SEETHING WOUNDS

If you're of a certain age, and can recall the days when the NME came off on your fingers and was much more effective litter tray liner, you may have found yourself wondering whatever happened to Steven Wells.

It turns out he's been ill. Very ill indeed.

He approached his cancerous lymph nodes the same way he approached an Angst bag stuffed with letters from Smiths fans: with a lot of swearing, a lot of very funny jokes OFTEN IN CAPITALS, and a pulsing vein on his temple which could be seen from the moon. He's condensed his experiences in the lower end of the US health service in a Philadelphia Weekly article:

And then the next day I wake up and everything is punk rock, puppy dogs, ice cream and sunshine. Which is my (incredibly abnormal) normal state of mind—in which insufferably cocky mode I now offer the following arrogant, facile and ridiculously ill-informed truths:

No one ever "battles bravely against cancer." This is utter bullshit. You do your chemo, take your drugs and hang on for dear life.

Having a serious illness doesn't make you wise or nice or even remotely interesting. Trust me.

Humans are great. Except New Age types who suck, know fuck all and talk absolute bollocks—especially about cancer.

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