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Tuesday, 27 December 2016

Day 2030 - Christmas Death

As requested by Our Mozzer, I have now removed all of my blog entries, and will remove this one before the day is out.

The reason that I am writing a blog entry, is because at 5.24pm on Christmas evening, OM published a new entry on his True Morrissey blog, entitled Chistmoz; which is an account of Morrissey's Christmas Day at home with his mother, so I feel I have to record this on FTM, even if it's not to stay in the public domain.

As to whether Morrissey is currently at home in Cheshire with his mother, or as to whether anything remotely resembling the contents of this Christmas tale actually happened, one can only guess, but I still cling to the dream that the author of this, and the other blog entries,  really is the work of the real indie 80s pop icon, Morrissey. Anyway, whoever it is that has spent the whole of Christmas afternoon writing this piece, I salute them, it's a classic:

25 December 2016
Christmoz - Dictated by OM, Typed by Dawn

Christmas has been thrust upon us once again. I have survived it for another year at least. Today has been truly diabolical, with the fist disaster of the day at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. when Mam pointed out to me that my yearly tradition of three snowballs in my muesli may not be suitable for a vegan diet. Well neither was the chocolate cake I consumed last night, as fast as the drummer consumes my wallet. I must only drop a tenner for a second and he’s behind me picking it up and scampering away. Never has my life felt more Dickensian. Mam was right of course, I could not be seen eating a non-vegan breakfast when the family arrive; I do have a reputation to uphold.  Plus, you never know if Alexis Petridis is hiding in the bushes/living in the bushes with a long-lens camera just waiting for me to trip up. I placed the muesli in the bin and returned my eyebrows to a resting position.


Returning to the sofa I notice that it is at least several decades old. In fact, it could be the same sofa I penned my first iconic poem aged seven. Mam had been bleating on about the sofa and how it has no back support. I assumed this was a hint for me to replace it. I don’t know who she thinks I am, I hardly have any money leftover after self-funding my own tours. Not that the bunch of cretins over at that soLow cesspit have any concept of my struggle. Lawyer called at 11 a.m., probably to escape his dreary children, to give me my daily update of pending cases. I informed him its Christmas day and I refuse to be disturbed, b****** lawyer said he was returning my 3 a.m. phone call. I do not remember making this alleged phone call, perhaps I consumed too many Baileys last night? The Bem Brasil incident appears to be settling down now, thank heavens for super injunctions. What am I supposed to do if a friendly looking Hispanic waiter catches my eye as I’m walking down Altrincham High Street? Lawyer discusses payment and I accidentally drop the phone onto the fireplace. My stomach was in turmoil after being reminded of draconian lawyers on Christmas day. I mistook anguish for hunger and returned to the bin to retrieve my leftover muesli. Mam slapped me once on the hand and once on the face. I see the arthritis has cleared up, but I’m sure it will be back in time to escape the washing up. You can never escape being Morrissey, mother.


Aunt Hilda boomed through the door carrying presents and years of resentment. “Ah Steven” she said as I noticeably recoiled in horror. She went on to praise ‘This Charming Man’, again. Does she not know of my career since then? I have many a great work to compliment but she must constantly endorse this record.  Nephew arrived with boundless energy and career ending stare. He really is the perfect kind of human. Talented, humble, and quite generous. He has picked up some of my better traits. Not a fan of the name Sam though, he should consider changing it to something more iconic than Sam, like Clive or Colin. I notice Sam carrying a present addressed to “Uncle Mozziassey”, bless him, autism must be hard to deal with. Mam informs everyone that dinner will be served in fifteen minutes. I try and set the TV to record the Top Gear repeat and notice that Jeremy Clarkson is no longer the host. I assume I’ve missed the headlines surrounding his arrest under Operation Yewtree. Mam serves Christmas dinner on plates clearly purchased from the Argos basic range. I am livid but on the plus side she has made aubergine. It appears threats of baseball bats and pillows over the face whilst sleeping will get you what you want. Sprouts were not soggy, instead they were horribly overdone. I choked them down as to not cause a fuss. Christmas spirit and all that. Mam returned to kitchen and to my surprise completes the washing up. I am left with Aunt Hilda. I played the modern version of This Charming Man. Hilda fell off her chair in what I can only assume to be an appreciation of the artistry involved in taking a mediocre song and transforming it into a Beethoven-like classic.


Presents followed. Now, I am not a cheapskate but as you are all aware I have had some money issues this year. A tour had to be cancelled so I could drink as much as I liked due to lack of funds. Plus, I was rather overgenerous this year with gifts for the people who appear with me on stage. Each of them received an animal friendly £5 note from 2005. Don’t say old Mozza doesn’t look after those nearest and dearest to him. Therefore, I had to recycle previous years pass the parcel winnings as presents. Sam was thrilled with his 2004 vinyl, he started to draw on it with crayons immediately. Aunt Hilda received a 2006 vinyl and asked if this is the one with ‘This Charming Man’ on. My patience was wearing thin. Sam had purchased me Photoshop for Beginners. I stopped myself just in time before saying that he should perhaps use it first. I become fixated with this box and laugh at the possibility of putting Boz's current face onto his 1992 body. Aunt Hilda plunged further in my estimations when I open her gift to find Just for Men hair dye. She explains that she spoke to “that John boy” I “used to run around with”, and she ascertained it was the brand he used. B******. Mam however has lost her little boy forever. She dared to buy me Age of Boom for which I receive no royalties whatsoever. However, the final insult was when I opened what I thought would be the complete works of Auden, which I had asked for, but instead was greeted with ‘Set the Boy Free’. I was outraged and immediately threw the book onto the floor and enigmatically left the living room. She’ll get no sofa from me.


Calmed down with the help of Baileys, it’s truly magnificent that Irish Cream has, and always will be vegan. Returned to the living room to see family watching a quiz recapping 2016. I see that delightful Farage chap is still being lampooned by so called comedians. That is no way to treat the second most important person to influence the Brits to vote for Brexit. I was clearly the first. In keeping a distance from the whole debate until after the announcement was made, I projected my voting preference with a twitch of my right eyebrow in interviews and on stage. Those who understood, understood and those that didn’t never could. Farage really is a likeable person even if his face resembles that of a frog pushed up against glass. Brexit really was the highlight of my year. Phone accidentally dropped into the fireplace starts to ring. I answer to hear the familiar family favourite voice of John Challis. We however have never spoken so I was most perturbed. He explained that he was actually looking for Vic R****s. I kept him on the phone for twenty-five minutes whilst I recited from memory the entire 1985 Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special. He shouted that he has done other work since Only Fools, and that he did not want to be remembered for one thing. Well John, old mucker, I’ve done great things since The Smiths and they are the only thing people remember about me, and you don’t hear me complaining, do you?


Hilda and Mam have fallen asleep in front of the TV whilst little Sam was playing with a toy fire engine on the carpet. I returned to the TV and saw a documentary on Amanda Holden. My brain cells declined at the utter charisma vacuum I saw in front of me. Threw Johnny’s book at TV. The TV smashed. The book was clearly good for something. They may be lightweight words but the binding is heavyweight. I mean, just because I was capable of writing a classic autobiography where nobody learns a thing, doesn’t mean anyone can do it. I decided that with everyone else asleep or preoccupied with age appropriate toys, that I should probably try and read this drivel. Read first half in 4 minutes. Does he really have nothing bad to say about anyone? He certainly did in every interview once The Smiths split. Finished book in ten minutes. Fell into a coma.

Meanwhile, whilst the above piece was being written and published, and with Our Mozzer describing how he survived Christmas "for another year at least", my other hero of popular music, George Michael, didn't survive it, and instead was being driven to the local Oxfordshire morgue, having been found dead in his bed on Christmas morning.


Image result for george michael


It is truly tragic that such a beautiful and talented man has gone at just 53 years of age, but George just couldn't help himself. I would imagine that Morrissey would be almost envious at the way George let himself decline and demise - it is incredibly Wildean. I just hope that Morrissey doesn't now choose to let himself go the same way. The only thing that is probably (and hopefully) stopping him, is that his mother is still alive. If Morrissey's mum wasn't still here, then he may well simply give up - you can almost see him thriving on self destruction.


Image result for morrissey mum

The news of GM's death was made public just after 11pm, and Our Mozzer took to Twitter at 2.20am to simply tweet, "Sadness." It has been said by a few sources that The Smiths were one of George Michael's favourite bands, and I have a feeling that Morrissey was secretly a great admirer of George's. M and I have certainly had a fair bit of banter over the past few years on Twitter about George. I would love to see Morrissey make an official statement on TTY about how much he admired George, but I don't suppose it will happen.



OM has posted two further tweets since Christmas Day, both yesterday. The first was at 11.39am:

"Flabbergasted at the deaths 2016 has given us. Flabbergasted even more that the Queen and her Kraut husband still remaining (sic) standing." and the second was at 8.32pm in response to a photo posted by Kerry 'Boozey' Messenger (@boozelette) of a sunset: "the sun going down on my career."

PHOTOS OF MOZ POSTED ON TTY ON CHRISTMAS EVE ALONG WITH HIS CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

4 comments:

  1. FTM is like a treasure chest. Bursting at the seams with the roller coaster of a journey we've had.
    If it is now be locked away, it can offer shelter to the most precious memories some of us were blessed enough to share.

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  2. The TrueMorrissey Christmas piece is indeed a classic. GM's passing is such a tragedy - although I wasn't a fan, he was immensely talented and I've enjoyed listening to his music for the past couple of days, especially Kissing a Fool. I can't bear to think of Moz following a similar path of self-destruction - I think I'd have no choice but to do the same thing.

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    1. heather you really shouldn't talk like that, anything can happen to any of us at any time, I'm afraid that goes with that ticket that we all bought in to called life.. as for the story above I don't think it was written by moz. now stay safe everyone and good luck for the new year

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  3. Nice go get a Christmas story especially as I was not expecting one. With 2016's death toll it was well received here. Hope everyone's having a good holiday season. Thanks to you Mr Ratty for publishing it. Happy New Year to all

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