Blue Rose Society Review May 2014
Morrissey and his friends sit around a mahogany table in an elegant hotel suite where he is booked for a night on his US tour. The lights are dimmed. The seminal artiste has a mild headache and sits with a damp dish cloth draped over his left eye and his right eye lid drooping down with tiredness.
"News just in, sire..." says Boz Boorer triumphantly. "The new single charted!..." He says, before stumbling slightly and pausing, clearing his throat: "...83!"
"83 000?" Asks Morrissey more in the tone of a statement. "Astonishing... that must be a number one in 2014 old friend. Boz is that right? Is 83 000 good enough for a number one single?"
Boz slides his finger along the page awkwardly, trying to read from the right location. "Just a moment, Moz," he says. "Just one moment, sir..." He studies the page closely. Morrissey rolls his eyes playfully, half-smirking. "Yes Moz! 83 000 would be a number one!"
"Well it's a Bollinger moment..." announces Morrissey. "Millions of books sold, Penguin Classic imprint.... and now one's first ever number one single... Boz get me some Bollinger from room service old friend. Let's celebrate with some Cilla Black."
Boz looks worried. "But sir-"
"-Don't question your employer's personal expenditure Boz. Now do as instructed, kindly."
Work is a four letter word fills the suite from a rather expensive sound system, as Mikey Bracewell, Jesse Tobias, Julia and the The Tour Cat exchange apprehensive glances every few seconds.
Morrissey begins clapping along to the song, apparently overjoyed. He looks almost tearful. The Tour Cat slides under a coffee table.
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"Extraordinary..." utters Morrissey.
Mikey Bracewell gazes at the floor. Boz Boorer knocks and re-enters the suite, having presumably ordered Bollinger from room service. He avoided using Morrissey's personal suite telephone, as per the MorrisseyBand tour protocol and therefore used the one in the corridor instead, to avoid adding unnecessary charges to the iconic star's bill.
Boz sits down at the laptop computer. He begins perusing the world wide web.
As the next song begins - Death by Klaus Nomi - a small bead of sweat is seen trickling down Boorer's face, meandering like a small stream between rocks.
"Sir..." says Boz. "When I said 83, sir-"
"-Shut up Boz. No speaking during Nomi."
Boz Boorer nods. Had he been in the rhythm section that would have been an instant fine. Fortunately speaking fines did not apply to the musical director, lead guitarist or keyboard player. This thought provided momentary comfort to Boz as he wondered what to do.
"Theses number one is amazing then Morr-ee-say," says Jesse Tobias. "Eet is no more than you deserve, my friend. Well with theses amazing words thanks to you, my friend, and this amazing music, thanks to me, this is why you succeed..."
"Uhm, yes..." murmurs Morrissey with an unconvinced look, He gazes at Jesse and then looks at the floor.
"Eet is my gift to you Morr-ee-say."
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Morrissey checks the time.
"Any reviews of my new songs on the world wide dread yet Boz?"
"Erm... yes, sir... erm.... here's one from one of your longest-serving fans, sire..."
"Longest-serving, Boz? You make him sound like an inmate... which I suppose he is... of sorts," smirks the artiste.
"Shall I read it aloud, sir? It sounds very positive from the first few lines.... very fair..."
"Oh..." says Morrissey, feigning boredom. "Oh.... go on then!"
" In 'World Peace Is None Of Your Business' a multi-millionaire ex pop-star is watching CNN in a luxury hotel suite." Boz Boorer begins: "It depresses him so he writes a polemical lyric advising his cult 'clueless consumer' fans to withdraw from political activity, as politics is pointless. Taxation is also pointless. They are "poor fools". He finds an old cassette tape with a dull leaden thumping track which he absent-mindedly drones the lyrics along to. It takes about 20 minutes to finish, which is good as room service will soon be arriving with his dinner."
Morrissey's only visible eye closes slightly. "Broken..." he murmurs. Boz Boorer, realising that his master is angry, gulps. He hesitates.
"Go on.... read out the rest," Morrissey says calmly and firmly. "That s***ing c***" He mutters. "...C***"
""Earth Is The Loneliest Planet" A multi-millionaire ex pop-star has switched off the telly in a luxury hotel suite. He notices that he has failed to find love and concludes that the universe is to blame. He is moved to write yet another lyric signalling to his cult 'clueless consumers' that romantic love is pointless and/or unachievable. If they have married and had children, they are misguided. He makes a note to invite Kristeen Young back into the fold as she also has no truck with successful marital arrangements and progeny type stuff.
"The Bullfighter Dies" A multi-millionaire ex pop-star switches the telly back on in a luxury hotel suite to watch a documentary on bull-fighting but it's in Spanish so he switches it off. His suite has a small library. He flicks distractedly at a poem by Federico García Lorca called "Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías" which was mentioned in the documentary, but it's too complicated and gives him a head-ache. He picks up his pencil and The Muses strike. He writes the definitive lyric about this annoying sport.
Years later he remembers this astonishing burst of creativity and summons his band to a recording studio. In the limousine he realises he has put the wrong lyric to the wrong cassette. The 'Spanish-y' tune has somehow gotten the lyric about doomed romantic love when he meant to use its faux-flamenco for the Bullfighter one. Then he remembers he was a bit pissed the night he composed these staggering works of heart-breaking genius. He sighs and decides it doesn't matter anyway. His cult 'clueless consumer' fans will lap it up like everything else as they are 'poor fools' who pay taxes. And 'rebel' by purchasing concert tickets and CDs to listen to 'protest singers' in the "Bread and Circuses" economy of collapsing empire:"
"I'll get that b*****d," Morrissey says. "What name is he using these days Boz?"
"BrummieBoy, sir."
"Any reviews NOT from my fans?" asks Morrissey with a cynical tone of resignation.
Mikey Bracewell gives knowing half-smile and a prim nod.
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"Well, sir..." stutters Boz Boorer. "Factmag.com says... Morrissey took a brief respite from making inflammatory statements to announce his new album, World Peace Is None Of Your Business, last month.
Produced by Joe Chiccarelli (The Strokes, Tori Amos, The Shins), Morrissey is said to be "beyond ecstatic" with the follow-up to 2009′s Years of Refusal. The album is due out in July via Capitol's Harvest imprint, and we now have the tracklist, via True To You.... Oh this isn't a review, sir-"
Morrissey rolls his eyes, before remembering a damp cloth is draped over one of them. The cloth falls to the floor.
"Look what you've b******d made me do now, Boz," blurts out the seminal artiste angrily. "Pick it up and find me a fresh one would you please Julia? There's a nice friend..."
"Oh yes, Morrissey, oh yes, let me find you a new cloth, Morrissey," says Julia effusively, before leaning towards the iconic star and hugging him. Morrissey gives an uncomfortable look as she does so, pulling back slightly, but placing his hand on her back, patting it.
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As the hug drags on, Morrissey mutters, "Aren't you forgetting something?" to Julia. She glances blankly at him.
"The damp cloth...?" he murmurs softly.
"I almost forgot!" She says.
Julia leaves the suite.
"Can't get the s***ing staff these days," sighs Morrissey just after the door closes, licking his lips.
A knock at the door: "Room service!"
"Come in" replies Morrissey with English reserve.
A smartly-dressed gentleman with a fixed smile carries in a bottle of expensive champagne on ice. He grins even more broadly, showing impeccable porcelain, and places several flutes on the table with great elegance. He offers to pour the champagne, but Morrissey places his hand softly over the flute.
"I'll do that, thanks all the same," Morrissey says. Taking the bottle, he pours a splash into each flute in turn. Then he fills his own flute up to the brim. "This is the life... but of course one doesn't have a number one single in England every day of the week..."
"You're number one in the British chart?" asks the gentleman with a strong southern twang.
"Apparently so-" murmurs Morrissey with a self-deprecating shrug.
"I just wanted to say I really loved Astral Weeks," says the room service bod with a look of admiration in the eye.
Morrissey grasps his flute of champagne and takes a large mouthful.
"This bloody hotel..." he mutters.
Room service turns and leaves, looking offended.
"Delightful champagne," says Mikey Bracewell, quaffing from the flute.
Morrissey downs his flute in one. "Well, not bad."
Jesse Tobias hums 'World Peace is None of Your Business' and taps his fingers on his green leather arm-rest.
Morrissey glowers at him, but Jesse doesn't notice.
"I notice you've deleted your twitter account and blog again, Morr-ee-say" says Mikey.
"Yes," mutters Morrissey distractedly, wishing Jesse would cease and desist from humming a classic pop song and UK number one single. "What's the point when the b*****ds all ignore me anyway? More wit than Mr Wilde, more immediacy than Joey Essex, more poetry than Twitter could ever have imagined... all in mesmerizing 140 character literary outbursts from Old Bigmouth, yet... it's like I hardly even exist..."
"I think your fans will only believe it's you if you obtain a blue verified tick on your account," says Mikey thoughtfully. "Unfortunately in a world where people have so little time, they're looking for easy answers and uncomplicated entertainment. Who you are matters much more than what you say."
"Sir," says Boz, butting in. "... P'raps you could switch over to the itsMorrissey account with your wit and literally genius, sire..."
Boz looks quite proud of his suggestion, his eyebrows raised in frozen anticipation.
Mikey Bracewell smiles. "I don't think that's terribly Morrissey Boz. Morrissey just wouldn't do that-"
"-It's brilliant, Boz. Yes, yes, yes. Morrissey would never use a verified account, just as Morrissey would never use twitter, just as Morrissey would never used Americanized spellings in his writing, or wear a blue rose during a live concert... yes, yes, yes.... "
Mikey Bracewell stops shaking his head and nods softly. Jesse Tobias continues humming his first UK number one.
"...Sometimes the most Morrisseyesque thing one can do is the last thing Morrissey would ever do," announces Morrissey.
"But you've already denied it's you, Morr-ee-say," says Mikey.
"Which would make it even more Morrisseyesque," says Morrissey.
"Quite brilliant," says Mikey.
"The old enigmatic otherness factor.... doing what Morrissey would never do...outflanking Uncle Scummy... and that man... who of course both know how to be me far more than I ever could..."
"Yes, sir, that's right sir, how wise of you to say so, sir," says Boz. "...that doing something unMorrisseyesque is much more Morrisseyesque, sir. Like that time you apologised to Sir Elton John, Moz, so that he'd play at Meltdown Festival, sir, even though he didn't play in the end, but even then only because he had no idea who you were, sire, not because he hated you, or thought your recent songs were rubbish, sir..."
Morrissey licks his lips.
"... in fact how would he even have known that your recent songs weren't very good if he didn't even know who you are, sir?..."
Morrissey continues licking his lip and his eyes close slightly.
"...But anyway, sir, apologising to Sir Elton after saying you wanted his head served on a platter, just so you could have him at Meltdown and make sure all those empty seats got filled, sir... well, that was a masterstroke sir... so unlike you that it surprised everybody, and showed that Morrissey can never be predicted, just can't be predicted... he can't actually be predicted, there's absolutely no way he can be predicted, it's just not possible to predict him. You see, he's just not possible to-"
"-Boz f*** off."
Boz Boorer rubs his cheek and sighs plaintively.
"Still, good news about the number one," says Morrissey. "Let's write a TTY statement, not too triumphalist..."
Morrissey pauses. He looks irked and brushes his nose with his right index finger. Then he snaps his fingers.
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Mikey Bracewell, suddenly alert to the situation, jumps up and begins searching for a pen and paper.
"Morrissey is overjoyed at the news of his first ever number one single in England," begins Morrissey, as Mikey gives up looking for paper and begins writing on the back of his hand. "Despite no radio play, zero promotion and a backing band of jaded session musicians..."
Morrissey19 May 2014 10:41
Mikey pauses.
"Actually delete that last bit. Something more dignified.... uhmmm.... Despite no radio play, zero promotion, and a band of talentless c***s."
Morrissey laughs.
"No, no no," he smiles, gazing at Jesse. "That wouldn't be fair."
"Despite no radio play, zero promotion, and the same musicians so widely and unfairly criticised in the music press, Morrissey is once again thrilled to be among the top of the charts and thanks his musicians for all their hard work and..."
Morrissey gazes pityingly towards Boz Boorer.
"... and their best efforts in creating a four minute pop gem."
"I'll email that to Julia," says Mikey.
"...I've just realised you're NOT Morrissey," says Boz Boorer. "You can't be Morrissey, sir, because everyone knows you said the itsMorrissey twitter account wasn't you, but in this parody story, sir, I notice that you seem to suggest it might have been you after all. So I conclude you aren't really Morrissey, but an imposter and liar, sire..."
"Boz I've been paying your wages for twenty years, not to mention carrying you musically and socially. I am Morrissey. We met over twenty years ago, old son. Don't you remember, Boz?"
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"But you can't be Morrissey, sir, because the real Morrissey has already announced ItsMorrissey isn't him.... on True To You... and in today's parody piece you lost the suspension of disbeliefness, sir, by saying something that didn't quite tally with true to you, sir... by discussing how you'd use ItsMorrissey, even though True To You said it wasn't you at all. Now, I know True to you is Morrissey's official site, so that means you can't be Morrissey, sire, you just can't be, because Morrissey wouldn't lie...."
Boz Boorer looks deep in thought, and rather distressed.
"Have I been working for a parody for all these years? Could Rosy Mires be right after all? Am I even really in the band that's at number 83 in the British charts-"
"-Number 83, Boz?"
"Yes, sir. I tried to tell you earlier when-"
"-Did you say, number 83? "
"Yes sir."
Mikey Bracewell looks at his fingernails with a solemn expression.
Morrissey spits out into his flute with some force. Then he carefully pours the contents of the other men's flutes back into the champagne bottle, along with his expectorated champagne-infused saliva.
"Room service!" He shouts. "This bottle is corked!"
Silence.
"Room service!"
Morrissey hurls the bottle of champagne at the wall. Boz Boorer ducks. The bottle smashes, and champagne runs down the wallpaper.
"Eighty b******d three. Cancel that TTY statement. Someone will pay for this... b*****d record company... they're all the s**ding same..."
"I blame Broken, sir," says Boz. "After all, sir, if he hadn't told everyone on Morrissey solo, disguised as BrummieBoy of course, sir, how bad your new songs are, some of them might never have noticed how bad they are, sir.. and then you might have got a slightly better chart position, more fitting for your new song, sir, like forty three or something, a bit like Satan Rejected My Soul, sire, back in the 1990s, the last time you were irrelevant..."
Morrissey lunges at Boz Boorer.
(The above parody piece was submitted to FTM (with LOADS of amendments) by Morrissey on May 19 between 9am-11am (3am-5am Lincoln Nebraska time..... which obviously means that it cannot have been the real Morrissey because the real Morrissey would NEVER be up writing a parody story for a two bit fan blog at that time of day when he has a concert in the evening!)
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Morrissey and his friends sit around a mahogany table in an elegant hotel suite where he is booked for a night on his US tour. The lights are dimmed. The seminal artiste has a mild headache and sits with a damp dish cloth draped over his left eye and his right eye lid drooping down with tiredness.
"News just in, sire..." says Boz Boorer triumphantly. "The new single charted!..." He says, before stumbling slightly and pausing, clearing his throat: "...83!"
"83 000?" Asks Morrissey more in the tone of a statement. "Astonishing... that must be a number one in 2014 old friend. Boz is that right? Is 83 000 good enough for a number one single?"
Boz slides his finger along the page awkwardly, trying to read from the right location. "Just a moment, Moz," he says. "Just one moment, sir..." He studies the page closely. Morrissey rolls his eyes playfully, half-smirking. "Yes Moz! 83 000 would be a number one!"
"Well it's a Bollinger moment..." announces Morrissey. "Millions of books sold, Penguin Classic imprint.... and now one's first ever number one single... Boz get me some Bollinger from room service old friend. Let's celebrate with some Cilla Black."
Boz looks worried. "But sir-"
"-Don't question your employer's personal expenditure Boz. Now do as instructed, kindly."
Work is a four letter word fills the suite from a rather expensive sound system, as Mikey Bracewell, Jesse Tobias, Julia and the The Tour Cat exchange apprehensive glances every few seconds.
Morrissey begins clapping along to the song, apparently overjoyed. He looks almost tearful. The Tour Cat slides under a coffee table.
"Extraordinary..." utters Morrissey.
Mikey Bracewell gazes at the floor. Boz Boorer knocks and re-enters the suite, having presumably ordered Bollinger from room service. He avoided using Morrissey's personal suite telephone, as per the MorrisseyBand tour protocol and therefore used the one in the corridor instead, to avoid adding unnecessary charges to the iconic star's bill.
Boz sits down at the laptop computer. He begins perusing the world wide web.
As the next song begins - Death by Klaus Nomi - a small bead of sweat is seen trickling down Boorer's face, meandering like a small stream between rocks.
"Sir..." says Boz. "When I said 83, sir-"
"-Shut up Boz. No speaking during Nomi."
Boz Boorer nods. Had he been in the rhythm section that would have been an instant fine. Fortunately speaking fines did not apply to the musical director, lead guitarist or keyboard player. This thought provided momentary comfort to Boz as he wondered what to do.
"Theses number one is amazing then Morr-ee-say," says Jesse Tobias. "Eet is no more than you deserve, my friend. Well with theses amazing words thanks to you, my friend, and this amazing music, thanks to me, this is why you succeed..."
"Uhm, yes..." murmurs Morrissey with an unconvinced look, He gazes at Jesse and then looks at the floor.
"Eet is my gift to you Morr-ee-say."
Morrissey checks the time.
"Any reviews of my new songs on the world wide dread yet Boz?"
"Erm... yes, sir... erm.... here's one from one of your longest-serving fans, sire..."
"Longest-serving, Boz? You make him sound like an inmate... which I suppose he is... of sorts," smirks the artiste.
"Shall I read it aloud, sir? It sounds very positive from the first few lines.... very fair..."
"Oh..." says Morrissey, feigning boredom. "Oh.... go on then!"
" In 'World Peace Is None Of Your Business' a multi-millionaire ex pop-star is watching CNN in a luxury hotel suite." Boz Boorer begins: "It depresses him so he writes a polemical lyric advising his cult 'clueless consumer' fans to withdraw from political activity, as politics is pointless. Taxation is also pointless. They are "poor fools". He finds an old cassette tape with a dull leaden thumping track which he absent-mindedly drones the lyrics along to. It takes about 20 minutes to finish, which is good as room service will soon be arriving with his dinner."
Morrissey's only visible eye closes slightly. "Broken..." he murmurs. Boz Boorer, realising that his master is angry, gulps. He hesitates.
"Go on.... read out the rest," Morrissey says calmly and firmly. "That s***ing c***" He mutters. "...C***"
""Earth Is The Loneliest Planet" A multi-millionaire ex pop-star has switched off the telly in a luxury hotel suite. He notices that he has failed to find love and concludes that the universe is to blame. He is moved to write yet another lyric signalling to his cult 'clueless consumers' that romantic love is pointless and/or unachievable. If they have married and had children, they are misguided. He makes a note to invite Kristeen Young back into the fold as she also has no truck with successful marital arrangements and progeny type stuff.
"The Bullfighter Dies" A multi-millionaire ex pop-star switches the telly back on in a luxury hotel suite to watch a documentary on bull-fighting but it's in Spanish so he switches it off. His suite has a small library. He flicks distractedly at a poem by Federico García Lorca called "Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías" which was mentioned in the documentary, but it's too complicated and gives him a head-ache. He picks up his pencil and The Muses strike. He writes the definitive lyric about this annoying sport.
Years later he remembers this astonishing burst of creativity and summons his band to a recording studio. In the limousine he realises he has put the wrong lyric to the wrong cassette. The 'Spanish-y' tune has somehow gotten the lyric about doomed romantic love when he meant to use its faux-flamenco for the Bullfighter one. Then he remembers he was a bit pissed the night he composed these staggering works of heart-breaking genius. He sighs and decides it doesn't matter anyway. His cult 'clueless consumer' fans will lap it up like everything else as they are 'poor fools' who pay taxes. And 'rebel' by purchasing concert tickets and CDs to listen to 'protest singers' in the "Bread and Circuses" economy of collapsing empire:"
"I'll get that b*****d," Morrissey says. "What name is he using these days Boz?"
"BrummieBoy, sir."
"Any reviews NOT from my fans?" asks Morrissey with a cynical tone of resignation.
Mikey Bracewell gives knowing half-smile and a prim nod.
"Well, sir..." stutters Boz Boorer. "Factmag.com says... Morrissey took a brief respite from making inflammatory statements to announce his new album, World Peace Is None Of Your Business, last month.
Produced by Joe Chiccarelli (The Strokes, Tori Amos, The Shins), Morrissey is said to be "beyond ecstatic" with the follow-up to 2009′s Years of Refusal. The album is due out in July via Capitol's Harvest imprint, and we now have the tracklist, via True To You.... Oh this isn't a review, sir-"
Morrissey rolls his eyes, before remembering a damp cloth is draped over one of them. The cloth falls to the floor.
"Look what you've b******d made me do now, Boz," blurts out the seminal artiste angrily. "Pick it up and find me a fresh one would you please Julia? There's a nice friend..."
"Oh yes, Morrissey, oh yes, let me find you a new cloth, Morrissey," says Julia effusively, before leaning towards the iconic star and hugging him. Morrissey gives an uncomfortable look as she does so, pulling back slightly, but placing his hand on her back, patting it.
As the hug drags on, Morrissey mutters, "Aren't you forgetting something?" to Julia. She glances blankly at him.
"The damp cloth...?" he murmurs softly.
"I almost forgot!" She says.
Julia leaves the suite.
"Can't get the s***ing staff these days," sighs Morrissey just after the door closes, licking his lips.
A knock at the door: "Room service!"
"Come in" replies Morrissey with English reserve.
A smartly-dressed gentleman with a fixed smile carries in a bottle of expensive champagne on ice. He grins even more broadly, showing impeccable porcelain, and places several flutes on the table with great elegance. He offers to pour the champagne, but Morrissey places his hand softly over the flute.
"I'll do that, thanks all the same," Morrissey says. Taking the bottle, he pours a splash into each flute in turn. Then he fills his own flute up to the brim. "This is the life... but of course one doesn't have a number one single in England every day of the week..."
"You're number one in the British chart?" asks the gentleman with a strong southern twang.
"Apparently so-" murmurs Morrissey with a self-deprecating shrug.
"I just wanted to say I really loved Astral Weeks," says the room service bod with a look of admiration in the eye.
Morrissey grasps his flute of champagne and takes a large mouthful.
"This bloody hotel..." he mutters.
Room service turns and leaves, looking offended.
"Delightful champagne," says Mikey Bracewell, quaffing from the flute.
Morrissey downs his flute in one. "Well, not bad."
Jesse Tobias hums 'World Peace is None of Your Business' and taps his fingers on his green leather arm-rest.
Morrissey glowers at him, but Jesse doesn't notice.
"I notice you've deleted your twitter account and blog again, Morr-ee-say" says Mikey.
"Yes," mutters Morrissey distractedly, wishing Jesse would cease and desist from humming a classic pop song and UK number one single. "What's the point when the b*****ds all ignore me anyway? More wit than Mr Wilde, more immediacy than Joey Essex, more poetry than Twitter could ever have imagined... all in mesmerizing 140 character literary outbursts from Old Bigmouth, yet... it's like I hardly even exist..."
"I think your fans will only believe it's you if you obtain a blue verified tick on your account," says Mikey thoughtfully. "Unfortunately in a world where people have so little time, they're looking for easy answers and uncomplicated entertainment. Who you are matters much more than what you say."
"Sir," says Boz, butting in. "... P'raps you could switch over to the itsMorrissey account with your wit and literally genius, sire..."
Boz looks quite proud of his suggestion, his eyebrows raised in frozen anticipation.
Mikey Bracewell smiles. "I don't think that's terribly Morrissey Boz. Morrissey just wouldn't do that-"
"-It's brilliant, Boz. Yes, yes, yes. Morrissey would never use a verified account, just as Morrissey would never use twitter, just as Morrissey would never used Americanized spellings in his writing, or wear a blue rose during a live concert... yes, yes, yes.... "
Mikey Bracewell stops shaking his head and nods softly. Jesse Tobias continues humming his first UK number one.
"...Sometimes the most Morrisseyesque thing one can do is the last thing Morrissey would ever do," announces Morrissey.
"But you've already denied it's you, Morr-ee-say," says Mikey.
"Which would make it even more Morrisseyesque," says Morrissey.
"Quite brilliant," says Mikey.
"The old enigmatic otherness factor.... doing what Morrissey would never do...outflanking Uncle Scummy... and that man... who of course both know how to be me far more than I ever could..."
"Yes, sir, that's right sir, how wise of you to say so, sir," says Boz. "...that doing something unMorrisseyesque is much more Morrisseyesque, sir. Like that time you apologised to Sir Elton John, Moz, so that he'd play at Meltdown Festival, sir, even though he didn't play in the end, but even then only because he had no idea who you were, sire, not because he hated you, or thought your recent songs were rubbish, sir..."
Morrissey licks his lips.
"... in fact how would he even have known that your recent songs weren't very good if he didn't even know who you are, sir?..."
Morrissey continues licking his lip and his eyes close slightly.
"...But anyway, sir, apologising to Sir Elton after saying you wanted his head served on a platter, just so you could have him at Meltdown and make sure all those empty seats got filled, sir... well, that was a masterstroke sir... so unlike you that it surprised everybody, and showed that Morrissey can never be predicted, just can't be predicted... he can't actually be predicted, there's absolutely no way he can be predicted, it's just not possible to predict him. You see, he's just not possible to-"
"-Boz f*** off."
Boz Boorer rubs his cheek and sighs plaintively.
"Still, good news about the number one," says Morrissey. "Let's write a TTY statement, not too triumphalist..."
Morrissey pauses. He looks irked and brushes his nose with his right index finger. Then he snaps his fingers.
Mikey Bracewell, suddenly alert to the situation, jumps up and begins searching for a pen and paper.
"Morrissey is overjoyed at the news of his first ever number one single in England," begins Morrissey, as Mikey gives up looking for paper and begins writing on the back of his hand. "Despite no radio play, zero promotion and a backing band of jaded session musicians..."
Morrissey19 May 2014 10:41
Mikey pauses.
"Actually delete that last bit. Something more dignified.... uhmmm.... Despite no radio play, zero promotion, and a band of talentless c***s."
Morrissey laughs.
"No, no no," he smiles, gazing at Jesse. "That wouldn't be fair."
"Despite no radio play, zero promotion, and the same musicians so widely and unfairly criticised in the music press, Morrissey is once again thrilled to be among the top of the charts and thanks his musicians for all their hard work and..."
Morrissey gazes pityingly towards Boz Boorer.
"... and their best efforts in creating a four minute pop gem."
"I'll email that to Julia," says Mikey.
"...I've just realised you're NOT Morrissey," says Boz Boorer. "You can't be Morrissey, sir, because everyone knows you said the itsMorrissey twitter account wasn't you, but in this parody story, sir, I notice that you seem to suggest it might have been you after all. So I conclude you aren't really Morrissey, but an imposter and liar, sire..."
"Boz I've been paying your wages for twenty years, not to mention carrying you musically and socially. I am Morrissey. We met over twenty years ago, old son. Don't you remember, Boz?"
"But you can't be Morrissey, sir, because the real Morrissey has already announced ItsMorrissey isn't him.... on True To You... and in today's parody piece you lost the suspension of disbeliefness, sir, by saying something that didn't quite tally with true to you, sir... by discussing how you'd use ItsMorrissey, even though True To You said it wasn't you at all. Now, I know True to you is Morrissey's official site, so that means you can't be Morrissey, sire, you just can't be, because Morrissey wouldn't lie...."
Boz Boorer looks deep in thought, and rather distressed.
"Have I been working for a parody for all these years? Could Rosy Mires be right after all? Am I even really in the band that's at number 83 in the British charts-"
"-Number 83, Boz?"
"Yes, sir. I tried to tell you earlier when-"
"-Did you say, number 83? "
"Yes sir."
Mikey Bracewell looks at his fingernails with a solemn expression.
Morrissey spits out into his flute with some force. Then he carefully pours the contents of the other men's flutes back into the champagne bottle, along with his expectorated champagne-infused saliva.
"Room service!" He shouts. "This bottle is corked!"
Silence.
"Room service!"
Morrissey hurls the bottle of champagne at the wall. Boz Boorer ducks. The bottle smashes, and champagne runs down the wallpaper.
"Eighty b******d three. Cancel that TTY statement. Someone will pay for this... b*****d record company... they're all the s**ding same..."
"I blame Broken, sir," says Boz. "After all, sir, if he hadn't told everyone on Morrissey solo, disguised as BrummieBoy of course, sir, how bad your new songs are, some of them might never have noticed how bad they are, sir.. and then you might have got a slightly better chart position, more fitting for your new song, sir, like forty three or something, a bit like Satan Rejected My Soul, sire, back in the 1990s, the last time you were irrelevant..."
Morrissey lunges at Boz Boorer.
(The above parody piece was submitted to FTM (with LOADS of amendments) by Morrissey on May 19 between 9am-11am (3am-5am Lincoln Nebraska time..... which obviously means that it cannot have been the real Morrissey because the real Morrissey would NEVER be up writing a parody story for a two bit fan blog at that time of day when he has a concert in the evening!)
