If you haven’t figured it out already, Morrissey is not a reliable narrator. If you’ve read his autobiography (which I will be reviewing in depth shortly) you’ll have noticed that he is the least reliable source for facts concerning his own life. He long ago elevated being facetious in interviews into the realm of performance art. So of course the last thing you should ever do is infer anything factual whatsoever from his songs. One thing we do know, without doubt, about the singer, is that he sucks at relationships. Whatever mystery-shrouded proclivities he draws upon, this time, he nails with total accuracy the bitter disappointment of the young romantic who has learned that truly, love is a miserable lie and most windswept posturing is an empty prelude for a mere panty-raid. Grasping the absurdity of such a situation doesn’t make it any less miserable. Though most of us – even Morrissey – eventually grow out of the stage where every potential romantic interaction leaves us in a tangle of skin-crawling discomfort, we still look back and relate to those times. You know, those times when you’ve spent six whole years on someone’s trail, and when you finally get close enough to the object of your desire, you find yourself wishing only that they’d put their tongue away and leave.