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Monday, 9 July 2012

Following the Mozziah Day 299 Monday July 9th 2012

(The scene is set backstage at the 'Arena del Mare', Genoa, Italy, late yesterday afternoon. Morrissey is alone in his dressing room. He is sat on an orange plastic chair, at a brown formica, 1970's style school table. Both the chair and table have wobbly metal legs. Morrissey is writing his diary.)

Dearest Oscar, actually, before I start, I've just remembered that I haven't thought of a setlist for tonight. Hmm, I've told the band to go off and rehearse; 'Carol', 'To Give', 'Fatso' (that one's for you Oscar), 'Speedway', 'How Now Brown Cow?' and...... *There is a knock on the door*

MOZ: (shouting) GO AWAY

ENNIO: (A handsome Italian man in his early thirties, wearing tight black trousers and no shirt. He is tanned and toned - shouting through the door) Meester Morr-ee-say, I 'ave a delivery for you, eet ees your shirts for tonight's performance. *The door flies open*

MOZ: (speaking in an abrupt tone) Seals perform, I give. (Morrissey looks up at Ennio and his tone changes to a much friendlier one) I see the shirts aren't the only gift, what's your name?

ENNIO: Eet ees Ennio, eet means favourite of God.

MOZ: I'm sure it does. Now, on another day I may have invited you in for a cold drink, I may EVEN have invited you to join my band

ENNIO: (interrupting) I don't play an eenstrument

MOZ: That's irrelevant, (Ennio smiles but looks confused), but I have many things to do today, so I shall say ciao. Ciao. (Moz takes the box of shirts and closes the door. He then re-opens the door) Actually, Ennio, you can do something for me, you can stand guard and make sure I am not disturbed again.

ENNIO: Sissignore Morr-ee-say. Can my cousin Biagino stand with me? (stood next to Ennio is a short, ugly man with a stoop. He is wearing an awful pair of trainers).

MOZ: If you so wish. What does Biagino mean?

ENNIO: Eet means 'talk with a lisp'.

MOZ: The poor creature has less to live for than me! (Moz closes the door and tries on the various shirts; which include a pink one, a white one, a lavender one and a black one with a coloured 'V' pattern on it. After trying each shirt, Morrissey hangs them up on a portable rail, and sits back down at the table/desk thing where he resumes writing.)

Dear Oscar, where was I? Oh shit, the setlist. God, I can't be bothered to give it too much thought today, so we'll just go for:
1. Shopfitters
2. Yootha Killed Me
3. Fatso
4. Sunday Bloody Sunday
5. Coral
6. Alma Baldwin
7. Bleak Cloud
8. Steel Eel
9. Twit Arms in Paris
10. Weed Your Board
11. Scandal Nadia
12. Murder She Said
13. Lemmy Kiss
14. To Give
15. Goodbye/Farewell/Ciao thing
16.Dream Dream Dream - Somebody Loved Me
17. Fuck-Off Places
Encore: How Now Brown Cow?

Right, sorted. Let's try again. Dear Oscar, let me start by sticking two photos into my diary. The first picture is of a luxury yacht, which is currently moored in Genoa harbour, just behind the Arena del Mare, and is housing a high profile person from the entertainment industry. The second picture is of what can only be described as a portable toilet, which is currently dumped in a Genoa car park, just behind the stage of the Arena del Mare, and is housing, and I quote, "One of the most influential artists ever":

(Ennio & Biagino stand guard)
The owner of the yacht is one Steven Spielberg, the man who gave the world ET, and is thus responsible, more than ANY other person, for convincing members of the general public (mainly Americans), that there really ARE aliens living in outer space.
The lessee of the portaloo is one Steven Morrissey, the man who gave the world
'Meat Is Murder', and is thus responsible, more than ANY other person, for converting members of the general public into vegetarians. One creates fairy stories and gets a yacht, one saves lives and gets a fucking toilet, WHERE is the justice?

Well Oscar, the latest leg of my 'Never Ending Story' tour is underway, and I'm delighted to say that in Belgium the other day, I managed to watch most of Patti Smith's set completely uniterrupted, although Boz Boorer (remember, the guitarist bloke in my band that I've mentioned a couple of times over the years?) did keep whistling and whooping at the end of each song, which was VERY annoying . To hear Ms Smith's dreamy "Oh I give my life for you" during 'Pissing in a River' set me up perfectly to give my own totally mesmerising rendition of 'To Give (The Reason I live)', later in the evening. I was secretly hoping that Patti would invite me to join her for 'Redondo', but she didn't, she's probably worried I'd say no, which of course I might, and I of course would NEVER ask if I could join her, that would be FAR too crass, and she may of course say no, which would give her the upper hand. It's never straight forward this dueting lark, it's a miracle it ever happens at all. I will just have to keep appearing on the same festival bills until she buckles first. *There is another knock at the door*

MOZ: (shouting) FUCK OFF

ENNIO: (shouting through the door of the portaloo thing) There are some men 'ere to see you, they say they are in your band. I tell them to fuck off, but they eensist. (Morrissey opens the door)

MOZ: (shaking the hand of the one of the men) Ah, you must be Derek, I don't think we've been formally introduced. How's the drumming going?

SOLOMON: I am not the drummer Mister Morrissey, I am Solomon Walker, the bass player.

MOZ: Really? I thought you'd left. Which one of you lot is Derek then?

ERIC: (stepping forward) It's me Morrissey, but I'm Eric, not Derek.

MOZ: (to Boz) Fuck me Boz, have you employed the WHOLE of the Bay City Rollers? I suppose you've got Les McKewan lined up to replace me eh? Well it wouldn't surprise me, you've played with every other has been doing the rounds, and to be fair to Les, he'd probably make a better job of 'Sheila Take A Bow' than I did in Lima. Anyway, what do you lot want, I'm VERY busy.

BOZ: We've just finished the soundcheck and wondered if you wanted to run through anything?

MOZ: Boz, how long have you been working for me?

BOZ: Twenty one years.

MOZ: Then you should know by now that I do not NEED to practice. They are MY songs, and I know them backwards, now fuck off. (The door is slammed shut and the men shuffle away.) (speaking out loud to self) Cheeky cunts coming to MY dressing room, and invading MY preparation time. I bet it was the new drummer who suggested it, it's ALWAYS the FUCKING drummers, cunts. Boz would never usually disturb me, but he's SO weak, he just lets people walk all over him. I'll show that bastard drummer who's in charge around here, there is NO WAY that he's wearing a 'team' t-shirt tonight, he can wear his own. I should NEVER have given him a matching shirt in Rome yesterday, he's got his feet under the table far too quickly. Before I know it the cunt'll be suing me for twenty five percent. I KNEW I should've stuck to my idea of a drum machine. WANKER! (sits back down at the table/desk thing and begins writing).

Sorry about that Oscar, I got called away by some bastard drummer, but I'm back now, so where were we? I've told you about Spieberg, I've told you about Patti, have I told you about Rustle Brand? He's started emailing me again, telling me all about the fucking Dalai Lama and his new Brand X telly show.  I haven't replied, I can't muster anything witty to say, and to be honest, he bores the shit out of me. He was great at first, he used to pour praise all over me, but just lately he's started talking more and more about himself, as IF I'm interested! I suppose I'd better keep him onside. It's an unfortunate state of affairs that I have to grace favours from the likes of Rustle and Jonnything, but like it or not, they have their own shows, and if I cut them off, well...

Oh Oscar, what the hell IS my life for? I don't know, although sometimes there are little rays of light. My sycophantic blogger from the Isle of Wight is still making an effort, although to be honest, he hasn't written anything even 'mildly' amusing for months. I find I'm now only reading his blog through habit, but I skip most of it. The chances are I'm not even reading this bit. My own HILARIOUS blog and twotter account have been taken off air, I was giving FAR too much, and the rewards were SO little, although at least the 'Blue Nosers' weren't as bad as the Solow lot. Would you believe that 'Uncle Skinny Cunt' has had the audacity to call me a liar? If only he'd attend a concert, I'd ban the twat, but he NEVER does, he just sits in his bedroom slagging me off all day. Walter Ego PROMISED me he'd get him to Manchester, but I'm starting to have my doubts.

Talking of Manchester Oscar, I've decided that I'm going to play 'Trouble Loves Me'. I wasn't sure if I would or not, but it feels right. I'll let them believe I'm about to sing 'Last Night I Dreamt' by using a long piano intro, but then it'll suddenly go 'DOM, DOM, DOM, DOM', and I'll be able to watch their little faces as the penny drops....not that the penny will drop of course, well only for the dirty dozen, the rest won't have a bleeding clue. Three hundred thousand hits and only a dozen or so believers, you couldn't make it up. Still, I was given a lovely bunch of white roses in Rome last night, probably just a coincidence, but you never know, perhaps the message IS spreading after all. The believers noticed the green carnation in Liege. Far too subtle for the Solow lot of course, they all reckon I wore it as a sign that I'm coming out. I don't even remember going in. The only thing I intend to come out of is this HIDEOUS fucking portaloo. If Spielberg had ANY manners he'd have invited me for cocktails, not that I'd have gone of course, but that's not the point. I bet Rustle knows him. Where's the justice in a two bit yeti from Grays hobnobbing with the gentry of the film world, while 'I', the poet of a generation sit in an Italian prefab in the dark, while a lisping dwarf keeps guard outside?

That's enough for today Oscar old son, I did toy with the idea of visiting Constance's grave while I'm here in Genoa, but as she wasn't very nice to you, I haven't bothered. I'd better get ready for tonight's show. I have read that one of the 'Blue Nosers' is bringing a BLUE ROSE for me this evening, but I will of course ignore it, keep the mystery going that little bit longer. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend!"

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