Please note Morrissey has DENIED three times that he is the author of MorrisseysWorld

Morrissey has DENIED three times that he is the author of MorrisseysWorld or indeed in any way connected to this site, here, here and here. The strange coincidences which have convinced at least 12 people that Morrissey is the mystery blogger were once listed here. We might restore the old pages in time if enough people demand it!

We have made it clear on numerous occasions with disclaimers and statements denying that this site is by Morrissey. This blog was featured in the Observer Newspaper in Guardian/BBC journalist Kitty Empire's Morrissey Concert review, when she infamously accused him of running this blog! Boy George named @MorrisseysWorld as his favorite Twitter account in an Observer article linked below and to the right!

This site is a self-aware parody of the singing icon, legendary wordsmith and imperious monarch of indie music we all know as Moz.

Yes 'Our Mozzer' is self-important with delusions of grandeur, and occasionally even seems to believe he is Morrissey, but frankly anything else just wouldn't be Morrisseyesque. Regardless of the 'evidence' sites such as MorrisseysWorldisMoz.blogspot might present, this site is absolutely NOT by the true artiste HM Morrissey. This blog was brought back to life by Morrissey's decision to publish blue rose graffiti on True To You. If Morrissey begins wearing a literal blue rose, Boz begins carrying a lump of wood, or Morrissey wears a Justin Bieber t-shirt, this site will morph into a Morrissey-Solo replacement, with Morrissey's presumed blessing. We would dearly love to destroy that dreadful site!


NB Morrissey denied his authorship of this blog for a 4th time

In a Brazilian interview, which you can find here.

This site will be deleted in full

If the seminal artiste HM Morrissey would like this site to be erased from the web, a simple statement on True To You would ensure this happens expeditiously. Morrissey has until the end of March 2012 to request this site be deleted; after this date, it cannot be guaranteed.

Despite the aforementioned timescale, if Morrissey makes it known via an authoritative source (eg true to you) that he specifically wants the site to close, we will do so.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Lounging Around Part 3

Please note: the first two parts of this series can be found on demi-semi-mesmerizing blogspot FollowingTheMozziah, run by an out-of-work bod on the Isle of Wight.

http://followingthemozziah.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/day-917-our-mozzer-returns-with-new.html

Lounging Around Part 1

http://followingthemozziah.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/day-934-lounging-around-part-2-parody.html

Lounging Around Part 2


"Boz..! Boz....!" groans the seminal artiste.

"You called, sire?" Boz replies, poking his head around the 1970s style glass door dividing kitchen from sitting room.





"More gin, Boz," groans the artiste. "No b*****d tonic water this time. And don't forget to pop in some omeprazole old son. The s*dding gastritis is playing up again."

"I can't tempt you with a Brian Clough Special, sir?" asks Boz, smiling with nauseating obsequiousness.

"I don't have a pint of vodka, let alone a thimble of orange juice, Boz. And even if I did - orange juice and gastritis hardly mix, do they?"

The seminal artiste flickers his eyebrows and rolls his eyes.

"I wasn't aware the FDA had approved neat gin as a gastritis remedy," utters Broken, flicking through his broadsheet newspaper. "I must have missed that memo."

"Why don't you have some of Boz's homemade wine, Mozzer?" asks Jonathan breezily.

"Boz Boorer's wine is about as palatable as his recent songwriting," groans Morrissey, closing his eyes. "Which is to say 'not very.' Both have that dreary predictability that comes with obese middle age; both lack complexity; both of them are liable to induce early morning vomiting on the faintest sniff."

"That's not vewy charitable!" insists Wossy.

"I have to say I didn't think Boz's wine was too bad at all," says Mikey Bracewell, sipping more tea.

"Not too bad! Oh I say, not too bad, kind sir! Like an ancient potion concocted from the blood of-"

"-Shut up Russell," Morrissey says with a terse glower.

"Perhaps you liked Boz's wine because it helps you forget how long it is since you had anything published," says Broken in an empathic voice. "Perhaps you have a drinking problem?"

Mikey Bracewell's face twitches slightly. After thirty seconds have elapsed he takes a sip of tea.

"I really don't think I..."

The men say nothing for three mintues and seven seconds while Boz prepares the gin in the kitchen. They watch the second hand tick round.

At last Boz enters with a large glass of gin on a silver tray. A capsule of omeprazole sits on top of the gin, slowly bubbling away as the enteric-coated lining dissolves.





"Ingenious," says Broken in his soft voice. "It reminds me of science experiment in school. We dropped a piece of potassium into powerful acid and..."

"BOOM!" laughs Russell, coarsely. "BOOM! I say... BOOM...!"

"Boom!" laughs Boz Boorer. "Boom!"

"BOOM BOZ..!" winks Russell, gesticulating wildly. Wossy laughs.

"BOOOOOOOOOM!" laughs Boz, louder now. Then he begins chuckling and slapping his thigh.

"Mother Mary give me s*dding strength," says Morrissey, clutching his crucifix.

"In this case, of course," says Broken. "The explosion is in Morrissey's gastric antrum."

"Nonsense," says the iconic star, taking the glass from his butler-in-drag. "This is therapeutic. You can't deny the medicinal effects of omeprazole old friend."

"A pint full of gin helps the antacid go down," says broken.

"...Acid go do-own! Acid go d-own..." sings Boz Boorer in a meaty voice, smiling fulsomely and then gazing at the seminal artiste, whose eyes close tightly.

"It's antacid, Boz. Not acid."

"I meant antacid, of course, sir..." says Boz. "Maybe you misheard me sir?"

"Turn the lights on!" says Morrissey assertively.

Solomon Walker - hitherto unseen lurking in the corner of the room dressed as a statue - stands to attention and looks very serious as he walks towards the iconic star, comforting him softly with his large, manly hands.

Then Morrissey points at Boz Boorer.

Solomon tries to identify the gentleman Morrissey is pointing at.
"...But sir, it's cold, and..." says Boz in a limp voice.

"I think that's..." says Solomon.... "... Boz Boorer."

"We don't need you. Go. We don't need you. Go..." says Morrissey.

The artiste continues pointing at Boz Boorer and steps backwards as Solomon Walker manhandles Boz Boorer away from the coffee table.

"Go! We don't need you."

"I was being ironic, sir," says Boz.

"Well you cab be ironic outside..." says Morrissey.

Solomon holds Boz's arm behind his back and leads him towards the utility room. He puts him in the garden, where he stands, staring at the grass, looking solemn.

"First my fans, and now my own session musicians..." sighs Morrissey. "The cruelty, the vitriol... will it never end?"

Wossy sniggers. Morrissey licks his lips.

"Barrett's oeseophagus is a very serious medical condition if not an outright disease. Mocking the afflicted is simply not on... besides, yet again Boz Boorer has demonstrated dereliction of duty. All I ask is for a pint of gin with slightly dissolved omprazole capsule on top..."

"Did he go and get it wrong again, Mo-ww-ee-say?" asks Wossy, looking glib. "Did he let it dissolve a bit too much again?"

"Absolutely... this is a very serious matter. We're talking life and death, or at least late night ulcer pain. I've told Boz clearly the enteric coating must be dissolved, but the medicine itself must not begin to leech out into the gin... I even bought him an egg timer to help him get it right. It takes seventy five seconds. But can Boz Boorer manage the simple task of timing it properly?"

Morrissey stares out of the window and looks glum.

"Lovely weather out there," says Broken, gazing at the floods of rain pouring down from the Cheshire sky. "At least give Boz a coat or something."

"A coat?" asks the artiste angrily. "Do I have an emotional coat to protect me from the spite my fans hurl at me during concerts?"

"But your fans adore you, Morr-ee-say! We love you like spurned children at the annual Christmas gathering... we love you like-"

-"I'll t*at you out in a minute Russell."

For a while nobody says anything. Then the phone rings.

"Well, where's my butler? Boz...! Boz...!" says Morrissey loudly. "Get that phone!"

"I think he's in the garden, Morr-ee-say," says mikey Bracewell. "Shall I get him?"

"S*d him," says the mesmerizing monk of post-punk. "I'll get it myself... yes?"

Silence.

"No, mam. Yes, mam."

Wossy tries not to laugh. Broken rolls his eyes.


"I'll record it for you, Mam... Really? She never did?"

Broken turns the page of his newspaper.

"...What? Your neighbour's put the Jack Russell out again? What? In this weather? The C**t."




"...Sorry, mam. No, I know I said I wouldn't use that word again. Yes, it's because Jonathan's here. You know what sort of language he uses..."

Wossy rolls his eyes. Broken smiles.

"...Yes I know, Mam. I don't know how he gets on the tele either. Absolutely, man. Yes, mam. I quite agree he's a c**t, mam."


Thursday, 9 January 2014

The brilliant new video by Blue Rose Society President Kyle who hand-delivered a Blue Rose to Morrissey in America for the first time.

The iconic singer (The Mancunian one, not Kyle) then wore the blue rose on his person, fulfilling the pledge of the Blue Rose Society.

In his video, Kyle wears the Blue Rose Society official t-shirt, available for a price of $18.99 from absolutely no clothes outlets.



Will Morrissey escape from the Black Lodge? Will he give us another sign?

Tuesday, 7 January 2014

Jonathan Ross appears for the first time since December 25th and his first act is to favourite the MorrisseyParody #BlueRoseSociety tweet

Someone takes this to school every day.

Linder's artwork.

Artwork posted on true to you.

The picture tweeted by MorrisseyParody and favourited out of the blue by Jonathan Ross.

Why did Wossy do this after years of ignoring MorrisseysWorld? And why did he do it having typed nothing since December? Is this the sign we were expecting?


Saturday, 28 December 2013

The Magic Has Gone.


Quietly, quietly, this is the end.


Hardly anyone noticed; even fewer care.


This was meant to be more than a joke. It was meant to be a beautiful gift to Morrissey - a thank you, if you will.

This Blog will be erased in a few days, forever.

Thanks Ratty. Thanks to those of you who care about the blog. I hope it was as fun for you as it was for me. It's a shame so few of you commented, and so few of you spread the word. In the end, it was too much work for so little reward, just like The Smiths.

 
The End.
 

 
Fake Morrissey loves you all and wishes you the very best in life. Remember BRS will live on forever in the members. Will BRS one day be as fondly-remembered and mysterious as Wilde's Green Carnation? Will we all go down in history?
 


 
UPDATE:
While the Blog has closed down, MorrisseysWorld has returned to twitter for a brief encore. He can be found at @MorrisseyParody 

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

A word from Log Lady, JFK and Log Lady's Log

Well, Morrissey is now trapped somewhere so dark and cruel, his eyes are limes and his soul is dying. The Black Lodge is the place I kept alluding to.

Do you remember what President Kennedy said before *they* killed him?



If you think secrets don't exist and secret organisations don't exert great control, you are quite wrong. I am a person. My thoughts are my own. I have a log which can see the future and, sometimes, the past: this is how I was able to warn you about the white rose, which would turn red. What else *could* it be but clairvoyance?

Do you like eating chocolate?

Shush now. My log wants to speak.


"Morrissey is trapped in the Black Lodge and he might never escape. I know This Blog will never post another message until The Real Morrissey (TRM) makes one of following happen:


  1.  Morrissey wears a literal blue rose outside of the live arena
  2.  Morrissey or one of the band or support artists appears as 'Log Lady'
  3.  Morrissey calls himself 'Sarah Palmer'
  4. Morrissey issues a statement featuring both the words 'blue' and 'rose'
  5. Morrissey makes reference to Marcus Markou's film
  6. Morrissey announces UK dates with at least two concerts at leisure centres
  7. Morrissey mentions MorrisseysWorld once again
  8. Morrissey releases another image featuring blue roses

Until one of these happens, nothing will posted on this blog and Morrissey will remain trapped in The Black Lodge."

When will the world discover MorrisseysWorld?

Will 'Christmas in the Black Lodge' ever be published?


Morrissey posted a photograph of himself sitting at Steve Cochran's star of fame on his semi-official site True-to-you on December 22nd. 

Here is the photograph. Do you notice anything unusual?

Moz almost never wears mirror shades. Does he ever do anything for no reason? His last image of graffiti featured blue roses concealed within the background of the image.

Now look closely in the mirror shades. What do you see? What could this be?
 
 

 
Free Twin Peaks Pilot Movie '00'

Monday, 23 December 2013

An Essay on Loneliness in the 20th Century republished




An Essay on Loneliness in the 20th Century, 8th August, 2012




Before television, before radio, before photography, the kiss was a beautiful accident, a mysterious rumour, an uncertain recoiling. The senses were clean and vigorous - deprived, yearning and unfettered by the morass of over-stimulation, artless communication and deadened intellect, which characterise 21st century living. When television year by year becomes something closer to parent, teacher, judgemental peer - the source of knowledge, the cause of laughter, the purpose of living - the homogenisation of humankind is almost complete. Now that television is what we do, our actual lives are relegated to a sideshow, a meaningless burden which we undertake with extreme reluctance, like sleep to a child. The mindless carnival of mediocrity that is media-brand Britain is nothing less than a cultural cancer.

In the 21st century loneliness has taken on an entirely different meaning. Loneliness is no longer silent, grey and voiceless; it is loud, high definition colour - voices, voices, always voices. They cry, shriek, lavishly swoon; they fawn over and under; they ignore, deny, speak over; while we matriculate into media-brand existence; we copy and we adjust. Loneliness in the 20th century was not displaceable. Even when technologies arose to submerge the quietly hollow screaming - of boredom, of emptiness, of loneliness - under an ocean of sounds, pictures and feelings, we were not entirely of the media. Loneliness is no longer satisfying. Loneliness is virtual reality where once it was nothing at all. The space has gone. The imaginary life of media is now so deeply embedded, we are all television. Television is us.

Technology is the plughole through which our humanity pours like used bathwater. No heart yearns like the lonely heart. The mad cravings of the lonely are the very soul of romance. Facebook iPod Internet Flat-Screen Television; dry rot in the fabric of the heart. When I walked home in the rain, I tasted those Pinot Noir lips of rich cherry, I saw those eyes of black. Now there is no need. Every thing is at your fingertips, flat and grimly satisfying.

Today's youth will fall in love on Facebook.

The quiet dignity of life smeared with Nutella, images of the royals projected in all their ostentatious stupidity, the vile patriotic bluster of a war-mongering elite, keen to keep the working class and middle class in line with their austerity scheme. The budget for unnecessary war is, as ever, limitless. The outcry is... nowhere.

The drip, drip, drip of the media cycle. The same stories on half-hourly repeat. Man in suit. Younger woman with expensive perm. Smiling through empty eyes. Celebrity watching.

Loneliness was a threat, a promise, a dream, a nightmare.

Today loneliness is nothing but boredom.

Pragmatists fall in love using their senses. Idealists fall in love while they're alone. But when, oh when are you alone?


The nineteen seventies were a time of tremendous excitement. Fighting bravely against religious morality seemed to be the vocation of any intelligent person. Feminism liberated the feminine spirit. Gay rights achieved lasting safety for the persecuted. Animal rights and vegetarianism spread like wild fire and still do so today, though they have not yet created a secure environment for animals.

Yet we have replaced one form of mindless moral oppression with another.

Where once religion drove censorship and oppression, it is now the government.

Can human beings not simply be free?

'Hell is other people' wrote Sartre.

Cast aside technology and embrace solitude; embrace yourself.

Sunday, 22 December 2013

The Black Lodge Part 2


"Come and join us Morrissey," says Richard. "Your trousers look wet - is it raining out there?"

"... I almost died," murmurs Morrissey. "Half a lake just crashed down upon me. I thought I was going to die."

"He has such a poetic way about him, doesn't he?" Asks Judy with a smile, turning to her partner.

"In a sense," says Richard, sitting forward and musing to himself. "Do you think that's one of the secrets of your success as an artist - the ability to turn a mundane event, like rain, into something that has more emotional resonance?"

Morrissey says nothing and looks disconcerted.

"Because you've been very successful..." Richard goes on. "It's crazy the number of people we know who don't just like you, but love you... isn't it, Judy?"

"Yes... let him answer, Richard," says Judy with irritation.

"...Sorry."

Morrissey places his fingers against his temple and his thumb against his lower jaw. He closes his eyes. Do they know about the corridor? Do they know about the room? Am I actually on TV? Is this a bad dream?

"...well," Morrissey begins. "I..."

His eyes dart around the studio as he suddenly realises the horror of what is happening to him. His voice tails off into a whisper; all thoughts cease. This is worse than The One Show.

"... Do you mind if I pop to the lavatory?" asks Morrissey.

"...Erm... yeah!... Erm..." Richard gazes into the camera, lost just for a moment. "We've never had that request on air before, have we, Judy?"

"Richard, don't be rude. Tell him where the loo is. Morrissey, it's just through that door-" Judy says, pointing at the door he stepped through a few moments ago.

"We'll be back right after the break. Don't go anywhere," says Richard. "We'll be talking about Morrissey's book, which has really grabbed the critics. It's the most talked about book of 2013, isn't it?"

The theme music begins before Judy can reply. Morrissey decides to take his chances and twists the door handle, stepping through and finding himself back inside the same damp corridor. The last thing he hears before he closes the door firmly behind him is Judy saying, "I wish you wouldn't ask me so many questions when you know I've got a headache..."


Disappearing mid interview should boost the old enigmatic otherness factor, leave them craving just a little bit more, he thinks as he trudges along the corridor in his damp shoes. Suddenly being trapped inside a supernatural tunnel in the pitch black with no way out doesn't seem quite as distressing.

If this is it, he reflects - if this is the end, then I will die with dignity. No Richard. No Judy.

As he continues along the corridor, he tries to figure out what it all means. Wasn't it the case that Agent Cooper managed to escape from the Black Lodge by doing Bob's bidding and allowing Bob to possess his body in return for the survival of his beloved, Annie? Perhaps, thinks Morrissey, I can give my body to Bob in order to protect my beloved... Morrissey? He smirks and almost trips up. What was that? As he studies the floor, he sees... is that... a blue rose? He reaches down.

"B*****d belt," he says, loosening it a notch. Then he picks up the blue rose.

Instantly another lit figure comes drifting towards him. That's.... that's...



The figure dances with a gentle sway, grinning unnaturally.

"Od uoy kniht m'I ggaws?"

"Pardon, old son?" asks Morrissey.

"Od uoy kniht m'I ggaws?"

"I think you should be rather less concerned about being that and a little more concerned with writing some decent tunes, old son. Now what did happen to that South American tour you'd promised me? When I tweeted Scooter, I got nowhere old friend, and after all that helpful advice Aunty Mozzer gave you... the gold clothing, the geek chic, stripping to the waist. Who gave you the idea for a certain million-selling DVD called 'Never Say Never' with his own fly-on-the-ar*e documentary 'The Importance of Being Morrissey?' Yet who was denied a penny in royalties or even a small word of acknowledgement? Old Mozzer, as usual, always Old Mozzer..."

"Od uoy kniht m'I ggaws?"

"Well old friend," says Morrissey softly. "Not to be rude of course but it takes years to perfect one's appeal. Do you think this old thing came cheaply?" asks the seminal artiste, gazing down at his own trunk, shrouded in an expensive designer shirt.

 "Do you think it's as easy as just taking off one's shirt with minimal effort? Not any old Tom, Dick or Harry can become eye candy, old son. One has to work at it, to perfect every twist of the flesh, to eat and drink well, live well, think well... One must ensure one's torso is embedded within the public consciousness; one's torso almost as important to the average Joe as their beloved's body, and almost as familiar. It takes many decades... years of frinking.... the public service of online erotic assistance. Your scrawny frame just won't do. If you do want to out-last the Backstreet Boys, to become a bona fide sex symbol, to strip off live beyond your late 20s and achieve what neither Nick Carter nor Justin Timberlake managed..."

The iconic star pauses for a moment.

"... You must try harder Justin. I'll show you how it's done..."

With that, Morrissey unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off his shoulders in one swooping motion.

 
"S'taht ggaws," says Justin, grinning. "Nmad, I hsiw I saw taht ggaws!"
 
"Your time will come," says Morrissey, strolling off into the dark. "Try writing some better lyrics."
 
"Yttik Eripme saw thgir," adds Justin in a flat tone, grinning and walking in the opposite direction. "Tub ruoy golb saw llits tihs!"
 
"I beg your pardon. Less of the 'was.' The Blog, I think you'll find, is still running."
 
But by now Justin has already disappeared, ever-grinning, swagg-ing and sagging into the blackness.
 
Morrissey, now shirtless and having been insulted by the ghost of a crass pop star, decides to button his shirt back up as he trudges along the corridor. I don't want another dose of pneumonia. He places the blue rose inside a buttonhole and sighs. He sees another door, which he is almost certain was not there earlier. Again it has a metallic black doorknob. He places his fingers around the handle and twists it...
 

 
"Yep - is he back? Ah... he's back," says Richard. "Morrissey come and join us...!"
 
Morrissey slams the door shut. The same Richard. The same studio. The same door? How can both doors lead to the same place? How is that possible?
 
"Boz...! Boz...!" He shouts. It's no good. Boz probably can't even hear him, and if he can it probably means the seminal artiste is in a coma, or has had a serious stroke, such that Boz can hear him, but he cannot hear Boz, and therefore there's little point in even having a butler. I'm in no position to demand fresh falafel at five am. Yet do the general public understand the depths of my emotional distress?
 
Just then the sound of music fills the air. Morrissey dashes to a small hole through which he can hear the sound of Jimmy Scott again. It must be the room he first entered. As he gazes through the aperture, he notices there is no water in there now! And is that... yes! It's the man from another place from Twin Peaks!
 
He tries to squeeze back through the hole, but he can't - because it's too small. But I came through it. Why can't I go back? Try as he might, even his forearm will not pass through the doorway to the painting.
 
"s'ti eht eulb esor," says the dwarf.
 
Morrissey removes the Blue Rose, throws it through the hole and then slides through like sewage inside a polythene bag.
 
Jimmy Scott's voice slows then stops.
 

 
"I want my Garmonbozia," says the Dwarf.
 
Bob takes his Garmonbozia from Leland Palmer and casts it on to the floor.
 
"Tub siht si ton laer," says the dwarf. Bob, Leland and Mike disappear. Morrissey is left with the Dwarf alone.
 
"Perhaps you could help me return to..." says Morrissey awkwardly. "the world... outside?"
 
The dwarf laughs.
 
"Erehw I emoc morf eht sdrib gnis a ytterp gnos."
 
Morrissey licks his lips. "I'd rather leave, if it's all the same to you, old friend. I have two albums to record, a book to promote, a small covered wagon of a band who absolutely depend on my compassion and financial support..."
 
Just then a face appears; a face so twisted and cruel, so filled with spite and jealousy that Morrissey doesn't even notice it is attached to the body of a goat. It is Mike Joyce, Joyce Iscariot.
 
 
 
The Joyce-goat runs backwards laughing, then closes its eyes. Then it opens them slowly, like the lids of lizards sliding upwards. It says: "Alright, Steve?"
 
Morrissey says nothing.
 
"Now you know I have nothing but respect for you, Steve. And that whole court case thing - it wasn't about the money, you know. No hard feelings...."
 
Morrissey's eyes close slightly.
 
"...Now this is awkward for me, but I've been told to tell you, Steve, that you can either spend the next thirty thousand years on Richard and Judy's couch getting to know them, or you can listen to music with my friend the man from another place in this room instead," says Joyce breezily.
 
"How did you attain this position? Just a simple drummer?" asks Morrissey, licking his lips.
 
"Lleh si tahw uoy ekam ti," says the Dwarf, spinning on the spot.
 
"If I'm dead - if I'm genuinely dead - and I have to spend eternity with an insane little c*nt... no offence old son.... who speaks backwards, listening to Twin Peaks music, or chat forever to R&J, then I'm afraid it's a rather straightforward decision. Music and the mad c*nt it is..."
 
"Let's Rock!" says the dwarf with a sickly smile. "There's always music in the air..."
 
The Joyce-Goat disappears. Agent Cooper and a girl who looks almost exactly like Laura Palmer appear. The music begins.
 

 
Morrissey screams.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The room to infinity, the home of The Joyce-Goat - a room which exists beyond the Black Lodge.
 

Saturday, 21 December 2013

The Black Lodge


Beyond the red curtain lies a room. The sound of music fills the air.



Seventeen voices whisper carefully chosen words simultaneously: a dismal maelstrom emanating from a painting on the wall. The sibilance of the sound reminds one of the sea and of serpentine cunning and of hands sliding down bannisters in a hurry for tea. The words are lost amidst the grotesque ugliness of the sound, the painful euphony of clashing syllables and synthetic emotion. Each voice sounds dead, empty, soulless. The painting is strange.


As the voices coalesce and then diverge in time like the pulsing of a pig's heart, words come into focus and then blur.


"In 1982, intention was all that I had. Wintriness breeds wintriness, as a writer once wrote. When the soul lives in a glum rock box and the air is frostier than any half-remembered June day-excursion to Scarborough, the beauty of the freezing cold is all that one possesses. Sycamore tree leafless and crippled leans, like stag antlers bored into frozen top soil; green frog-eye Wellington boots scurry for grip on un-gritted roads; small bluish hand enshrined in fuliginous fingers, glinting under raw sodium lights; the Arndale centre like some oafish soul-cemetery, sucking in the human spirit like coke through a straw, and twisting it into a walking, breathing, cacophonous death. Snow fell that winter. And I made my plans."


Snow falls upwards from the floor. Morrissey's eyes fill with dread. What does it mean? The picture on the wall fades behind the mass of snowflakes drifting upwards; they land on the ceiling, forming small drops of water. The drops form streams and the streams form puddles and the puddles form an ever-growing layer of water resting on the ceiling, never dripping down, just sitting there, small ripples expanding outwards from the landing flakes.

"Snow falls sometimes when it's cold," says a familiar voice. Morrissey gazes upwards at the swelling lake, which would quite soon drown him. "Snow is comprised of crystalline frozen water which falls from clouds. Children often love to play in snow."

The voice is that of Log Lady. Morrissey knows he must leave. He turns back to leave via the red curtain, but when he pulls back the drapes, there is nothing beyond - only blankness. In a panic, he moves along the room and peers behind another segment of curtain; nothing, just black space. Where is the café? Where are the sycamore trees?

The snow falls heavier. It moves upwards at 1.7 metres per second in waves. The air is a frozen fog. The sound of Jimmy Scott fills his ears and his heart. He runs across the floor, which remains as dry as human bone. Wherever he looks there is nothing beyond the curtain.

The music grows louder.

The water on the ceiling, now a third of the way down the red velvet walls, vibrates in sympathy with each note of piano, each aquatic burst of synth, each sensual hazy burst of that old voice.

Another voice is heard: "It is what we fear that happens to us."

"Oscar?" says Morrissey. But it is not a question.

Morrissey's fingers are cold, his clothes are wet and his eyes can hardly see. Half of the room is now a square lake of water hanging above his head. The snow melts on his cheeks, runs up his forehead and drips upwards from the tips of his hairs. Death will soon be upon him, by drowning or by hypothermia. He licks his lips, filled with regret and a sudden terror: there's a chance the world will never read of this lethal malady on True-To-You, will never obtain the details of his latest diseases and/or hospital stay...



As this fatal thought emerges, he feels a sense of anguish deep within his Barrett's oesophagus.

Just then a slug is seen on the floor, slithering along. There is no rock, no hole, no place for it to have come from and no place for it to go to.

Morrissey closes his eyes and prays. Nothing happens.

The snow is still coming thick and cold.

"Stoned to death," Morrissey whispers; "but still dying."

The water reaches the top of his head. He kneels on the floor shivering, the slug his only companion in a room which will become his grave. As his many mistakes flash before his eyes - why did I hire those b*****d lawyers and dreary drummers? Why didn't I fire more managers? Why sing to substandard fans whom I could have ejected?  -  seventeen whispering voices sound once again:


"Words are crystals; they cry out in a tonic symphony. An experiment in colour is something like a shaft of light in the void of this pitiful verse. When the slug bends, something falls. The cacophony is unbearable."


It sounds like a black hymn: spiteful and true.

Instantly, the slug bends. The water crashes from the ceiling on to the floor before Morrissey can gather his thoughts. In less than a couple of seconds, Morrissey finds himself floating on top of the surface of the water, being dragged underneath by his heavy, dank clothes, with lungs full of inhaled water. He splutters and kicks his legs to stay afloat. He gathers his mind from his shoes and coughs up his Barrett's oesophagus, along with his stomach and half of his duodenum.

The strange painting floats past him, song pouring out of its canvas. He opens one eye. On the painting: a door.

He motions towards it with his fingertips - it is his last hope. The tiny door opens somehow, lifting away from the canvas like the door of an advent calendar. And he squeezes through - into a doorway not large enough for his forearm to pass through.









Some time later...

Morrissey finds himself waking up on the floor of a long corridor. Is this the afterlife?

As he rises from the floor wondering where, in fact, he is, a lit figure moves towards him. Morrissey freezes. The figure resembles a pile of untouched sandwiches and carries a wooden hammer.


"suoived, tnelucurt dna elbailernu." The figure says, hobbling disinterestedly by.

"t*uc," says Morrissey.

He inspects the floor - it's like a black mirror; the walls and roof are the same. He walks and he walks. His legs ache with adrenaline, frozen yet burning; his eyes tired of scanning for imagined danger (rats? Joyce? That man?) in the leaden black of this endless night. In his desperation, he sings the solemn words of his latest single, 'Satellite of Love.' Well, someone has to.

The air is damp and fungal; his fingers quiver nervously; his heart sounds in his ears blocking out the echoing whispers and Lou Reed's song. Still he trudges on.

Finally he arrives at a door. Somehow he knows seven and a half minutes have elapsed, yet it feels like thirty years. He knows he can't turn back. He knows death is behind him.

He glances back over his shoulder into the vast, constricting blackness of the corridor. The echoes are ever more silent, yet they never stop, as if trapped inside an infinity. He places his fingers on a black, metallic doorknob.  'It is what we fear that happens to us.' With a twist, he walks inside, grimacing, as he's thumped in the face by light and sound.

"Welcome back," says the figure, obscured by heads and what appear to be TV cameras. A man points towards Morrissey. "Which camera are we on?" Asks the unseen figure light-heartedly.

"Ah... yes, and now a guest we've been looking forward to interviewing for ages - haven't we?"

"Yes - he doesn't give interviews very often," says a wobbly, slightly fuzzy female voice.

"Uhm, we're very happy to welcome him to the studio to talk about his fascinating book  - Morrissey!"

polite applause. A single whistle.

Two faces come into view as Morrissey steps forward towards the sofa.


Morrissey stands blinking in the bright studio lights.


Thursday, 19 December 2013

Life is not a destination

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.
Oscar Wilde



The beauty of life is that it ends quite soon
Fake Morrissey

If you are going through Hell, keep going
Winston Churchill

Nice to see you; (to see you nice)
Bruce Forsyth

We're all in a rush to find a lovers touch
And when it's found you wonder
Why it meant so much

Morrissey

Wednesday, 18 December 2013

Morrissey lifts the red curtain



In an elegant café at 5.30 pm one weekday afternoon are Morrissey and his friend Jonathan Ross. The two men sit opposite each other at a large table away from the outside windows. At a small table to the side of them sits Boz Boorer in a French maid's outfit. The pop icon and his wealthy friend are taking afternoon tea, while Boz Boorer is drinking tap water from a jug.


                                                  Boz

Boz breaks wind and shuffles his backside around on the chair, looking nervously left, then right and then left again.

"I think even Jason Orange heard that one," says Morrissey in a firm voice, pointing at the chap from Take That, dining at a table for two in the corner.

"I don't think that's Jason Owange, Mozzer - it's Wobbie Williams!" Jonathan Ross says under his breath.

"Oh I call them all Jason Orange, except Jason Orange of course; I haven't the faintest idea what he looks like."

                                                                 
                                                          Jason Orange

                                                     


"Doesn't he live near you Mozzer?" Jonathan asks with undue enthusiasm.

"Next door," says Morrissey flatly.

"Weally? Ah, you almost had me there, Mozzer! I wonder who Wobbie's dining with. Do you think that might be Jason Owange, Mozzer?"

"I think that's his cousin, Jonathan. Robbie Williams changes cousins more often than I change drummers."

             
 
         Picture of his cousin from his Facebook page with the caption: "waiting for the bus."




"Are you enjoying your... tap water, Boz?" asks Wossy above the commotion, with deadpan sincerity.

                                                    tap water, no ice, no lemon

Boz says nothing, he just stares into the distance.

"Boz, can you hear me?" asks Wossy, concerned.

But Boz doesn't reply.

"Boz..?"

"I wouldn't worry Jonathan - he's probably just trying to remember something; at worst he's having an absence seizure."

"Does he have those often Mozzer?"

"Not that I know of."

"He might be having a stroke or something!"

"Well I could always bring back Alain, or even Craig Gannon."

"Boz...!" shouts Wossy. A few tables turn and stare.

"Sorry there Mr Ross I was just mediating," says Boz Boorer, turning to face the former BBC presenter in full earshot of Natasha Kaplinsky.

                                                Boz Boorer in meditative mood

The seminal artiste Morrissey rolls his eyes and taps the table.

"I didn't know you were into that," says Jonathan playfully.

"Into what?" Asks Boz.

"Into meditation!"

"Ah yes... I'd forgotten sir... you see one has to empty the mind to mediate properly and I'm such a powerful mediator I sometimes forget I've even done it, you see, sir, sometimes I actually forget where I am. Once I even forgot who I am, but Lynn reminded me and then-"

"-Shut up Boz. We're trying to have a civilised conversation here," interjects the seminal artiste helpfully. "Besides - emptying your mind, it would seem to me, would be the least of your worries."

Wossy sniggers and picks up his cup of tea.

Natasha Kaplinsky smiles at Morrissey. The iconic star looks straight through her as though she isn't even there, and then gazes at the floor.



"That's her from ITV News, Mozzer!..."

"Anne Robinson's plastic surgeon deserves a peerage," mutters Morrissey, sipping his tea.

"No! That's Natasha Kaplinsky, silly... and it looks like she wants your telephone number!-"

"-Fax number, I think you mean..."



"Yes, your fax number. Are you going to give it to her?"

"That's a bit forward, Jonathan," says Morrissey softly. "Perhaps we'll start by just exchanging fax details."

Jonathan Ross splutters and tea runs out of his nose. Boz Boorer laughs fulsomely and nods at Jonathan Ross. Jonathan Ross can't stop giggling, and tries to mop the tea off his salmon-coloured blazer. "Christ!" He mutters, dabbing at his lapel with a carefully pressed serviette.

Boz Boorer bursts into even louder laughter. Jonathan Ross continues giggling. Boz throws his head back and laughs and laughs. Then he begins crying. Jonathan Ross gazes at him and giggles a bit more. Boz gets louder and three or four diners stop and stare. Boz continues crying loudly.

"Eh?" Boz says cheerfully, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Eh, Mr Ross?" His laughter grows louder.

Morrissey's eyes grow narrow. He licks his lips. 

"Hahahahahahahahahah" roars Boz Boorer. "Did you see that, Mozzer, I say, sir, did you see that? Did you see that, sir? Did you see what Mr Ross just did, sir? Did you see that, sir? I say, sir, did you see that? Eh? Eh? Did you-"

"-Is this Hell?" asks Morrissey sighing deeply.

"So... how's the old Blue Wose Society coming along, Mozzer?" Asks Jonathan.

"Nothing seems to work," says Morrissey, raising his voice above Boorer's hysterical wailing, which by now, accompanied by thigh-slapping and belly rubbing, makes a sound not dissimilar to that of an exuberant peacock having a loud argument with an extremely forlorn pigeon. "It's rather peculiar," whispers Morrissey.

He goes on, suddenly looking anxious: "Endless references - the prominent blue rose on Morrissey 25 Live, which, of course, you've seen..."

Jonathan nods unconvincingly.

"...the white rose bracelet at the Nobel Peace Prize appearance; Boz even arranged for a female tramp from Manchester - what's the PC term again? Vagrant? -  to pretend to fight with another woman at that book signing I did. I had hoped it would draw the attention of the world's media upon my vase of roses, boost the old enigmatic otherness factor, bring some new faces into the old blogging community - all to no avail, of course... b******ds didn't even put it on BBC News 24. It's on YouTube; it has about thirty views."



2 women pretending to fight at Morrissey's book launch, from YouTube

"Boz arranged a fake fight between two women?" Asks Jonathan with incredulity. "Did you have to pay them, Mozzer?"

"I didn't pay them both, Jonathan. I'm not made of money, you know. I did pay one of them. The other woman was, so far as I know, a genuine victim of crime.... not that I'm criminally liable of course. It was Boz who arranged it all..."

Jonathan smirks: "I'm not sure the police would see it that way, Mozzer!" He laughs, brushing back his dishevelled formerly Wildean mop.

"Keep it down, old son. You never know who might be listening."

Morrissey throws his steely stare across the room. All the love suddenly goes from his expression.

"Sorry Mozzer," says Jonathan, trying to look as serious as one can when one has a face like his. "you were just saying..."

"..Yes, that little performance cost me £150. Which means each view has cost me... the princely sum of... five quid, thanks to Boz Boorer's rank incompetence..."

Boz Boorer turns towards the seminal artiste.

"...I couldn't help overhearing, sir and... I was... just wondering Mozzer... didn't I - if you don't mind me saying so -  pay for that, sir, if you remember, sire?..." asks Boz Boorer with an obsequious bow of the crown.

"... Oh come now, Boz. Pay for what exactly?" Asks the mesmerizing monk of post-punk, appearing suddenly exasperated. "Who is it that pays your wages again? And in triplicate, as session musician, butler and drag artiste?" Morrissey asks, looking grave. "The b******d government is just the same, telling the British public "WE paid for this," and "WE paid for that," when, in fact, whose money is it actually? Yes, old Mozzer's again. Like the government, Boz, you don't create wealth, you only spend it, old son. Like the government, it's not even your s*dding money. Like the government you're a s*dding parasite... like the government, you're a rapacious b******d with his hand in my pocket, stealing my last pennies just as the worst of the winter weather arrives....a common thief wearing respectable - in your case semi-respectable - clothes....not to be rude of course, old friend-"

"-Of course sir, I hadn't thought about it that way..." says Boorer instantly becalmed.

Morrissey nods with a sceptical look in his eyes which seems to say you still don't understand, do you?

"Now you've explained it, sir, it makes perfect sense because-"

"-I think I'll go and powder my nose," mutters Morrissey, standing up and sashaying towards the lavatory.

Once in the lavatory, Morrissey opens his flies and catches sight of some trees out of the frosted window. 'What lovely sycamore trees,' he reflects. When his stream finally ends, he scowls and with an audible heave, pushes again, producing a final dribble, before zipping up and washing both his hands, and, furtively, his penis too with plenty of soap from the dispenser, gazing back over his shoulder and listening out for the sound of the door opening.

Then he wanders outside through the fire exit and gazes at the pretty circle of sycamore trees. Suddenly he detects a strange smell, like scorched engine oil. A red velvet curtain appears to be hanging just beyond the circle. He blinks and rubs his eyes. Yes, there it is. A red velvet curtain just hanging.



Morrissey takes small steps towards the red curtain. It appears to be hanging almost from nothing at all in the leaden blackness of the early evening.

He lifts the curtain and steps beyond it...

to be continued...

Tuesday, 17 December 2013

The Forgotten Blue Rose Society Interview

Q1: From Climmy Worseapple
Sometimes, when I cry, I sit with a mirror before me and imagine that I am my own nonexistent disillusioned long-term partner, looking with scorn at my puffy, leaking face - immune to the rotting diseases of affection and empathy for "myself" thanks to a tough course of painful injections and some hard-earned antibodies. Your recent release of 'Last of the Famous International Playboys', did not make it into the Top 100 in the UK, did this disappoint you?
The Last Of The Famous International Playboys Digital Single Artwork
PLAYBOYS - DIDN'T MAKE THE TOP 100
 
Morrissey: Now that I'm about as relevant as a bar of soap at a heavy metal gathering, it came as little surprise that my single failed to chart. The noise generation want immediate, unimaginative melody, words attuned to the repulsive cannabis-fuelled orgy that passes for pop culture these days, and electronic sounds. I gave them... well, I gave them exactly that - and it still failed!
 



Q2: From girlwithout
Question from me for Our Mozzer. When he met you at a recent Hollywood party, Gristle Bandage commented that you were like Bette Davis and Garbo, sat in a corner uniquely like someone from another era. How do you feel about this comparison and is there some other Hollywood star that you would have preferred to be compared to?
 

Morrissey: I recently saw an interview in which Justin Bieber was described as a hybrid of Elvis Presley and James Dean by a fawning Australian dimwit-journalist; Bieber smugly agreed. I developed a week-long tension headache and seventeen new grey hairs.

 

Similarly my mystique could never be compared to that of Garbo. I would compare myself to Julie Goodyear, or, at a push, Larry Grayson.





Q3: From Chuck Norrissey
Ok here comes my question. Don't be disappointed. Dear Our Mozzer, was there anything about this whole journey that surprised you, that came unexpected - concerning your followers/fans and/or media? Was it a mudslide, or did it all develop and unfold according to your plans?

Morrissey: I fully expected to have three million followers by Christmas 2011. I expected the Sun's gossip column to be scratching its head over the authorship of the twitter account. But, no. Looking back, I made the mistake of being too interesting. The British media would have been fascinated had I tweeted about what I'd eaten for breakfast and which fly on the wall I was watching, or pretending to.

Joey Ess-icks is the first polished product of the reality TV culture - he is more vacuous, in fact, than reality TV - and therefore he's utterly marketable in the present climate. These days less is more. The less you know, the more interesting the media will consider you to be, as they fire endless banal questions in your direction: anyone of intelligence would be rightly offended, and would soon get bored or cause trouble. The chief virtue of the modern 'celebrity' is an extremely high threshold for taking offence.

As far as the British media is concerned, the less you've achieved, the more deserving you are of your fame. Artists, on the other hand, are dragged backwards through hedges by their underpants, subjected to brutal character assassination and welcomed back briefly into the fold, only so as to begin the whole process again. It's very Freudian.
Q4: From Uncle Halfwit
This is ridiculous, you are just a "dickhead pulling a scam." You are just "some wanker who hatched a plan to make a film about internet gullibility", with the subject, "Morrissey fans." How long do you possibly think you can get away with pretending to be Morrissey before you are caught out? Tops P.

Morrissey: Morrissey has spent the past two decades pretending to be Morrissey. I haven't pretended to be Morrissey for a single moment.
Q5: From Mme de Staël
What is your favourite cover version of one of your songs? And is there any song of another artist(e) that you think would be worthwhile covering?

Tatu. Many - but I don't want to do karaoke. There are cheaper and more interesting ways to humiliate oneself in public - sex, for example.
 
Q6: From Lizzycatmoz
My question for Morrissey AKA Our Mozzer is, and I consider this to be ' personal' however not ' personal life.' Having been extremely ill and on IV drips for 5 weeks, I'm sure the
experience changed you, but what I'd really like to know, but am afraid to ask, so am relying on that b**tard Rat to completely change and 'sex up' my question a bit, is:  You have used lots of homoerotic imagery in your art over the years, and yet I have found you quite flirty, do you bat for both sides? 

BATTING IN BOTH CREASES?

Morrissey: I don't bat at all. And on the odd occasion I've tried, the balls always seem to catch me off-guard.

Q7: From TRB
I'm sorry about Lizzy's deeply personal question, I did warn them not to, but they just ignored me. Let's cut to the chase and get down to the nitty gritty, do you have a fold away sofa bed in your bedsit, or a proper bed that takes the place of a couch?

That question is too dreary to contemplate.
Q8: On Behalf Of  Marcus 'The Greek' Marcou
I saw it as my calling to travel to Manchester with a Blue Rose, but I couldn't get it to you. I have recently released my debut feature film, 'Papadopolous and Sons', would you do me the honour of watching it and letting me know what you think?

MARCUS MARKOU WITH HIS BLUE ROSE IN MANCHESTER

Morrissey: I thought the film showed potential. Unfortunately it wasn't quite my cup of tea. However I did enjoy A/S/L very much. If you do create a MorrisseysWorld production, I expect an invitation to the premier, a goodie bag and three shop warm Co-Op pain-au-raisin.

Q9: From Vulgar1mkela
I was so honored that you took the blue rose ring from me in Moz Angeles but what happened to it after I gave it to you and have you any plans for it?


ANGELA 'VULGAR' REYES WITH KRISTEEN YOUNG AND THE BLUE ROSE RING

 The ring remains on my bedside cabinet. I use it to cast spells on carnivores, war-mongers and knighted pop singers.

to be continued