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A moment that changed me – a postcard from Morrissey A moment that changed me – a postcard from Morrissey
(35 minutes later)
A dreary August morning, 1984. Ant, my brother, bursts into my tiny room and throws down some letters – the post is my lifeline. I pick up one envelope, with strange, spiky block capitals; intriguing handwriting I don’t recognise. I open it, gingerly. It’s a postcard of Morrissey and Sandy Shaw. My heart flutters 10 beats. And I’m shaking as I turn it over to read: “You write delightfully, a priceless gift … Be well, be happy. Love Morrissey XXX”A dreary August morning, 1984. Ant, my brother, bursts into my tiny room and throws down some letters – the post is my lifeline. I pick up one envelope, with strange, spiky block capitals; intriguing handwriting I don’t recognise. I open it, gingerly. It’s a postcard of Morrissey and Sandy Shaw. My heart flutters 10 beats. And I’m shaking as I turn it over to read: “You write delightfully, a priceless gift … Be well, be happy. Love Morrissey XXX”
These words leap at me, embrace me, sing into my senses like the blessing of angels. I spend some time staring at it, holding it, stroking it. Eventually I manage, with some effort, to keep it in my bra, close to my trembling heart, and the once dull day flowers into creativity: a few poems, a new song, and an 11-page letter to my best friend, Kate.These words leap at me, embrace me, sing into my senses like the blessing of angels. I spend some time staring at it, holding it, stroking it. Eventually I manage, with some effort, to keep it in my bra, close to my trembling heart, and the once dull day flowers into creativity: a few poems, a new song, and an 11-page letter to my best friend, Kate.
Truly, life will never be the same again. I live downstairs in the family council house, in what feels like a prison. I’m disabled and my mother, by default, is my carer. There’s no genuine social care at this point in time. Disabled people have negligible rights in law, and pretty much no access to anything. Living in chronic poverty at the edge of the Chalfont-moneyed classes gives me a heightened sense of the divide between the rich and the poor. I rage at Thatcher’s Britain. I rage in knowing there’s more to life than this. I have wild hair, second-hand stilettos and shaved-off eyebrows.Truly, life will never be the same again. I live downstairs in the family council house, in what feels like a prison. I’m disabled and my mother, by default, is my carer. There’s no genuine social care at this point in time. Disabled people have negligible rights in law, and pretty much no access to anything. Living in chronic poverty at the edge of the Chalfont-moneyed classes gives me a heightened sense of the divide between the rich and the poor. I rage at Thatcher’s Britain. I rage in knowing there’s more to life than this. I have wild hair, second-hand stilettos and shaved-off eyebrows.
At a tiny desk, in a ragged chair, I sit writing in my journal – in thrall to Anaïs Nin. On my cassette player there’s the Smiths, a live bootleg. Hand in Glove wrenches my angst-ridden heart to pieces every time: “And if the people stare, then the people stare, I really don’t know and I really don’t care.”At a tiny desk, in a ragged chair, I sit writing in my journal – in thrall to Anaïs Nin. On my cassette player there’s the Smiths, a live bootleg. Hand in Glove wrenches my angst-ridden heart to pieces every time: “And if the people stare, then the people stare, I really don’t know and I really don’t care.”
In my forthcoming memoir, First in the World Somewhere, I elaborate on this moment – a true epiphany. Starting in the 80s, up to the brink of the new millennium, my story is one of a first-generation punk crip who skirted through new romantic pop into being a music-junkie indie kid, lurking with many in the north London music scene, including Alan McGee of Creation Records, and the band Wire.In my forthcoming memoir, First in the World Somewhere, I elaborate on this moment – a true epiphany. Starting in the 80s, up to the brink of the new millennium, my story is one of a first-generation punk crip who skirted through new romantic pop into being a music-junkie indie kid, lurking with many in the north London music scene, including Alan McGee of Creation Records, and the band Wire.
But it was Morrissey who saved me from giving up on my dreams. At the time I first wrote to him, I was desperate to move from my grim Chalfont council estate to the dirty, creative action of London. I was a writer. I had had moderate success as a fanzine poet from the earliest days under a number of guises, including my favourite nom de plume and mask, Kata Kolbert. It was also as Kata Kolbert that I made cassette tapes of my poetry and music.But it was Morrissey who saved me from giving up on my dreams. At the time I first wrote to him, I was desperate to move from my grim Chalfont council estate to the dirty, creative action of London. I was a writer. I had had moderate success as a fanzine poet from the earliest days under a number of guises, including my favourite nom de plume and mask, Kata Kolbert. It was also as Kata Kolbert that I made cassette tapes of my poetry and music.
I’d written to Morrissey on the off-chance, in a fiery gloom: a fan letter, a declaration that I recognised within him, and the songs of the Smiths, a sense of someone who spread a an alternative message, someone who was plainly different. I was at a point in my young life where I was considering giving up all my creative impulses. I didn’t expect a response, but Morrissey was kind enough to write back, and on more than one occasion. And it liberated some deep part of myself. It let me keep faith with what I could do. I’d written to Morrissey on the off-chance, in a fiery gloom: a fan letter, a declaration that I recognised within him, and the songs of the Smiths, a sense of someone who was spreading an alternative message, someone who was plainly different. I was at a point in my young life where I was considering giving up all my creative impulses. I didn’t expect a response, but Morrissey was kind enough to write back, and on more than one occasion. And it liberated some deep part of myself. It let me keep faith with what I could do.
I hope that my book will not only tell my story, my gentle link with Morrissey, but also detail my connection to the earliest formation of disability activism and arts. It tells of the help from Ken Livingstone to move to London; and from Robert Wyatt, who supports and endorses me still; and of the making of a cult 90s LP, Spiral Sky (still available on eBay, occasionally).I hope that my book will not only tell my story, my gentle link with Morrissey, but also detail my connection to the earliest formation of disability activism and arts. It tells of the help from Ken Livingstone to move to London; and from Robert Wyatt, who supports and endorses me still; and of the making of a cult 90s LP, Spiral Sky (still available on eBay, occasionally).
Related: Thank you, disability campaigners, for the difference you’ve made to my life | Lucy WebsterRelated: Thank you, disability campaigners, for the difference you’ve made to my life | Lucy Webster
I have known what it is to be part of the hidden class of young disabled people developing their own answers and frameworks to understand their place in an unaccepting world – one that still exists, to some extent.I have known what it is to be part of the hidden class of young disabled people developing their own answers and frameworks to understand their place in an unaccepting world – one that still exists, to some extent.
It’s world that decries you as a charity case, a medical specimen, a brave Paralympic superhuman – and, these days, a skiver. But never simply human, flawed, contrary and three-dimensional.It’s world that decries you as a charity case, a medical specimen, a brave Paralympic superhuman – and, these days, a skiver. But never simply human, flawed, contrary and three-dimensional.
Ultimately, Morrissey played a part in putting me back on track as a burgeoning writer, and while – if press reports are to be believed (never!) – he is now perhaps something of a grumpy old man, my affection remains true. Thank you, Morrissey. I’m still here. Still dreaming, still fighting, still writing. Because of you.Ultimately, Morrissey played a part in putting me back on track as a burgeoning writer, and while – if press reports are to be believed (never!) – he is now perhaps something of a grumpy old man, my affection remains true. Thank you, Morrissey. I’m still here. Still dreaming, still fighting, still writing. Because of you.
• You can pledge to support my book at Unbound Books• You can pledge to support my book at Unbound Books