Our Mozzer is holed up in a modest hotel suite somewhere in continental Europe. Having established the whereabouts of Our Mozzer, former ConMorrissey Theorist and long-time MorrisseysWorlder RosyMires has decided to confront him, along with the true artiste HM Morrissey, under the pretext of conducting the MorrisseysWorld interview. Our Mozzer is gazing forlornly at the clock. The true artiste was supposed to be here twenty four minutes ago. Our Mozzer juts out his jaw and puffs out his cheeks, raising his eyebrows with a jaunty rolling of the eyes, as the faint sound of traffic squeezes in through the seals around the closed windows.
Just then the door flies open. In strolls a self-possessed man in a long raincoat, wearing a green scarf and an unmistakable quiff. Shuffling in behind him is RosyMires, busily carrying his Prada manbag, elegant pleather suitcase and a clipboard, under her other arm.
Our Mozzer: I think... *gulps* ... I think I've seen you before. On YouTube-
The true artiste: *nods disinterestedly and gazes about the room*
RosyMires: Yes, well, unlike a certain person, Morrissey is actually really famous and therefore can be seen on YouTube, whereas certain people are sad, deluded fantasists and cannot. *narrows her eyes slightly and gives Our Mozzer a cool stare*
Our Mozzer: *shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, looks back out of the window, laughs uncomfortably, sighs*
The true artiste: If you'd destroyed your own life, rather than seeking to destroy mine with that sordid blog page/site, then perhaps you'd have iconic mannerisms of your own rather than having to imitate mine-
RosyMires: -Oh very droll, Morrissey! I like that! *Rosy ceases to smile as her gaze falls upon the pitiable figure of Our Mozzer crouching haplessly in the corner of the room*
Our Mozzer: I certainly didn't seek to destroy anything-
The true artiste: -It's too late for mercy pleas and begging letters, old son. The legal eagles are, I'm afraid, already in the loop-
Our Mozzer: But-
The true artiste: -Look I haven't got all day. I'm twenty four minutes behind schedule and that means twenty four minutes less to reflect on the pointlessness of my life this afternoon.
*the seminal artiste holds out his hand with a glum look*
The true artiste: Card please, Rosy-
RosyMires: *hands The true artiste the first card*
The true artiste: The first question has been submitted via email from someonecalled Steve. Steve writes, 'You stupid c*nt. Wasting almost three years of your life pretending to be someone of talent when in fact you're a flea-bitten, socially inept, acne-afflicted f***? Discuss.'
RosyMires: *scribbles on clipboard, titters audibly*
Our Mozzer: I thought the blog was quite clever-
The true artiste: -Which only confirms your madness. Question two is also from someone called Steve. 'Your blog was written in the style of a self-dramatising hod carrier rather bitter at the abject failure of his life. Tell me, how did you manage to make the essays so pretentious and verbose and the comedy pieces so cripplingly unfunny? If that was the intention - of creating an hilariously bad, almost embarrassing website - then I'd like to congratulate you warmly. It's the worst website I've seen in my life.'
*The true artiste bites his lip and smirks*
Our Mozzer: I saw it principally as a loving self-parody-
RosyMires: -How can it be a self-parody when you're aren't even Morrissey? My God.
The true artiste: Let's not be too hard on the dear boy, Rosy. It seems Our Mozzerhasn't been out of his bedsit much lately. No rapturously-received South American tours for him; no eager anticipation surrounding his autobiography; no politely grappling fans, just seeking a brief audience with a certain Manchester poet-
RosyMires: -I wholeheartedly agree Morrissey. I just don't think Our Mozzer was very Morrisseyesque. He just didn't have those qualities you possess by the bucketload, Morrissey-
The true artiste: If being me was so easy, someone would have tried earlier.
RosyMires: Oh yes! Very Morrisseyesque! Now THAT's more like it. Look there are certain things that Morrissey just wouldn't have done - such as comparing Wossy and Russell to Hindley and Brady - or was it Brady and Hindley?
The true artiste: I would never be so crass.
RosyMires: Precisely, Morrissey.
The true artiste: No, I would have compared Ross and Russell to Shipman and Breivik, if anything.
RosyMires: You see it's got that irony factor when you do it, Morrissey. NO one else could pull that off - certainly not a blogger. Also this use of the word c*nt - I mean, come on! For a man with a vocabulary like you to use that word would be ridiculous! It just wasn't Morrisseyesque at all-
The true artiste: -Oh I beg to differ, my sweet. I use the word c*nt constantly in discussion with Boz Boorer. It's the only language the sorry c*nt understands, quite frankly-
RosyMires: -Well yes of course when YOU use that word, Morrissey, it's very, very Morrisseyesque because you carry it off with a certain aplomb. You wouldn't overuse it for example, unlike a certain person...
The true artiste: Oh I call Boz a c*nt every five minutes. Call a c*nt a c*nt I say-
RosyMires: The irony is just... mesmerising.
The true artiste: Question 3 was submitted by one of those poor, deluded souls that seem to believe you are, in fact, Morrissey. TheRatsBack asks via the blog 'If you could ignore which giant corporate company is now the owner, which old record label would you choose to record on next, and watch whirl around your turntable at forty five beautiful revs per minute, with the name Morrissey on it?'
Our Mozzer: Pop music and intelligence are, generally speaking, mutually exclusive. Record labels are only interested in catering to; while creating something new is not even on their agenda. Due to this crass consumerism and a lack of vision and investment in potentially important artists, they are inflicting the same turgid rubbish on the world every few years: Lady McDonna, Justin Spears, Leona Houston. The list goes on-
The true artiste: -A bit of brevity would be appreciated. I haven't got all day.
RosyMires: Well, quite. I've been saying for months that the real Morrissey is far more concise and witty than the imposter.
Our Mozzer: *sighs and smirks insecurely, biting his lower lip*
The true artiste: Not so clever now - are you? Blogger-
RosyMires: Cat got your tongue, Blogger?
The true artiste: Let's not be too hard on the dear boy, Rosy. I think he's too ashamed to speak and with good reason.
Our Mozzer: *taps his fingers on the arm of the chair*
The true artiste: -Stop that tapping.
Our Mozzer: I'm very Sorry-
The true artiste: -Yes, no need to go on. I'm a little averse to repetitive sounds. It's PTSD, you see. Since touring South America, I keep getting flashbacks... anything can trigger them; industrial hammering or stage construction, tapping on wood, the sound of Boz Boorer's brain trying to think... and then it happens... Kristeen's set opener all comes flooding back, almost as though I'm watching her from the side of the stage all over again.
RosyMires: Ha! Now that's Morrisseyesque!
The true artiste: Question four from TheRatsBack: 'You have proven with MW that you are a fantastic satirical writer, is this a career you fancy exploring further, and if so, would it be for the theatre?'
Our Mozzer: I certainly won't be writing for Hollyoaks. Satire is all about contempt for the powers that be, the forces of Conservatism if you will. In an almost absurd sense I have been shepherded into the 'Conservative' category by a British media establishment which simply doesn't care to analyse what is actually being said in my songs. The idea that I - as a feminist and vegetarian - am some terribly reactionary force in this world is quaint but quite untrue. I simply decided that, after years of being misrepresented in the media, I would satirise this wholly false public image that has grown up around me. My contempt is directed both at the false image they have fashioned for me and the architects of this thinly-veiled lie. The fact that the journalists aren't bright enough to put two and two together is the icing on the cake in terms of the blog being a piece of conceptual art. Turner Prize here we come!
The true artiste: *shakes his head, glowers*
RosyMires: (whispering) You know he seriously thinks he's you!
The true artiste: The next question is from someone called Burt. He writes: 'Your blog is pathetic, get a life, weirdo. And by the way, if that really is you Morrissey, stop churning out the-'... Yes, I think we'll pass over this question. We've already had too many critical questions - we don't want to give the c*nt an inferiority complex, do we?
RosyMires: Good idea, Morrissey. Such compassion.
The true artiste: *nods* Here's a better question - from Girlwithout on that ghastly blog thing. 'If you had to ask yourself an interesting interview question, what would your question be?'
Our Mozzer: I'd seek out my thoughts on the Oven Chip Revolution. Why are oven chips so much better than real chips these days?
RosyMires: *looks stern, fiddles with her ball-point pen*
The true artiste: Anonymous asks 'Can you reply to a non question and provide a 30 word stream of consciousness answer?'
Our Mozzer: The stream of consciousness I relied on in my youth has become a stagnant puddle. It won't goanywhere - and if it does, it only leaves a dirty stain behind.
The true artiste: Lois Hunt asks on the blog: 'If you ever met someone with the same views, opinions, and basically the same personality as you, would you want to get to know them and maybe eventually become friends or run a mile (avoid them totally)?'
Our Mozzer: I've tried running far away from myself and tried to love myself, and I've realised it's best for all concerned if I simply stand here at a short distance gazing curiously at myself, along with the rest of the world.
The true artiste: Final question. Paul Freeyourself of seminal Manchester (cover) band Viva Morrissey asks: 'It's fair to say I've been influenced by your style, and vocal affectation, as well as your aesthetic. Would it be equally fair to say you have been heavily influenced by mine?'
Our Mozzer: The abiding influence of Viva Morrissey on my career has been significant. It wasn't until I saw their version of 'This Charming Man' circa 2009 that I dropped it from the live set. Frightening.
**************************************************
Ten minutes later, all three are standing outside the hotel, waiting to be picked up. Our Mozzer offers the true artiste a shy handshake, which the true artiste declines. A black Mercedes S500 arrives. The window silently lowers and out pops the ungainly head of a plump man in makeup.
Plump man: Good day sir, may I help you in? It's time to go Athens for the Morr-ee-say concert, sir.
Our Mozzer steps quickly towards the car, gazing back with a relieved grin. Moments later the door closes and the Mercedes S500 glides effortlessly away.
RosyMires: Wasn't that Boz Boorer?
The true artiste: Just a fake, my child - a restless spirit too dreary to find anyone more fascinating to impersonate than my second guitarist.
Just then a chuntering Mercedes 190 E in chipped black paint arrives in a cloud of smoke. The window winds down with a loud squeak and an elderly woman with a blue rinse and heavy makeup pokes her head out, obviously breathless.
Elderly woman: Get in, Paul, you little c*nt, we're going to be late for the plane back to Manchester for Viva Morrissey's gig at the Truffle and Mint!
RosyMires: But if you're Paul Freeyourself from Viva Morrissey, who was Our Mozzer?
The true artiste: He's a copyist and a f***ing fantasist - trying to be me. You see the subtext of that blog is that the whole thing is Morrissey trying to be me, Paul - you see I am THE REAL
MORRISSEY. The true and proper Morrissey. And that other Morrissey who sings and blogs simply cannot stand it. The b**tard needs to pay attention to how a TRUE STAR does it.
Elderly woman: Paul, stop mincing about and get in the frigging car, before I kick your sweaty, old arse! I haven't had any rent from you for 3 weeks - if this gig falls through, you're out on your f***ing ear!
The true artiste: Coming Mam...!
*RosyMires looks pale and puts her hand on her forehead*
