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Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Day 1050 - It's Morrissey

I fully intended for today to be the first day of me blogging without an audience, but a comment left on my blog yesterday by Kerry Richards (@AmIMoving2Fast) has left me heartened, so despite @RFerdenzi celebrating my demise with a photo of a mouse holding a placard reading "FTM RIP 2011-2014", FTM remains. Sorry Roberto, but you just haven't earned it yet , baby.... and neither are you EVER likely too!

Here is Kerry's heartening comment from yesterday:

As you suggest to many newcomers that they should read from the beginning, so they can make their own mind up; I have been.
Currently up to day 481.
Firstly, I think that there are just far too many coincidences, to just be coincidence.
The list is quite extensive up to day 481.
The theory could be that Morrissey is simply "playing along", but from the evidence you have documented to include announcements that were first posted on twitter or MW blog; that have THEN been announced officially on TTY, can only mean that Morrissey or his "people" are behind MW blog and the MW twitter account (which was still active and tweeting on day 481).

Secondly, as it's obvious that Morrissey is aware of MW blog (if he isn't actually behind it), proven by the TTY statements denying that he is MW blog, would he allow someone else, who is nothing to do with him carry on with all this?
I mean some of the opinions expressed, pictures posted etc are very to the bone, if they weren't his opinions/humour would he allow it to run? It has upset "fans" in the past, surely if it was someone pretending to be him he would make it close down immediately?
Look how much he despises So-Low, look how he will take on the NME etc.

Thirdly, I think accounts have been set up on twitter to throw people off the scent and stop this getting huge.
Morrissey seems to want to interact with fans/BRS members that are willing to think "outside the box", think for themselves and not just to believe everything they are told.
The TTY statements reflect this, most people would read these and instantly believed what they've read without bothering to question (I'm embarrassed to admit I did with the first two, but the third statement made me curious and got me thinking)!
There seems to be a pattern of OM interacting regularly with 20 or so BRS members and as the regular BRS members that interact with him grow to say 35 plus, a new twitter account arrives throwing doubt on the whole phenomenon and hey presto about 10/15 BRS members stop believing/interacting.
I personally think this happens as Morrissey would only want BRS members that are interacting with him to be people that are willing to follow their own minds and work out for themselves the truth. I guess as the following gets bigger some people must slip through the net that aren't particularly what he is looking for. He knows those people will be easy to manipulate and hey presto they go and he is left with a nice small audience and fan base to interact with, again?

Please forgive my grammar/punctuation etc etc, it's 23.49!
Posted by Kerry Richards to Following The Mozziah at 29 July 2014 23:52

At last, at last, at last. Rather than take the easy option of just dismissing MorrisseysWorld because, "Morrissey would NEVER do that", Kerry has actually bothered to read the evidence and make an intellectual and balanced decision. The likes of Fer-Dense, @Sean_Classic and Uncle Skinny haven't done this, they just keep saying, "NO, NO, NO" in the hope that it will all just go away. I suspect that all three of the aforementioned people actually DO believe deep down that Morrissey IS behind MW, but because they have been so, so vocal in their insistence that it isn't Moz, they now feel they would lose face if they U-turned. Sean has bought himself an insurance policy by tweeting, "@stillMozsworld I know that if the bore that composes these tweets really is Morrissey, then the person I've admired for all my life is the biggest let down ever!" Poor Sean; but if he'd opened his eyes rather than shoot off his mouth, then he and Roberto and many more could have been part of this whole wonderful journey. Those who think they KNOW Morrissey, know nothing.... that should be on a t-shirt!

I have closed my twitter account for now, mainly to stop me from hogging The Mozziah, so that other people like Kerry can interact with him, but also because I am fed up with getting drawn into arguments with fools who are too lazy to find the truth out for themselves. Their logic is, "it CAN'T be Morrissey, so therefore, it HAS to be Rat!"

Our Mozzer turned up in the Twitterdilly Arms again yesterday evening, so with my account closed, I watched quietly from the snug, sat with Cousin Fluff (@Upthepier). Here are OM's highlights:

"@TheRatsBack Do not be forced away from me due to 'others' Rat. Stay." (Actually posted on July 28th)

"Well here we are."


In response to OM posting the clip of Alma Cogan's 'Just Couldn't Resist Her With Her Pocket Transistor', @FadingGoldLeaf (Astraea) tweeted, "Oh God... 'He goes wild when she flips that dial'. And she whispers it each time. I think I'm in love", to which OM then replied, "Alma Matters." Astraea then added, "That was darling. She was darling. I need a pocket transistor", to which OM tweeted, "Alas, I know of nowhere that sells them. Music is dying." Astraea added, "Life is full of small disappointments. But songs like that one and girls who know how to whisper make up for some of them", to which OM replied, "Her whisper slaps me around the face harder than any guitar solo."


"My faith in you all is still devout."

"It's like 1987 all over again"

"I am sure to be remembered less favourably than Alf Garnett"


"Is nobody here? I am alone. Alone. Forevermore"

In response to @Jazissey tweeting, "@stillMozsworld I'm here, not much I know": "This could prove enough. Sweetness of words means so much."

"I see the non believers have their heads stuck in the sand. The stretch of the beach that the truth just doesn't reach." In response to this tweet, @AmIMoving2Fast tweeted, "@stillMozsworld No meaning, no reason The lonely season?", to which OM then rather interestingly tweeted, "There is not just one lonely season. A fatal lyrical regret."


In response to @Jazissey asking, "stillMozsworld So what was your favourite song of the album?": "Remains a secret. Although I do believe Art-Hounds is the best thing I've ever recorded. That is how time will see it."

"In 2 years Ed Sheeran will be a blip in musical history. Yet today he has sold nearly 400,000 copies of his album. Hash tag Publicdistaste"

"Dread Sheeran's grimace will haunt my dreams for life." In response to this, @AmIMoving2Fast tweeted, "And his double chin", to which OM replied, as quick as a flash, "get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears" (This is an extract from John Betjeman's Slough).


In response to the very silly tweet from @LizzyCatMoz saying, "@TheRatsBack now appearing as @stillMozsworld": "Nobody 'appears' as me. I just am." Poor Lizzy. Despite having seen most of the evidence, and having followed the MW story, Lizzy still ends up pointing the finger at me, probably because she made the wrong calls. It is far easier to blame another.

In response to @LizzyCatMoz asking, "You are Morrissey are you?": "I've been telling the truth my entire life. Except when I lie. I always stay true to you."

"And if nobody believes me here perhaps I will have to become a parody again."

"If you could hear one song live what would it be?" There were many responses to this question, but this one from @Jazissey is the most interesting one, as it brings a further revelation, "@stillMozsworld One of our Own. I'd really love to hear that": "Ah, the follow up to First Of The Gang To Die".


"Arseholes to our souls"

In response to Astraea's tweet about a Wham reunion: "George Michael will crash three more cars before this happens. He always crashes his car but never breaks his spine. I once picked up a letter and my back destroyed itself."

'There is nothing noble in murdering friends. I should know."

"The deepest pits of hell is where I will end up. It is my fate."

At this point OM disappeared, but then returned very quickly, saying "I find the draw is too much. Is this what life has become?" He then left again, and the twitter account is currently closed.

And finally for today, Astraea has requested that I remove her poem from yesterday's blog, and has tried to buy me off by tweeting pictures of Brigitte Bardot. It might just work.

I am now off to play cricket, so I shall leave Kerry to get on with her reading of FTM. Day 482 is a particularly good one, because it is the day that a blue rose got me into the sold out David Letterman Show. Another coincidence, of course! Welcome to the Dreary Deluded Dozen, Kerry.

Tuesday, 29 July 2014

Day 1049 - Morrissey returns to Twitter and announces a January Tour

Morrissey made a return to Twitter yesterday evening with a brand new account, but was soon chased away by the same old haters who just REFUSE to believe in anything to do with MorrisseysWorld. Many of the haters once again took the easy option of pointing the finger of suspicion at ME, with even the likes of Willow (@Smashingblouse7), who was once a 'full on' member of the Blue Rose Society, mockingly tweeting to say, "Ratty is hearing voices again."

Another tweeter called @Sean_Classic (formerly @Tony_Lemesmer who has been mentioned a few times before on FTM) also laid into me saying, "Rat loves talking to himself whilst pretending to be Morrissey, to sad people who actually believe it." He continued, "@TheRatsBack Each time you actually believe that the REAL Moz is actually on twitter & that there IS such a thing as the so-called "Blue Rose Society" you look stupider!" So, according to Sean, I am both pretending to be Morrissey, and stupid for believing that Morrissey is on twitter! HOW does that work? You couldn't make this up!

Here are Morrissey's (@stillMozsworld) highlights from his two hours on Twitter yesterday evening. He posted 37 tweets in total, and amassed 23 followers. I only discovered that Moz had returned to twitter because Astraea (@FadingGoldLeaf) retweeted the first few @stillmozsworld tweets, which gives the account far more authenticity than an official Twitter tick!:

"I see my album has limped down the charts. Dread Sheeran still tops it. Just who is buying THAT?"

(World Peace fell to Number 12 on Sunday's chart)

"I appear to have as many people following me as bought my latest album. Forever rejected."

In response to @Sean_Classic tweeting, "@stillMozsworld Start working with decent composers then  & not a composer as bad as Dread Sheeran called Jesse Tobias!!!": "And what would YOU know?"

In response to @Sean_Classic tweeting, "@stillMozsworld I know that Jesse Tobias is the worst composer & guitarist that's ever been": "You've clearly never heard Electronic."

In response to @tabootlb tweeting, "@stillMozsworld I bought the deluxe album": "The delux is all you need. My 'favourite' track is on the deluxe."

"@edsheeran You are an odious oaf"

In response to @MozzeriansATW asking, "@stillMozsworld Why a new account?": "The old one had dragged me down. Plus I realised Boy George was tweeting me. This is a stain on my name."

"I run the risk of being a forgotten human. Do you even remember who I am?"

In response to @caterita2008 tweeting, "@stillMozsworld Surely not a post man": "The only thing I deliver is grief."

"Twitter recommends I follow the MET police? Do they know nothing about me? Plus my guess is the MET are already following me."

"I have missed your faces. Something tells me I will see them again soon."

In response to me asking, "@stillMozsworld How soon? Will November spawn a World Peace tour?": "January. My dear Rat. A single first. If Harvest can summon the intelligence."

In response to me asking, "@stillMozsworld A NEW song? A PROPER promoted single?": "Promoted all over Universities."

In response to me saying, "@stillMozsworld Especially the German colleges": "I will need to brush up on my Nietzsche. Tonight I am nothing like Ubermensch."

"Does the Blue Rose Society exists anymore? Or has it been cast aside like my new LP."

"I make people wish they were dead just by existing"

"I am totally exhausted from life. I bid you farewell."

"I am not a man. I won't play the role assigned to me."

"Men are great repressors. Of women and animals."

At this point, worn down by a continued attack by @Sean_Classic, Morrissey took his leave and closed the account, tweeting the following:

"@Sean_Classic Good Riddance to False Friends"

"I am sorry. My re-appearance appears to have brought out the worst in people."

The hatred continued this morning on twitter, with @RFerdenzi, @Sean_Classic, @SusieSue132 and @Jake_cfc all laying into me, accusing me of being a liar and a fantasist. Ferdenzi tweeted, "@Sean_Classic Don't worry, this is NOT Morrissey! We all know who it really is." Ferdenzi also informed @SusieSue132, "We all know who's behind all of these fake Morrissey accounts!"

Because I have followed and documented the whole phenomenal MorrisseysWorld journey, people have become confused, and in their confusion they have decided that I must be the person behind MorrisseysWorld. If I had never started writing FollowingTheMozziah, I believe that MW would have taken a completely different course, and by now it may well have been HUGE. I am hampering MorrisseysWorld, so it is time for me to step away. I shall continue to write my observations on this blog, but I will no longer make my observations public. I am NOT a part of the story, I am just recording events. Perhaps when a January tour is announced, the likes of Willow, Denzi and Classic Sean will realise they were wrong, but I expect they will just add it to that ever growing list of coincidences.

Goodbye to the public, hello to my own private world.

































Astraea posted this excellent comment to my last blog entry. Her observation on Richard and Judy Madeley is spot on:

Richard's auxiliary problem is that he is another one of exactly what this world doesn't need any more of – an insipid man. His primary problem, is of course, that grating old battle-axe Judy. A grating battle-axe wearing a 40DDD cup, a smile, and with Chardonnay for blood is still... an incredibly grating old battle-axe, in a typically predictable disguise.

This couple must have prompted the need for the invention of the phrase 'ball and chain'. And to think that people aspire to be like them, and to have their relationship. No wonder this world is on a fast track to hell.

Listen to them speak and and flubber for five minutes, and watch and listen as your own brain cells instantly fizzle away, never to be found or revived again. Thank you, but no.

Best to take MW as tonic instead. Along with some aromatic bitters, the body will be strengthened, the psyche awoken, and the humour fortified.

It's a wild, WILD world out there.

As for the one-liners being as funny as the main dialogue –

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


Like I said before – it’s a wild, wild world.

You have to grab your coat, thrust your hands deep into your pockets, face the blustery oncoming wind, and simply heave forth.
Posted by Astraea to Following The Mozziah at 26 July 2014 20:43

Friday, 25 July 2014

Day 1045 - Curtains, Gainsbourg, emails, a disappearing Morrissey, satanists, Bieber and the Joyce-Goat

I have been bullied into writing today by GWO, who yesterday left a comment on my blog regarding an interview given by Morrissey's sound engineer, Maxime Le Guil, with a French website called LesInRocks.Com. The interview is not only very insightful regarding the happenings in the recording studio at La Fabrique, but there are certain things mentioned by Le Guil that the likes of GWO, Jazissey and Heathercat have linked to MorrisseysWorld, or at least to one particular MW article,The Black Lodge; in which Morrissey goes behind a curtain in a café, and ends up in the Black Lodge.


In the interview with LesInRocks, Le Guil explains that during the recording of the LP World Peace is None of Your Business, Morrissey would disappear behind a black curtain to record his vocals, and on one occasion disappeared from behind the curtain and wasn't seen for two days!

 If this is true about Moz disappearing for two days, it may fit in with something Morrissey shared with me in an email from La Fabrique on February 19th, in which he said he went to the "dreary homeland recently" to find the "last missing words". Could it be that Morrissey came back to England without telling any of the band or crew where he was going? I'm not sure if I have posted this email before, but here it is anyway:

Subject: Those who seek eternal treasure must use no guile in weight or measure 
From: ******* *********
To: ******** ***
Date: 02/19/14 23:08:28 
Thank you for your virtual postcard. I was starting to think I had been forgotten for good and yet I was not surprised.
People forget easily.
It is going well in France at the moment. There are days - and nights - of intense work, long hours stuck inside a dark room forgetting which day, month, hour it is, followed by days of intense emptiness and rest.
My typical day involves overexposed confidence, sickening doubt, extreme creativity, gut-wrenching disappointment, child-like excitement and cheese on toast.
A man with a smile larger than his shoulders compulsively listens to the whole repertoire of France Gall (remember I played some of her songs in the Twitterdilly Arms once?) 
On the other side of the room, a man with shiny shoes dances happily to Serge Gainsbourg's songs (I also played his songs but Willow disapproved).
And I am just sitting here, watching them and I caught myself smiling a couple of times (thankfully, no one saw me).
It is all enjoyable and exhausting.
This is life, this is Art, this may be what happiness looks like but how would I know?
As long as what comes next is better than what was before, I will be able to sleep at night.
I had to go to the dreary homeland recently. 
It only took a few lonely hours in a quiet room, a walk in an empty park, zigzagging on a half-flooded path jostled by gale who rudely stole my hat and umbrella and a fresh rain slap, to find the last missing words.
I always know where to go.
I don't know if recording an album in 12 days is natural but it doesn't sound unnatural to me. Once you know what you want to say, how you want to say it and that you surround yourself with the right people, then it doesn't need to take that much time.
But it certainly does not happen very often. Not in these times anyway.
In motu,
***** - ***
I'd love to know what those "last missing words" were. It should be noted that the mention of "12 days" was not a reference to the recording of World Peace, but to me mentioning that Brian Eno's Here Come the Warm Jets LP was recorded in 12 days, and asking Moz if that was natural.

The mention in Morrissey's email of Serge Gainsbourg songs being played in the studio is VERY interesting, as Maxime Le Guil mentions in his interview that, "Morrissey worshipped Histoire de Melody Nelson by Serge Gainsbourg." Of course this is just YET ANOTHER coincidence, and it means NOTHING!

Also in the interview with LesInRocks, Le Guil mentions that Morrissey would drink Champagne, which is rather interesting as Fifi was always partial to the odd glass of Veuve Clicquot whenever she visited The Twitterdilly Arms. I wonder if it was Veuve that Moz was drinking at La Fab?

Le Guil also states that scattered around the studio, on the piano and shelves etc, were shirtless pictures of Moz; although it has been mentioned elsewhere that it was actually copies of Your Arsenal. As to why Moz chose to place Your Arsenal around the studio I really don't know, as World Peace is nothing like Your Arsenal... or is it? In my review of WPINOYB, I likened 'Staircase' to 'Fatty', and the introduction to 'I'm Not a Man' could certainly be linked to 'I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday', so maybe Your Arsenal was an influence for World Peace.


Right then, enough of my ramblings. The reason that I decided to blog today was because GWO had mentioned the curtain link, so I have decided to reproduce the whole of the original three part MorrisseysWorld piece, which I happened to take a copy of. Before I post it, let me quickly mention two other snippets; firstly, WPINOYB has entered the Billboard Top 200 at Number 14, which is quite an achievement for a British singer. Cliff Richard's highest charting US album to date is his 1976 LP entitled 'I'm Nearly Famous', which peaked at Number 76, and artists such as Gary Barlow, Robbie Williams and Cheryl Cole have never had a Top 200 album in the USA.

Secondly, Kristeen Young has been receiving a hammering from religious groups in the US following her tv debut on The Late Late Show, with them calling her "satanic". Rather ironically, these religious groups are also saying that Kristeen is being championed by the media, YES, "CHAMPIONED"!  KY shared her thoughts with me on this via twitter: "@TheRatsBack Ha. If only. Please...could I "sell out"? Devil, are you listening? No? That's what I thought. Also, it's funny how I've managed to hypnotize & control the media, major artists, & 1000s into buying my album. How do I do it?" KY also added, "I've always ONLY cared about writing & singing/playing. I've no interest in any other aspect. THAT can be a problem (I've learned)." Kristeen Young is so like Morrissey, and it is such a shame they fell out, but all fall-outs can be mended, so hopefully we will one day see KY back on tour with Moz, and maybe even dueting on stage.


So then, to the main event. Here is the MorrisseysWorld article mentioned by GWO, which was posted in three parts between Wednesday, 18 December and Sunday, 22 December 2013. The parts were entitled; Morrissey lifts the red curtain, The Black Lodge and The Black Lodge Part II. Here it is in full. I do not own the copyright to this piece, but as the author of MW is never likely to reveal themselves, I should be safe!:

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 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.


"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'srank 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, butlerand 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 sayyou 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...

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.

"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 crazythe 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.


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 isembedded 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.

Thursday, 24 July 2014

Day 1044 - At last I am born

All is quiet in MorrisseysWorld, and FTM has still had NO hits from Switzerland. I think I will make this my last blog entry for a while.

The other day, I reactivated the ability for anonymous comments to be left on my blog, but it has resulted in abuse and spam, so I have now de-activated it again. Here is an example of one of the misguided anon's, although I can't help but think that it might be a self-deprecating Morrissey, although as I have already pointed out in my opening sentence, I have had NO hits from Switzerland, so it can't be:

"Solo will always be above this sorry site!

Maybe if the band and Morrissey worried more about composing some quality music and some worthwhile lyrics, the clown and his posse would have sold more than he did. Additionally, some more attention to quality lyrics instead of worrying about posting ridiculous and disgusting pics of JB, under as TRB would say, a pessoa, would have caused for more of his fan base to connect with and appreciate the release. After hearing many of the singles, countless fans decided that Morrissey has become a deluded old and bitter man who has now devolved into a sorry sod without much to say--or perhaps--without much to say in his former intellectual and intriguing ways."
Posted by Anonymous to Following The Mozziah at 23 July 2014 23:53

As it is a quiet news day, here is my response:

Dear Anon, I think you'll find that you are in a minority regarding the quality of the music and lyrics on World Peace, with most fans and critics seeing it as "the best Morrissey album since Vauxhall & I". World Peace would undoubtedly have sold more copies if the album had been promoted, but with no tour, no interviews and no advertising campaign other than a few posters here and there, most fans were oblivious to the fact that Morrissey had even released a new album.

As for your statement about the "ridiculous and disgusting pics of JB" distracting Morrissey from writing quality lyrics, this is simply laughable.Song writers don't spend all day every day sitting around writing songs, so Morrissey's time spent posting pics of Justin Bieber on twitter is no different to a bio-chemist spending his spare time surfing the internet for 'foot-fetish' porn, or a brick layer reading a Jackie Collins novel. The pictures are only "ridiculous" or "disgusting" in your personal opinion. It is actually VERY feasible that Morrissey would find JB attractive, but you are probably correct in your assumption that some Morrissey fans would not be able to accept their "God" having an attraction to a plastic pop-star like Justin Bieber, which is perhaps why Morrissey does it via a pessoa. It could of course be that it is just the 'character','Broken' who fancies Bieber, and Morrissey himself has no interest in him whatsoever. If it is the case that Morrissey actually does fancy Bieber, and he is showing us see his true feelings, then we should feel extremely privileged. The whole importance of all this will never be truly understood until Morrissey is dead, and historians study him.

Your statement about "countless fans" turning away from Morrissey having heard the singles has no basis. With the exception of Uncle Skinny calling World Peace "plodding, one-dimensional and uninspiring", the majority of fans have praised the singles, although again, due to lack of radio airplay or any promotion, the vast majority of fans would have had no idea that any Morrissey singles had actually been released.

Your final statement about Morrissey not having much to say in his "former intellectual and intriguing ways" is desperately wrong. Anybody who has followed the MorrisseysWorld blog and twitter account will be able to tell you that Morrissey is as intelligent, sharp, witty and intriguing as ever, and the lyrics to this latest batch of songs would also back this up.

World Peace would have been a Number 1 album if somebody at Harvest had done their research properly, and kept it away from being released at the same time as the biggest album of 2014 (X by Dread Sheeran). It is just like 1987 all over again, when Strangeways, Here We Come was released at the same time as Michael Jackson's Bad.

Carry on hating, old son, this world needs haters, or it would be far too sickly.

Viva Hate


That's it then. Unless that promised parody piece is posted, or Our Mozzer reappears in The Twit Arms, I am off to spend the rest of the summer at cricket grounds across the south of England. This coming Sunday and Monday I shall be at the Ageas Bowl in Southampton watching England play India, and next weekend I am off to Somerset, which has meant giving away my ticket to see Johnny Marr.

I shall sign off by offering congratulations to my  friends, Midlife Matt and STS, on the arrival of their first child, Morrissey!

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Day 1043 - The All-Seeing Eye

The above photo, which I posted on yesterday's blog, has been identified as having been taken by the barmaid at the 'Kill Your Idol' pub in Miami, and it was apparently (according to Clover Dean) first posted on Jesse Tobias instagram page, although it no longer seems to be there. The reason the photo seems to have been added to the BRS tumblr, is because the photo has the 'All-Seeing Eye' in it, which was a major part of MorrisseysWorld. I shall leave Orange Mécanique and Broken to explain:

"I've stared at the picture of the band for a while now, and two things strike me as odd:
First, Solomon again seems isolated on that picture, like in the album sleeve of World Peace. Could that be a hint at "solo"?
Second, the all-seeing eye in the background. Wasn't that one part of the MorrisseysWorld blog?
As pointed out to Rats on twitter, the band might play a much bigger role in the whole story than everyone thinks. Wouldn't they ask questions why they're supposed to wear certain shirts? Isn't it well-known how good Morrissey and his band work together? I think people should pay way more attention to them."
Posted by Orange Mécanique to Following The Mozziah at 22 July 2014 16:16

"That is indeed the all-seeing-eye. In fact it is the symbol of British intelligence, if anyone cares to look it up, and it was specifically included on the blog. It's certainly a rather creepy coincidence.
The allegation above that willow was 'bullied' is pathetic. Willow expressed anger/frustration at my posting of shirtless biebs, and I told her to 'get lost' and blocked her. I am allowed to block people and tell them to get lost when they insult or criticise me for posting a shirtless picture of a man.
If you don't like me, don't follow me, as someone once said.
The BRS is bigger than ever. The old blog posts received no hits at all and no comments for over two years.
More importantly, we have high quality people, not low quality homophobes and divisive characters.
Parody on the way!"
Posted by Broken to Following The Mozziah at 22 July 2014 19:30

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Day 1042 - The Mystery of BlueRoseSociety Tumblr

This morning I was flicking through some old pages of my blog, when I stumbled across a parody piece from May of last year entitled, 'Dear Diary'. I have to say, it made me laugh out loud re-reading it, and it got me thinking that I should write more parody pieces, but I can't, for I have lost my creative juices.

There has been no word from TRM or OM, but the mysterious Orange Mécanique (@mecaniqueorange) has reappeared on the scene, accusing me of posting the Leonid Albrecht story on the internet:

The Leonid Albrecht story can be found here:

Rat, I assume that you're behind that blog, why did you republish it against Our Mozzer's will?

I wrote about Monsieur Orange on June 5th, suggesting that he may be a Morrissey pessoa. Orange Mécanique, who has not been seen around these parts since June 8th when the tour ended abruptly, has since retracted his accusation about me being behind the bluerosesociety tumblr, and has now in fact pointed his finger at the authors of MW, which would mean he thinks it's Moz! Whoever the author of the BRS tumblr is, they have put together a comprehensive list of 'coincidences', and it makes for excellent reading: It is interesting to note that Orange M has said that he was led to the BRS tumblr via this debate on Solow about Smiler With Knife:

It is also interesting to note that the person on Solow who mentioned the link between Smiler and the Leonid story is..... Vanitas M. Berrymore, who regular readers of FTM will recognise as somebody I have previously written about; being the person who told us we had missed the sign given by @ItsMorrissey about Twin Peaks: Jigsaw, jigsaw, jigsaw.

As to whether Orange M and Vanitas really are Moz pessoas or not, I guess we will never know, but it's all interesting stuff. I can once again confirm that FTM has had NO hits from Switzerland, so it would suggest that Orange M isn't Moz, and it would also suggest that Morrissey is NOT  currently reading my blog.... unless of course Morrissey isn't in Switzerland!

















LATE ADDITION: Orange Mécanique has left a comment on today's blog asking, "I also don't understand all the images on bluerosesociety.tumblr. What does the picture of the band mean? 


Answers on a postcard.... or in the comments section of this page. Thank you.

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