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Wednesday, 10 September 2014


After writing my blog entry on July 25th, I must have fallen asleep at my keyboard. I have awoken this morning, after 46 days and some rather bizarre dreams, to find a new parody piece posted on my blog by Broken. Here it is:


(Ed - An extract from Part 1, which was first published in August 2011 on the now defunct MorrisseysWorld blog, can be found on Day 259 of FTM.)

Broken strides through the gate, slinking past Boz and Mikey Bracewell and planting three firm bangs on the door. Bracewell's eye twitches subtly as the aroma of a barely-sucked cigarette collides with Boucheron Homme and drifts by.

"The c*** invites us to Runcorn and hasn't even got the manners to turn up at his own home," moans Broken, a touch of camp oozing from his lips like blood from a bitten tongue. He sighs and gazes up at the first floor windows.

All curtains closed - none twitching.

The humidity of Bracewell's out-of-season overcoat on a warm, damp day, open professorially at the waist, pinkens his already ruddy face as he peers at the unwelcoming windows. His hair wants to slide off his head whenever he leans.

"What sort of shut-in has all his curtains closed at 3 pm on a Monday?" Asks Broken to no one in particular.

"Mozzer," says Boz fulsomely.

"Shut up, Boz," says Broken. "Christ. I'm turning into Morrissey. I'm sorry Boz. I meant... actually I don't know what I meant to say..."

"P'raps he's trying to keep the sun out, sir," offers Boz.

"It's raining."

"P'raps it was sunny when he closed them, Broken, sire..."

Broken rolls his eyes.

"...Or p'raps there's been a death in the family," adds Boz in a sullen voice.

"His test tube brother, or his test tube mother? Or, God forbid, the test tube itself?" asks Broken.

Bracewell smiles thinly. "We are early..." he says emphatically. "I must say, Menippus seemed rather keen to meet us on the telephone. I'd be very surprised if-"

"-How long is it since you had a novel published again, Mikey?"

"Pardon?" Bracewell exclaims softly.

"How long is it since you had a novel published?"

"...Oh... thirteen years..."

"Well unless you intended it that way, sagacity probably isn't your greatest strength. In fact I'd imagine you're so frequently surprised, it's probably more surprising when you're not surprised..."

Bracewell's brow creases and he plays with his coat button helplessly, like a child who's just broken something valuable within ear-shot of mum.

Boz Boorer's Casio watch bleeps twice for 3 pm, and he inexplicably crouches down, with his forearms like lamb shanks held over his small rat-like eyes:

"Ah Lynn, NOOOO! Please, Lynn - don't... Please..!" He begs. "It's not my fault Lynn. Edwyn Collins made me do it - he said it was a dead cert, Lynn...he... ummm... he..."

Casio Watch Screen

Boz's speech tails off as he gazes around; he whistles and stands up as if nothing happened.

Just then a strange glow fills the ground floor of the house, colouring the white curtains an ethereal green, and distracting the men. The oaken door of the Georgian townhouse opens. A man dressed in a fez, holding the Babylonian Talmud smiles softly.

"Hello. I'm Menippus. Menippus is glad to welcome you to his house, and Menippus will-"

"-Milk and no sugar.." Broken says, barging past Menippus and into the reception room.

"...Menippus will put the kettle on. Menippus wonders what Boz and ... you... would like..."

"I'll have the same as Broken" says Bracewell.

"I'll have..." says Boz, staring into space. "I'll have...."

"Yes?" asks Menippus.

"I'll have..."

Boz Boorer looks vacant; his top lip trembles.

"I think Boz is having another absence seizure, Broken," says Mikey.

Broken leans down and opens his leather medical bag, searching around inside. As Boz stands motionless, swaying a little, like a weeping willow in a strong breeze, Broken pulls out a blood pressure cuff with an old fashioned mercury gauge.

"Ah... this is the stuff," says Broken. "None of this electronic sphygomanometry nonsense..."

"I think he's going to collapse," says Mikey, gripping Boz by the shoulders and comforting him with unspoken words.

Broken looks into Boz's eyes. "It's a seizure alright."

Then Broken grasps the large metal gauge of the blood pressure meter and inspects it carefully. He pulls it back and smashes it with all his force against Boz Boorer's gonads.

"Ooooooh!....." Boz lets out a whistle and groans like a sick dog.

Broken gazes at Boz and tuts. "The poor sod's still fitting."

Broken repeats the manoeuvre, causing Boz to bend even further forward and gulp, gasping for an impossible breath which never comes.

Boz says, in a high-pitched voice, "I'll have tea..."

Broken whacks the device against his testicles a third time.

"...P-p-p-p-p...Please!" He cries, turning red.

"Thank God we've got him back," says Broken. "Another life saved..."

Boz continues to feel the front of his jeans with a ripe expression. His red cheeks puff out and his eyes become small almond-like slits, concealing tiny red cherries where once were eyeballs.

Mikey grasps Menippus' hand flimsily.

“...I'm Michael Bracewell. And I'm a writer. You probably haven't heard of me”, he says with a note of smugness or otherwise self-deprecation.

"... And this is unpopular internet troll Broken."

Broken nods his head without raising his gaze from his medical bag, placing the device - an antique - back inside with exquisite carefulness.

“...And this is musical director Boz Boorer...”

Boz jolts in recognition of his name, stands upright, and stops fumbling with his trousers, offering the same hand to Menippus for shaking. Menippus smiles faintly and politely declines, nodding instead.

Just then a shrill voice.

"Kevinnnnnn! I've dropped me bleedin' bedpan! Kevinnnnnn...!"

Menippus laughs awkwardly, gazing up at the upside down goldfish bowl hanging from the ceiling, as the fish appear to swim backwards.

"It's Menippus, mother.... remember, mother... Menippus-the-wise, this afternoon...!"

"Menippus? Meni-s*dding-piss more like it. Get your virgin a**e up here and hand me my bedpan...!"

"Coming, mother...!"

Menippus disappears upstairs and his mother is heard ranting in a loud voice about her desire to meet Van Morrison. Morrissey, not Van Morrison, Menippus says, with a note of irritation. The reply: "...Who?"

Broken laughs.

A few moments later Menippus is handing out cups of tea.

"Where is Morrissey?" He asks.

"Morr-ee-say will be with us shortly," Mikey says. "We didn't think it would be seemly for an artiste of his standing to arrive in Boz's Ford Mondeo. I booked a taxi for him."

A loud rattle outside as a Mercedes diesel pulls up.

As Broken fiddles with his phone, he mutters to himself: "Christ Jjaz... that pic of JB isn't nearly sassy enough... more pecs please..."

He retweets anyway, rubbing his eyebrow.

Just then a text message.

'Broken, old friend. Stuck in taxi with Mam. Need money. OM'

Broken hammers in a quick reply.

'F**k off. Love, Broken ;-)'

Almost instantly Boz Boorer's cellphone bleeps.

'Boz, old son. Stuck in taxi with Mam. Need money urgently. Will pay you back later. OM'

"The boss is out of money..." whines Boz Boorer in a melancholic voice. "How humiliating... first a Judge labels him a devious and unreliable trucker, when everybody knows full well he's a honest and unreliable singer, then Joyce Iscariot steals all his Smiths royalties, and now he can't even pay the taxi fare to get to this meeting to ban more of his fans... who hate him... it's enough..." he says, mopping his eye with a tissue from his left sleeve. "It's enough... to make a grown man cry..."

Boz begins sobbing and blubbering loudly, trying as he does so to type in a text message. "I have no money to lend Mozzer... the shame!" He cries, his nostrils flooded with a river of tears. "...After all he's done for me!... I'm embarrassed... I wish, oh I wish, I could help..."

But Boz's sausage fingers are too large and he keeps hitting the wrong keys on his phone. Before he's able to complete a sentence, he receives another message. It reads simply:


Boz stops crying and Bracewell's phone rings...

"Yes... oh good afternoon, Morr-ee-say... a taxi from the airport? Of course I'll pay, Morr-ee-say. I have fifty pounds on me. I'll just bring it out..." he says, feeling for his wallet. "What? Fifty isn't enough? How much is the fare? ... Two thousand four hundred and seven pounds?..."

Mikey turns grey.

"... Which airport did you travel in from?... Geneva...? I don't carry that kind of money around with me I'm afraid, Morr-ee-say... What? They take credit cards? Yes, but... well, yes I know I said I'd pay but... yes, Morr-ee-say... yes... but I had no idea... yes... I know I suggested a taxi Morr-ee-say... yes I know I booked it for you too... but I meant for you to get one taxi to the airport in Geneva and one from the airport in Manchester, not a taxi all the way from Geneva to Menippus' house... yes, I know I didn't make that terribly clear... yes, I know it's partly my fault..."

Boz gazes incuriously at Mikey and picks his nose. Broken smirks as he taps in another message.

'Dear OM. Don't forget to add a tip... wouldn't want this to get back to TV. Love, Broken.'

"Yes... ummm... yes..." says Mikey, opening his wallet and pulling his card out. "...I do have my credit card... yes, okay Morr-ee-say..."

As Bracewell walks down the driveway looking politely glum, the passenger door swings open and Damon the hairdresser emerges in tight jeans and an Oye Esteban t-shirt. He skips around the rear of the car and opens the back door with a flick of the wrist. First Mam, in a lime green skirt, and then Morrissey step out.

"This is the man who booked the taxi," says Morrissey judgementally, pointing an index finger at his long-time friend and occasional editor.

Damon guides Morrissey's quiff left a bit, then right a bit, then spays on some gel. "Oh... ohh... that's purrfect" he almost purrs.

Damon jumps back into the taxi.

Michael Bracewell hands over his credit card.

"Zat is two thousands and four hundred and twenty pounds..."

"I thought you said two thousand four hundred and seven?" Mikey asks softly.

"You take so long I have to add waiting charge, my friend," says the cabbie.

"Oh..." mutters Mikey, looking a bit upset.

"No point griping old friend. You should have been quicker," says Morrissey. "Did you think he'd wait for nothing? Oh and... tip the fellow, old friend. There's a good man. We don't want to look like cheapskates, do we?"

"I don't know about-"

"-Greedy b*****d," says Morrissey, cutting off his friend. "I'll DIE of embarrassment when Kristeen finds out I didn't tip" he says to Mam. "Imagine what Viscunti will tweet about it..." He adds darkly.

"Steven, do stop swearing. I didn't raise you to swear."

"But Visconti is his name - he's Italian."

"Yes but you didn't say Visconti, did you Steven?"

"Sorry, Mam."

"This is a nice house," she says, nodding approvingly as she walks up the drive arm in arm with her son.

"Damon, don't forget the Bollinger and macaroons old friend." The seminal artiste says loudly over his shoulder. "You have my platinum card, don't you?"

Damon nods. Mikey Bracewell presses his tongue on his lip, rubs his nose and waits awkwardly for his payment to be approved.

"You know £1420 is rather expensive, even from Geneva," says Mikey unassertively.

"Zeet is only half the fare, my friend," says the cabbie. "The other half of the fare is to take this nice man to Selfridges for macaroons and Bollinger and bring them back here for the other man-"

Damon smirks, staring straight ahead, and Mikey taps his finger sadly on the car door.

"Your friend - he very generous," says the cabbie, stroking his unkempt moustache, and pointing at Morrissey as he strolls self-possessed up the driveway, arms linked with Mam. "He give me five free copy of album by 1980s singer I not heard of..." and produces a deluxe copy of WPINOYB with a Tesco's label on.

"Generous? Yes... isn't he just?" says Bracewell as his card payment is authorised.

Piece written by OM, Broken and 'R,' August 2014, Cheshire.


  1. This trip to Menippus the mysterious house is turning out to be quite an adventure and Morrissey only just got out of the taxi. I love how B responded to the text mssg complete with smiley face. lol. Thank you OM Broken and 'R', I wait for part B with bated breath.

  2. Boucheron is indescribably exquisite. I should know, because I also wear it.

    While I normally always wear men's fragrances, Boucheron also has a parfum called Trouble - which of course, was naturally concocted with me in mind.

    Morrissey as a devious an unreliable trucker is also quite exquisite, although in a slightly different way. But it would seem that gems truly do come in all different shapes and sizes.

    However when all is said and done he must not be all THAT devious, because if the taxi was always going to be on Bracewell's dime anyway, he could have just as easily made a quick detour via the Greek Isles.

    September is a beautiful month for detours - of any kind.

    And I'm delighted to see the parody back on the front page, where it belongs.

    1. On an unrelated note, if anyone finds my keys - call me.

  3. I thought Menippus contributed something pithy for this piece, but no mention unless he is the mysterious ‘R’. Excellent goldfish reference.

  4. Funny, I had a sense of déjà vu while reading this, as if I'd already read it before. It must've been a dream but I know my feeble mind isn't capable of such masterful comedy. Desperately hoping for part deux so I won't have to dream up a disappointingly inadequate continuation of the story...

  5. As far as I am aware, this is the first time a blog has used the 'Pam Ewing Wakes Up to Find the Last Season's Episodes Were a Dream' device' in a blog. A stroke of genius? Will your ratings be revived?

    In this clip, imagine Morrissey playing the part of Pam Ewing and the part of Bobby Ewing (in the shower) played by Rat.

  6. Great parody. To make it more like an MW post, you need a melodramatic pic of Morrissey posing darkly at the beginning, and maybe a picture of Menippus further down.

    Will OM forgive Rat, like he did Kristeen?

    1. But will Rat forgive those who had it...

    2. OM forgive Kristeen? OM is just a parody character, you have confused him with Morrissey, Luke. Thank you for your photo tips.

  7. Upon reading this, you may just as well call me Alice, as I feel as if 'I have gone through the looking looking glass', not just for the subject being written about, but also for my feeling of having been here before and my having already posted a comment on it at some time. I want to say I enjoyed it's humorous and well crafted writing, especially the part about him not beaing an unreliable trucker, but an unreliable singer. Great job.

  8. Title: "Happy Mozzmas 2014 - part 1."

    Seminal artiste Morrissey, musical director Boz Boorer, former[italic] novelist Mikey Bracewell, TV presenter Jonathan Ross, friend/photographer Linder Sterling, former neighbour/literati Alan Bennett and lead guitarist Jesse Tobias sit at a long oak table. The lights are dim and the New York Dolls fill the air with their trademark aural scowl.

    At one end sit Morrissey, Alan Bennett and Linder beside a sign which states simply, "Intellectual." At the other end of the table sit Boz Boorer, wearing a conical paper hat, Jonathan Ross and Jesse Tobias next to a similar sign in identical black marker pen: "Practical." Mikey Bracewell sits equidistant between the two groups, sipping his tea, straining to hear the soft conversation from the intellectual end.

    "...He's not a c***, he's a b******d," says Morrissey sourly, lifting a G&T to his lips.

    "Is there a difference?" Asks Alan Bennett.

    "Absolutely," says Morrissey, almost coughing on his alcohol. "If I may show you by example...?"

    Linder smiles softly, a piece of parsnip on her fork.

    Alan Bennett nods and adjusts his spectacles.

    "...Well.. Boz Boorer-"

    "-You called, sire?" Boz interrupts in a loud cheery voice.

    "-Shut up Boz,"

    The table goes quiet. Morrissey goes on:

    "...Now Boz Boorer, of course, is a b*******d, being unable to see what a c*** he is... Russell Brand on the other hand..." says the artiste, licking his lips and pointing his finger towards a Russell Brand dartboard over the fireplace... "...Now Russell is a c*** of the highest order, being both criminally responsible for his actions, and a c***. You see the difference is self-awareness. In his defence, Boz Boorer has all the insight of a crystal meth-addicted goldfish after a serious road traffic accident and that[italic] is why I consider Boz a b******d rather than a c***, you see."

    Alan Bennett looks puzzled.

    "Thanks, Mozzer, sire," says Boz obliviously. "You see, I can't stand c***s either, sir, and, well, the thought of being a c*** makes me vomitarian with rage, sir-"

    "-Good choice of words, Boz," Morrissey says.

    "Is[italic] vomitarian a word?" asks Bennett thoughtfully.

    "Yes, Mr Bennett. It comes from Mozzer's autobiography," says Boz.

    "...Anyway as I was saying, I hate c***s... can't bloody stand them.... hate them.... would cross the road to avoid one.... so I'm happy Mozzer has explained why I'm a cut above a c***... Merry Mozzmas and Godspeed, sir..."

    With this, Boz Boorer lifts his half of lager and the others follow suit with their respective drinks.

    "Mewwy Mozzmas!" says Jonathan Ross glibly. "If that isn't a contwadiction in tewms!"

    Boz Boorer laughs uproariously.

    "Hahahahahaah! Did you hear that, sir? I say, sir, did you hear that[italic]? Did you hear what Mr Ross just said sir? Hahahahahaha. Did you hear that line, sir? Suit you, sir, I say, suit you, sir..."

    The seminal artist sticks his tongue into his cheek and looks away.

    1. This comment has been removed by the author.

    2. As the door closes behind him, Alan Bennett picks up the WPINOYB lyric sheet, strategically placed just to the right of all guests. He flicks through it and his thumb stops on a particular lyric. He fiddles with his glasses and looks unsure.

      "Brazil and Ukraine, Oh Egypt, Bahrain, so many people in pain..."

      Bennett tails off, his nose twitching.

      "Does he mean it?"

      Linder looks wry.

      "I've given up trying to predict what Morrissey means and what he doesn't mean," she says with her soft, fruity Liverpool vowels. "Morrissey means so much more when he tries to mean nothing."

      Alan Bennett titters, wiping his nose with a handkerchief.

      "Yes," he says. "It's a shame he doesn't try to mean nothing more often."

      Mikey lifts the tea to his lips and allows himself a half-smile.

      "I wonder what they'we talking about at t'othew end of the table, Boz!" cries Wossy as if in panto.

      "I'd give a penny for Sir Bennett's thoughts," says Boz Boorer.

      "...They're discussing the lyrics of World Peace Is None Of Your Business, Boz," utters Mikey in a soft voice as the modern artist and the playwright nod exquisitely to each other, and exchange elegant unheard witticisms.

      "I wrote those words!" cries Boz. "...well, some of them."

      Linder and Alan Bennett turn to Boz, intrigued.

      "What was that, Boz?" asks Bennett.

      "I was just saying, Sir Bennett, sir, that I wrote some of the words to that song. Mozzer told me to."

      "oh..." says Bennett curiously. "Which ones?"

      "I wrote that bit about Bahrain, sire... tested the rhyme on Lyn and she really went for that one... she did. She told me it was one of the best rhymes she'd heard since she was at her secondary modern."

      *insert picture of Lyn's secondary modern*

      Bennett thumbs through the lyric sheet.

      "But you're not credited, Boz...?"

      "...No, Sir Bennett, sir... I did it for the honour of writing a Morrissey lyric. I like to think it stands up with the others on the album."

      "One could argue that case quite confidently," Bennett says dryly.

      "Whatever possessed Morrissey to put you in charge of the lyrics, Boz?" asks Linder lovingly.

      "Good question, ma'am..." says Boz, nodding. "Well... it happened at 2 am in a hotel bar, just over a year ago, now ma'am..."

      *insert pic of a hotel bar*

      part 2 - the scene from the hotel bar - to follow.

    3. don't amend the words Rat. You will be featured later.


    4. "Bwaaahahahahahahahahah, I say! I say! Jesse, me old mucker. Did you hear[italic] what Mr Ross just said? Did you? There's no flies on Mr Ross, I say... there's no flies on 'im!"

      Boz Boorer begins slapping his thigh, rolling back in his chair, and laughing fulsomely, barely able to hold the glass steady in his hand.

      *insert pic as discussed from Boz's facebook homepage*

      "I say, I say! I say!...." Boz sobs hysterically in an otherwise silent room.

      The seminal artiste shakes his head and taps on the table nervously.

      Iconic singer Morrissey places his head in his hands and closes his eyes.

      "I not get theses joke... they not makest sense in my language," says Jesse.

      "I'll explain the joke," says Boz with a stern expression, wiping a bead of sweat from his large forehead with a sausage-finger. "Now...," begins Boz, struggling visibly to find words to explain himself, puffing his cheeks out and rubbing his neck. "You see.. we... we, here I mean.... we... all know... don't we?... what a miserable old b*****d Mozzer is-"

      -Morrissey glowers at Boz Boorer and licks his lips.

      "... mesmerizing[italics] old b*******d-" says Boz, looking at Morrissey for approval.

      "-Old? Yours truly? I'm in my very early 50s, Martin, old son. Is Brad Pitt old[italics]?"

      "Well," says Boz. "What I meant to say is what a miserable and mesmerizing [italics] not very old b******d Mozzer is according to the press [according to the press in italics] who harass and prosecute him and hurt him and misunderstand what a kind and compassionate person he is...a man who loves animals and the suffering of the poor... "

      "What? Mozzer loves the suffering of the poor?" Asks Wossy glibly."That explains all the fines for his musicians!" Wossy laughs.

      Boz Boorer tuts loudly.

      "Old Mozzer is a diamond geezer.. that's why the joke was funny, Jesse. do you see now?"

      Morrissey juts his jaw out, grins awkwardly, and looks self-depreciating/humble, then glances briefly at Alan Bennett, who remains inscrutable.

      Boz raises his brow and waves his hands in front of his face in an act of sheer desperation, apparently aware his description does not even make sense to the British English in the room.

      "I no see, no?" Jesse says in the manner of a question.

      "It's called Bwitish iwony, Jesse!" says Wossy, glibly.

      Wossy squints at Jesse, who remains blank.

      Mikey sips his tea. Morrissey stands up.

      "Off for a slash. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," says Morrissey.

      *insert picture of a closed door*

      this segment goes in between the two segments above to replace the deleted segment.

  9. Do not publish or reveal this piece's location until the remainder of the piece is posted.


    1. May I be allowed to write a few lines?

  10. You may. You may even say you've received part of the parody. Just don't quote any of it or tell them where.


  11. Rat could you post me a link to the pic of Boz Boorer laughing fulsomely while holding a pint?

  12. "That Rat B******d can write a few lines, but a certain singing poet will of course retain complete artistic control. Tell the c*** he can post a few lines at the end and we'll rewrite them to get them into some sort of sensible order. We don't want TheRatsBack simply appearing out of contest once again, and causing one's readers to have to give up their suspension of disbelief. Honestly, you'd think the c*** would know about suspension of disbelief, what with having written that ridiculous blog for three years."

    Morrissey said these words while downing a port and Christmas pudding with Damon.


  13. Context* not contest.

    Apologies once again.


    1. Dear 'R', are you pissed? I cannot find that picture of Boz anywhere! Can I add my lines here:

      "...Anyway as I was saying, I hate c***s... can't bloody stand them.... hate them.... would cross the road to avoid one.... in fact, last month, I had that sycophantic blog writing c*** come into my record shop, so I let him know exactly what he was, and sent him on his way."

      "What sycophantic blog witer?" enquires Jonathan Ross.

      "His name's Rat, and he seems to think he's Mozzer's best mate, but as Mozzer once told me, he's just a sorry c*** with no hair, so I wrote it down on a piece of paper for him, just to make sure he was in no doubt, and then got Lyn to boot him out."
      (Photo of a (genuine) piece of paper that reads 'Rat - You'e (sic) a cunt! (apparently) Boz Boorer')

      "I'm so happy that Mozzer has taken the time to explain why I'm a cut above a c***... Merry Mozzmas and Godspeed, sir..."

      Many thanks


    2. We're waiting for the picture. Until then no more will be submitted.


    3. Dear 'R', the photo in question was tweeted to Broken by DM yesterday evening; I suggest he checks his box. It can also be found on Boz Boorer's Facebook page. I now also have a copy of the picture on my pc, so I will add it to the parody where you request it be added.

      May I now politely request that you ask OM to get on with posting the rest of the parody; an audience (of sorts) awaits. *Goes off mumbling* Jumped up secretarial twat.


  14. Just for clarity, don't post the deleted comment. Only post the 3 long entries. This entry is in 3 parts. The first part is first. The second part is at the bottom. The third part is in the middle. And this is, overall, part 1 of a 3 part parody.

    Got that?



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