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Monday, 25 April 2016

Day 1685 - Lounging Around Part 3

Whilst mooching through my draft pages this morning, I stumbled across this article from the MorrisseysWorld blog from April 2014, so thought I would share it.


Lounging Around Part 3

Please note: the first two parts of this series can be found on demi-semi-mesmerizing blogspot FollowingTheMozziah, run by an out-of-work bod on the Isle of Wight.

Lounging Around Part 1

Lounging Around Part 2

"Boz..! Boz....!" groans the seminal artiste.

"You called, sire?" Boz replies, poking his head around the 1970s style glass door dividing kitchen from sitting room.

"More gin, Boz," groans the artiste. "No b*****d tonic water this time. And don't forget to pop in some omeprazole old son. The s*dding gastritis is playing up again."

"I can't tempt you with a Brian Clough Special, sir?" asks Boz, smiling with nauseating obsequiousness.

"I don't have a pint of vodka, let alone a thimble of orange juice, Boz. And even if I did - orange juice and gastritis hardly mix, do they?"

The seminal artiste flickers his eyebrows and rolls his eyes.

"I wasn't aware the FDA had approved neat gin as a gastritis remedy," utters Broken, flicking through his broadsheet newspaper. "I must have missed that memo."

"Why don't you have some of Boz's homemade wine, Mozzer?" asks Jonathan breezily.

"Boz Boorer's wine is about as palatable as his recent songwriting," groans Morrissey, closing his eyes. "Which is to say 'not very.' Both have that dreary predictability that comes with obese middle age; both lack complexity; both of them are liable to induce early morning vomiting on the faintest sniff."

"That's not vewy charitable!" insists Wossy.

"I have to say I didn't think Boz's wine was too bad at all," says Mikey Bracewell, sipping more tea.

"Not too bad! Oh I say, not too bad, kind sir! Like an ancient potion concocted from the blood of-"

"-Shut up Russell," Morrissey says with a terse glower.

"Perhaps you liked Boz's wine because it helps you forget how long it is since you had anything published," says Broken in an empathic voice. "Perhaps you have a drinking problem?"

Mikey Bracewell's face twitches slightly. After thirty seconds have elapsed he takes a sip of tea.

"I really don't think I..."

The men say nothing for three mintues and seven seconds while Boz prepares the gin in the kitchen. They watch the second hand tick round.

At last Boz enters with a large glass of gin on a silver tray. A capsule of omeprazole sits on top of the gin, slowly bubbling away as the enteric-coated lining dissolves.

"Ingenious," says Broken in his soft voice. "It reminds me of science experiment in school. We dropped a piece of potassium into powerful acid and..."

"BOOM!" laughs Russell, coarsely. "BOOM! I say... BOOM...!"

"Boom!" laughs Boz Boorer. "Boom!"

"BOOM BOZ..!" winks Russell, gesticulating wildly. Wossy laughs.

"BOOOOOOOOOM!" laughs Boz, louder now. Then he begins chuckling and slapping his thigh.

"Mother Mary give me s*dding strength," says Morrissey, clutching his crucifix.

"In this case, of course," says Broken. "The explosion is in Morrissey's gastric antrum."

"Nonsense," says the iconic star, taking the glass from his butler-in-drag. "This is therapeutic. You can't deny the medicinal effects of omeprazole old friend."

"A pint full of gin helps the antacid go down," says broken.

"...Acid go do-own! Acid go d-own..." sings Boz Boorer in a meaty voice, smiling fulsomely and then gazing at the seminal artiste, whose eyes close tightly.

"It's antacid, Boz. Not acid."

"I meant antacid, of course, sir..." says Boz. "Maybe you misheard me sir?"

"Turn the lights on!" says Morrissey assertively.

Solomon Walker - hitherto unseen lurking in the corner of the room dressed as a statue - stands to attention and looks very serious as he walks towards the iconic star, comforting him softly with his large, manly hands.

Then Morrissey points at Boz Boorer.

Solomon tries to identify the gentleman Morrissey is pointing at.
"...But sir, it's cold, and..." says Boz in a limp voice.

"I think that's..." says Solomon.... "... Boz Boorer."

"We don't need you. Go. We don't need you. Go..." says Morrissey.

The artiste continues pointing at Boz Boorer and steps backwards as Solomon Walker manhandles Boz Boorer away from the coffee table.

"Go! We don't need you."

"I was being ironic, sir," says Boz.

"Well you cab be ironic outside..." says Morrissey.

Solomon holds Boz's arm behind his back and leads him towards the utility room. He puts him in the garden, where he stands, staring at the grass, looking solemn.

"First my fans, and now my own session musicians..." sighs Morrissey. "The cruelty, the vitriol... will it never end?"

Wossy sniggers. Morrissey licks his lips.

"Barrett's oeseophagus is a very serious medical condition if not an outright disease. Mocking the afflicted is simply not on... besides, yet again Boz Boorer has demonstrated dereliction of duty. All I ask is for a pint of gin with slightly dissolved omprazole capsule on top..."

"Did he go and get it wrong again, Mo-ww-ee-say?" asks Wossy, looking glib. "Did he let it dissolve a bit too much again?"

"Absolutely... this is a very serious matter. We're talking life and death, or at least late night ulcer pain. I've told Boz clearly the enteric coating must be dissolved, but the medicine itself must not begin to leech out into the gin... I even bought him an egg timer to help him get it right. It takes seventy five seconds. But can Boz Boorer manage the simple task of timing it properly?"

Morrissey stares out of the window and looks glum.

"Lovely weather out there," says Broken, gazing at the floods of rain pouring down from the Cheshire sky. "At least give Boz a coat or something."

"A coat?" asks the artiste angrily. "Do have an emotional coat to protect me from the spite my fans hurl at me during concerts?"

"But your fans adore you, Morr-ee-say! We love you like spurned children at the annual Christmas gathering... we love you like-"

-"I'll t*at you out in a minute Russell."

For a while nobody says anything. Then the phone rings.

"Well, where's my butler? Boz...! Boz...!" says Morrissey loudly. "Get that phone!"

"I think he's in the garden, Morr-ee-say," says mikey Bracewell. "Shall I get him?"

"S*d him," says the mesmerizing monk of post-punk. "I'll get it myself... yes?"


"No, mam. Yes, mam."

Wossy tries not to laugh. Broken rolls his eyes.

"I'll record it for you, Mam... Really? She never did?"

Broken turns the page of his newspaper.

"...What? Your neighbour's put the Jack Russell out again? What? Inthis weather? The C**t."

"...Sorry, mam. No, I know I said I wouldn't use that word again. Yes, it's because Jonathan's here. You know what sort of language he uses..."

Wossy rolls his eyes. Broken smiles.

"...Yes I know, Mam. I don't know how he gets on the tele either. Absolutely, man. Yes, mam. I quite agree he's a c**t, mam."


  1. A welcome surprise to brighten a dreary Monday - thank you! I enjoyed revisiting parts 1 & 2 as well. I had forgotten what a classic part 2 is, with the Morrissey-fermented wine and the inspiration for adding 'dreary' to the 'deluded dozen.'

    1. I miss the MW parodies; they always managed to lighten even the dreariest of days. Goodness only knows where the word 'tele' came from in that very sentence though. It is 'telly'.

    2. Ah yes - I thought that perhaps it was a British spelling I wasn't familiar with. Not only do I miss the parodies, I miss the entire MW blog. Those were the best of times, but of course, nothing good lasts forever.

  2. You really can't beat a MW parody. The wit & humour is spot on & always funny no matter how many times you read it.
    Top notch.

  3. Hi Ratty, I did'nt remember such a funny parody, thank you!


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