Less than a week after cancelling upcoming tour dates because of a bleeding ulcer he suffered while in Michigan, the Pope of Mope, Morrissey, released a statement yesterday about his health on a fan site, True to You, in typically wry fashion. If anyone can be both understated and a ridiculous hyperbole of a human at the same time, it’s Moz.
The reports of my death have been greatly understated. Once admitted to the William Beaumont Hospital at Royal Oak in Michigan, I received treatment for concussion, a bleeding ulcer, and Barrett’s esophagus. The positive from all of this is that there are now no known ailments left for me to try.
I am fully determined to resume the tour on February 9 at the Chelsea Ballroom in Las Vegas. If there’s an audience of any kind in attendance, I just might die with a smile on my face, after all. If I am not there, I shall probably never again be anywhere.
Equally, I am determined to play Flint (Michigan) if it kills me (which, on the face of it, it almost has.)
Thank you to everyone present at both Brooklyn (New York) and Melbourne (Australia) during recent weeks for two of the best nights of what might charitably be termed my “career”. My debt to you will outlive time itself.
pause at my headstone,
31 January 2013. (Via)
Morrissey dying of cancer is too…easy. He needs to go out in a blaze of glory, maybe even a literal blaze, like trying and failing to jump over 17 McDonalds he set on fire. “Meat Is Murder,” the headlines would read. That’s more befitting of the man who once hilariously/sadly sang, “Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head/And as I climb into an empty bed/Oh well, enough said.” Either that, or he’ll do the spiteful death thing, and pass away before his Smiths bandmates, just so he can be the first of the gang to die.