with you my fabulous hat-pin pearls of wisdom.  And darling, I have lived.  When I ran the Blitz you could only get in if you had charm beaded on your brow and a copy of Proust in your bedazzled knickers.  I have also promoted parties in Ibiza, done more heroin than you have had hamburgers, and got busted shoplifting a tent.  And I don’t even like to go camping.  So profit from my advice, babies, and remember, the Damned Don’t Cry.

Dear Steve Strange,

A friend of mine was laid off a year ago and she never has any money to go out.  At first, I generously offered to cover her.  A drink here and there, her share of dinner.  Nothing to win me any awards.  She is making a solid effort to find a job but after a year, the “Susan tax” has become burdensome.  I feel bad about cutting her off, leaving her perpetually at home with want ads and eggs for dinner.  But I have my own bills to pay and besides I want to save up to go to the Caribbean this winter.

love, Alex

Dear Alex,

Far be it for me to begrudge anyone their days in the sun.  When I was still riding around London in stretch limos, sharpening my fairy boots on Boy George’s insolent bottom and rinsing the cocaine from my teeth with additional cocaine, I would long for periods of sun and frolic.  F#$% your friend.  Charity begins at home, let it end at foreign shores.  Also, your andogyny is intriguing here. I think my schedule is pretty free in February.

love, Steve Strange