Total Pageviews

Friday, 12 September 2014

Day 1093 - CONCERT BANS AND EJECTIONS COMMITTEE PART 2 (A)

Due to popular demand, I am re-publishing this excellent parody piece that first appeared earlier this week. I only ever started writing this blog because I discovered MorrisseysWorld, so I have now decided that I will not continue with it unless Our Mozzer returns. If OM does return, then let's hope it is with the next instalment of this hilarious parody, as we need to know who is currently banned from his concerts. For all I know, I might be banned! If OM doesn't return, then I thank all those who have followed me following the Mozziah, and most of all, I thank Our Mozzer.

 If this is the end, I wish you all happiness and health for the rest of your lives, and will look out for you with your blue roses at future Morrissey concerts.



CONCERTS BANS AND EJECTIONS COMMITTEE PART 2 (A)

(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:

'C**t'

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.

3 comments:

  1. Here's hoping that we'll see OM again one day (day after day, I say 'one day, one day').

    ReplyDelete
  2. Would someone, somewhere do something to keep this blog alive? Please!!! Shall I threaten my life. (Not that anyone would care.)

    ReplyDelete
  3. Luxer Watches is selling authentic brand name watches, with authentic watches selling at a BIG discount.

    ReplyDelete

Mozziah Archive