NOW PANIC and FREAK OUT!

Call it instinct, or cosmological alignment, or the hands of fate, or coincidence, but these past two weeks I’ve been on a Smiths kick.

Lo and behold: The Queen is Dead celebrates its 25th anniversary this week.

There’s not a lot I can say about The Smiths. There’s a lot I would like to say, but somehow I can’t find an eloquent means to do so.

I can only tell you how they make me feel.

I’ve always joked that The Smiths can never make me sad, despite the largely negative imagery and the depressing subject matter often found in their songs.

The truth is that I always find them slightly wry, like we’re sharing a particularly funny in-joke no one else can understand.

Listening to The Smiths is to recognise the inherent shittiness of this world, except instead of moping you shrug your shoulders and laugh, like life is a big, wonderful, cosmic sitcom with positively awful ratings.

It’s a fucked up world, but it’s still your world.

I know that’s probably not how the rest of the world interprets The Smith.

I’m pretty sure every Smiths fan has their own interpretation of every Smiths song ever. 

This is what they mean to me. 

And I wouldn’t want it any other way.