When I was a kid I worshipped The Smiths.
My younger teenage years were a love letter to the band. I sat in my room Marr’s melodies and Morrissey’s words going round my head. Without them, I wasn’t alone.
I wrote to Morrissey once and he wrote back. A lottery win would only come near the elation I felt when I opened the letter to find a postcard.
“Dan, the photo was taken in Paris,” a postcard to me read. “The photo was taken in Paris and Mr Peel is the Holiest Saint who ever walked this earth.”
I’d not a clue what he was talking about was but it felt like a communication from a Higher Being.
They split, of course. While my adoration faded and other music came along I never disowned them. But then Morrissey started to go weird. Then the realisation that the love affair was over. Morrissey wasn’t a Higher Being,after all. He was a once-cool uncle who had developed unpleasant opinions. For a while, when Morrissey was trending I’d click to see what he’d said and I’d fall a bit more out of love.
Then there finally came a moment Morrissey was saying something and I just didn’t care anymore.
I think Twitter – or is it now X – has reached that Morrissey moment.
It wasn’t the spiralling hate, or turning a blind eye to extremists, or the suppressing criticism of the Turkish government, or the charging £8 a month to reach people or the limit on the number of tweets that truly did it.
It was when I heard that Elon Musk is now calling the place ‘X’ I realised I’d reached that Morrissey moment with Twitter.
I just don’t care anymore.