MAXIME LE GUIL - SOUND ENGINEER ON WORLD PEACE IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS
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: ******** ***
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.
Date: 02/19/14 23:08:28Thank 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,***** - ***
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.
PHOTO CURTESY OF JOE FRADY
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.
KICK THE BRIDE DOWN THE AISLE - MORRISSEY FEATURING KRISTEEN YOUNG
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."
"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.
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.
"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..."
"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.
The room to infinity, the home of The Joyce-Goat - a room which exists beyond the Black Lodge.