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Is It Really So Strange? Morrissey Fans and the Art of Being Maladjusted
Words: Katrina Schwarz

On the morning that will mark her 195th concert attendance, the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan is asleep in a car parked outside Sydney's Enmore Theatre.

An unforgiving tour schedule and a relentless ambition to be front row centre for tonight's show - for every night's show - means that the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan, on her first visit to Sydney, will not see much more of the city that the stretch of op-shops and organic food outlets that face the concert venue where, come 11am, she will take her position at the front of a queue that has yet to form.

Such devotion is not without its rewards and in her rental car the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan dreams of that moment - another concert, another country - when her idol held her outstretched hand and mouthed thank you "Its a new song - its called I Like You..."

"You're not right in the head and nor am I
and this is why / You're not right in the head and nor am I / and this is why I like you, I like you, I like you."

Subject to scorn, derision and the worst kind of caricature assassination , the Morrissey Fan, in symmetry with the Maudlin Mancunian who is their elected heir, is a misunderstood and profoundly misrepresented soul.

Painted into the corner of a teenage bedroom in which they are forever spotty, forever fumbling, snot nosed and sexually defunct - the Morrissey fan is, in the parlance of another singer-songwriter, "a loser baby". So, why don't you kill me?

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				Is It Really So Strange? Morrissey Fans and the Art of Being Maladjusted Words: Katrina Schwarz On the morning that will mark her 195th concert attendance, the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan is asleep in a car parked outside Sydney's Enmore Theatre. An unforgiving tour schedule and a relentless ambition to be front row centre for tonight's show - for every night's show - means that the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan, on her first visit to Sydney, will not see much more of the city that the stretch of op-shops and organic food outlets that face the concert venue where, come 11am, she will take her position at the front of a queue that has yet to form.

Such devotion is not without its rewards and in her rental car the World's Biggest Morrissey Fan dreams of that moment - another concert, another country - when her idol held her outstretched hand and mouthed thank you "Its a new song - its called I Like You..." "You're not right in the head and nor am I and this is why / You're not right in the head and nor am I / and this is why I like you, I like you, I like you." Subject to scorn, derision and the worst kind of caricature assassination , the Morrissey Fan, in symmetry with the Maudlin Mancunian who is their elected heir, is a misunderstood and profoundly misrepresented soul. Painted into the corner of a teenage bedroom in which they are forever spotty, forever fumbling, snot nosed and sexually defunct - the Morrissey fan is, in the parlance of another singer-songwriter, "a loser baby". So, why don't you kill me? next >>>