As soon as my cricket match was over, I rushed to my phone, to hastily add my peeling eyes to the above mentioned places and I discovered.... NOTHING! Not a sausage.
Earlier in the day, Astraea had played down my suggestion that @MorrisseyParody was something to do with MorrisseysWorld due to her following the account, by posting this on my blog entry of yesterday:
Don't forget I also follow Cheryl Cole. My little treasure.
She also has a new perfume out, so don't forget what I want for Christmas. I've been looking for a new downscale pest repellent for the garden - this should work a treat. Only the best from Cheryl!
And I send her my love. Too bad it won't help her with anything in life - but we should never stop praying.
Posted by Astraea to Following The Mozziah at 13 September 2014 14:38
Astraea's comment and the nothingness of 1800hrs doesn't necessarily mean that MorrisseyParody isn't something to do with MorrisseysWorld, and there could be all manner of reasons why an announcement didn't come, but for now, Our Mozzer has NOT returned, so it is back to where we were. I won't re-post the Concert Bans parody piece yet again, so here instead, is another old MW piece from 2011 instead, and it's a cracker:
FRIDAY, 26 AUGUST 2011
Denial only magnifies desire; restraint breeds self-respect. Yet how I wish I could simply live. To wish for and to have not is my lot in life. This is why I write. Would you have it any other way?
When I wrote the words ‘I want the one I can’t have and it’s driving me mad, it’s written all over my face’ I had no idea of what lay ahead, though I assumed it would be bleak and not very bright. When you’re in your twenties, melancholy is touching, love seems real and the purpose of life is simply to escape; where one escapes to matters less than the act itself. Having parachuted myself out of my twenties, I now find myself somehow in my fifties landing gracelessly on a traffic cone: escape is no longer a feasible option. I am me, like it or not, like me or not. Blessed with the wit to ask myself all the wrong questions, I quickly realised that to look at oneself is to dislike oneself. After three lifetimes of soul-searching I have discovered the solution is simply to avoid all mirrors.
Authorship of the blog has now been handed over to another, and so I am appointed a circus act: the truth masquerading as satire. Written more plainly and – stripped of all wit, irony and intrigue – the site goes from strength to strength as hundreds flock here by the day. The prosaic prose and verbose platitudes darken one’s spirit of course but, after all, it is a crude world, and this site was much too sophisticated. How easy it would have been to encourage Russell or Jonathan, or perhaps Walliams or Gervais to mention my little old blog - in passing of course - on their twotter accounts: thousands would have flocked here like EU migrants to the NHS; quiet mentions in the tabloid gossip columns; monetization, as ever, just around the corner. So instead I have banned them all from discussing it, with the threat of a lifetime concert ban. It’s more fun this way.
Operating through Youtube, Twotter and Blogger and Facebook, my intention is to be the new Justin Bieber; where he catered to the low class, low aged and the low-brow, I shall appeal to the middle class, middle aged and middle-brow. When Justin sang at a Water Park in 2009 in front of forty-two girls and a middle aged man with his pet Jack Russell Buster in the pouring rain, did he imagine he would have 17 million Facebook followers by his sixteenth birthday? This low-key beginning to my ‘new media revolution’ is necessary for my fans’ future sense of ‘ownership’ over the Morrissey phenomenon. It would be too easy simply to utilise my showbiz connections for publicity at this early stage – and misguided. By Old Mozzer’s 53rd, though, the royalty cheques will be flying in; by winter 2012, resurrected as the new Sinatra – the first truly global act for a global age - my place in pop history will be unassailable.
My aims and objectives are humble: when mummy traipses through Co-Op in early December 2012 with her four kids Ash, Destiny, Chai, and Lewis in his pram, overlooking the absurdly over-priced pain-au-raisin and instead selecting the cinnamon curl, my one hope is that she pauses just for a moment at the M section of the CD rack; her glassy eyes darting over Madonna and Michael Buble (should be under ‘B’ – idiots); she pauses, deep in thought. Then she opts instead to purchase her parole officer the Southpaw Grammar reissue for Christmas. Morrissey - in a supermarket? Is it really so strange?
Regarding the long delay in announcing one's tour dates, in all ordinary circumstances one would (one should) of course blame the record company but – being without a deal and stripped of anything vaguely resembling ‘management’ – I’m afraid I have no option but to blame my soon-to-be-former agent William Morris Endeavour. Naturally as this ‘new media revolution’ continues apace, I shall need nothing as dreary as a record label or tour promoter in a few months' time. I shall require just three things: This Blog, mesmerizingYoutube clips of my shirt-removal antics, and a Facebook page with its tentacles in every continent. Instead of the ritual humiliation of emailed record label negotiations over weeks, I shall own the label and I will terrorise the executives just as they have terrorised me. The blog did tell you there would be teasing and angry tears over this matter, did it not - even before Monday was out. Oh just another coincidence…
As coincidences mount like randy Bolivian street dogs, frenzied speculation – added to by the orchestrated interest of low artists such as Brand and Gervais – will spill over into the newspapers. Which of the celebrities currently visiting my blog in secret will talk first? Brand? Ross? David Walliams? Ricky Gervais? Kevin Pilkington? Stephen Hawking? Time will tell. It always does. By late 2011 I envisage front page headlines in England will focus almost exclusively on two matters: who will win The X Factor and who the Hell is the author of MorrisseysWorld? I have nothing much more to say, and therefore I shall say nothing much more. Suffice to say, when Barlow gets it in the neck from Cowellsy in mid-2012, I’m a shoe-in for the next Mr Nasty. You heard it here first.
Signed a Future X Factor Juror with much ironic positivity,