Morrissey keeps on being problematic, but then he keeps on writing things that magically speak to me. Even though he seems to be way past the point of becoming anything other than a caricature of himself, he’s still capable of being sympathetic. All it takes is a very simple sentiment about self-care to brighten up a morbid fan’s heart. I guess that although we all know that real-life Morrissey isn’t the emo-boyfriend of our dreams that we like to imagine, he is still, through his musical self, a good proxy for the eternally lonely and disquieted. And it’s nice to think that the eternally lonely boy who was miserable in his skin – and by extension, all of us at home listening – is now a happy and contented eternally alone. It’s not a massive leap forward of maturity and self-awareness but it’s a creeping sort of progress that’s familiar to people who’ve felt emotionally retarded all their lives.