Stop me if you’ve heard this one before

IF ever you wondered what it would be like to be stuck in an elevator with Morrissey you need wonder no more. The English singer’s memoir resolves the issue. Such close proximity to Morrissey, it turns out, would prove fascinating for a brief spell. But before the end you’d be a catatonic shell, a person devoid of will, crouched up in a corner, fingernails bleeding and teeth broken from your forlorn attempts to hack a way out of Morrissey’s mad, toxic bubble of self-regard.

The elevator metaphor is a crusty old cliché