Kirsty Bosley: I'm 27 but nothing's changed, I still love you Morrissey
I'm not a huge subscriber to celebrity culture. I don't get caught up with gossip sites or 'did you see what she was wearing' claptrap if I can avoid it.
I've never been charmed by stardom nor dazzled by the personalities that feature in the pages of glossy mags. Front pages tease us with 'you'll never guess' headlines, relinquishing their secrets only if we pay the cover price.
I never agree to cough up, instead spending my money on crisps and songs on iTunes.
Despite this, like everyone, I do have an Achilles heel.
A month or so ago, we were told that Morrissey was returning to the UK as part of his World Peace Is None of Your Business tour. Heart pounding, a hundred things began racing through my head. Namely, where can I get tickets from and who do I have to fight to get my hands on them first.
You see, my love for Steven Patrick Morrissey, ex-vocalist of The Smiths and writer of a Penguin Classic, is infinite and gargantuan and overwhelmingly intense.
There is not enough space in this column, this paper, or indeed the world to house all of the things I love about Morrissey, so I shan't simper for long.
We're lucky here that we have the opportunity to interview celebrities quite regularly. We've giggled with comedians, listened to rappers singing heavy metal vocals down the phone, rubbed shoulders with actors and attempted to get under the skin of some of the best household names.
However, if the opportunity to interview Morrissey arose I simply don't think I'd be able to compose myself enough to ask him anything useful.
Simply put, he's the love of my life. I know it's crazy and that I sound like a teenage One Direction fan. I know that this column is verging on Beatlemania levels of fawning the likes of which shouldn't come from the mouth of a 27-year-old woman. But I can't help myself.
I love him.
We were talking about my somewhat embarrassingly high levels of adoration in the office afterwards. They say you shouldn't meet your idols. Surely even the most seasoned of writers would struggle to adequately interview someone they adored?
In my mind I'd meet Morrissey and I'd gush about how I've loved every word he's ever written. I'd talk to him about how his influence made me a vegetarian and we'd talk for hours about what he meant by the lyrics to You're The One For Me, Fatty and then at the end we'd exchange numbers to arrange a Linda McCartney burger dinner whilst complimenting each other's hair-dos.
In reality, I expect Morrissey is constantly hounded by those who claim he's changed their lives and I'd be another little sound in a cacophony of outpourings.
With an exasperated sigh, he'd answer my questions, all of which will have been asked before. For each, he'd deliver a response laced with sarcasm and I wouldn't know whether he was pulling my leg or not.
I'd say something stupid and never be able to live with myself for embarrassing myself in front of the only god I've ever really worshipped.
In reality, he probably wouldn't offer me an interview at all, and I admit to being relieved at the notion.
Because should Morrissey ever agree to give me an interview I would doubtlessly swallow my tongue with excitement and I'd never be seen again.
Just make sure that if it happens, you play The Smiths at my funeral.
