Smithsparty first recruited me two years ago. The contrast between
groups like The Freemasons and us is SmithsParty was an elitist and restricted
society. They only ever allowed two members. Afternoons when The Masons arranged deals in a corrupt haze of Café Crème, we unstitched the
ambiguous cloak of Steven Patrick Morrissey. From admiring his physicality like he was Alexander of Macedon to absorbing his provocative ideas as if he
was our very own political orator. On Sunday mornings, we would butter our toast to The Headmaster Ritual and switch off the lights to Meat is Murder.
The band entrapped us within our own colony and became a badge of niche
individuality.
Within SmithsParty’s reign, we met around twice a week. Arranged trips were occasional. Escaping to Blackpool Pier on a rainy July afternoon like Steven’s female heroine. Glancing at Southern Cemetery from a Stagecoach window. Connecting the preachers to the pauper by a mutual safety in the gothic architecture. When French flicks were paused, we invited Bona Drag to join us with the usual homoerotic press image peeping down like an unexpected intrusion. On Wednesday evenings, we would sip a Mocha on Tibb Street. Questioning whether he prefers men or women, custard creams or bourbons? Was Steven’s quiff influenced by a Manchester murderer? Questioning, how had the band created this alternate galaxy where only we held the key?
Within SmithsParty’s reign, we met around twice a week. Arranged trips were occasional. Escaping to Blackpool Pier on a rainy July afternoon like Steven’s female heroine. Glancing at Southern Cemetery from a Stagecoach window. Connecting the preachers to the pauper by a mutual safety in the gothic architecture. When French flicks were paused, we invited Bona Drag to join us with the usual homoerotic press image peeping down like an unexpected intrusion. On Wednesday evenings, we would sip a Mocha on Tibb Street. Questioning whether he prefers men or women, custard creams or bourbons? Was Steven’s quiff influenced by a Manchester murderer? Questioning, how had the band created this alternate galaxy where only we held the key?
Matching Morrissey attire was soon purchased, when he came
Hulme for a visitation. One of the most memorable nights for the party. Paying witness to Irish undertakers, Welsh bankers, and British accountants happy to
become a Canal Street boy for a rendition of Reel around the Fountain. Seeing his
cattle become the sacrificial lamb during his protest against Thatcher’s
infection. A moment of dismemberment and transformation. The epiphanic
realization of why the party existed.
Smithsparty soon closed their doors after two short years.
Distance and double agents became a worry, by one’s fright of infatuation
with other parties. People ask whether I would conscript to another exclusive service. Especially when I hear an old party member has
become a firework in her occasional, darkened eclipse. Where the glimpse of sunlight is Steven's painting by Blackfriars Banksy.
After long thought, it’s almost like the structure of Dubliners. Am I comparing a weekly meeting to James Joyce? Well ask yourself, what would Morrissey do? Every memory entwined within Dubliners is motivated around a central age of life, from Father Flynn’s young boy to the middle aged Gabriel. Smithsparty is my personal memory in a collection of short stories. A tidal wave in my canal, not a drop in the ocean. A videotape which has become blurred, due to repeat viewings. Those old haunts by the Arndale, which have become as unsettling as Edgar Poe's short stories. Although when that chilling lump is swallowed, the party becomes recollected as a tender catalyst of two like-minded individuals. Chapter three, my first infatuation with party politics.
After long thought, it’s almost like the structure of Dubliners. Am I comparing a weekly meeting to James Joyce? Well ask yourself, what would Morrissey do? Every memory entwined within Dubliners is motivated around a central age of life, from Father Flynn’s young boy to the middle aged Gabriel. Smithsparty is my personal memory in a collection of short stories. A tidal wave in my canal, not a drop in the ocean. A videotape which has become blurred, due to repeat viewings. Those old haunts by the Arndale, which have become as unsettling as Edgar Poe's short stories. Although when that chilling lump is swallowed, the party becomes recollected as a tender catalyst of two like-minded individuals. Chapter three, my first infatuation with party politics.
