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Tuesday, 31 March 2015

Day 1294 - "Farewell"

Broken speaks:

"MW has been over for a while now.

All you had to do, after years of free entertainment and intimate laughs, was to get a blue rose on stage. Most of you didn't even bother taking one.

We all knew it would end this way.

Farewell."

Posted by Broken to Following The Mozziah at 30 March 2015 at 16:15

And just as the tour finishes, and Broken announces that the MorrisseysWorld is all over, Astra returns to the Twitterdilly Arms for the first time in over a month.

In response to me asking Astra if she thought that the journey was over, she replied:

"I don't make the rules around here. And Broken is right. Where were the roses?"

I responded by saying that myself and EARS had taken ours, but that I couldn't answer for the likes of George Edge, Mad Alix, Kerry, Nicole etc. I was immediately hit with tweets from the likes of George and Nicole demanding to be untagged from the conversation, stating that they want NOTHING to do with blue roses! HOW has Morrissey's original request for blue roses ended up creating such a response from his own fans? HOW?

Astra replied to my tweet with: "@TheRatsBack @AIRRAID25 Your huffing and puffing your rose counts for ten and EARS has enough roses in her heart for everyone who has none. Unfortunately it doesn't work like that."

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MORRISSEY RAISES AN EYEBROW AT THE INFLATABLE ROSE IN BOURNEMOUTH, BUT IT WASN'T ENOUGH; WE ALL FAILED TO DELIVER A BLUE ROSE

Astra's evening of tweeting was spent sharing small talk with @Orangemechanique and a few others. She also returned to tweeting about Bieber and posting BB pictures, but however great it was to see Astra back in The Arms, I personally have been left feeling quite deflated by the failure of anyone to take roses, and Broken's use of the 'f' word.

Today I have closed down my twitter account, and unless something earth shattering happens, I shall now once again take my leave.



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Monday, 30 March 2015

Day 1293 - Happy Easter (Tour Is Over)

The current leg of Morrissey's 2015 tour came to an end in Tilburg, Holland last night. Unexpectedly, Life is a Pigsty was added to the set for the first time this year, with a few of us surmising that it may have been played especially for former BRS member, Inge, who as it turns out, was unable to attend the concert.

SET:

1. WHAT SHE SAID
2. SUEDEHEAD
3. STAIRCASE
4. KISS ME A LOT
5. NEAL
6. ISTANBUL
7. CERTAIN PEOPLE
8. STOP ME
9. PARIS
10. PIGSTY
11. ONE OF OUR OWN
12. TO GIVE
13. SCANDINAVIA
14. SPEEDWAY
15. CRASHING BORES
16. BULLFIGHTER
17. MEAT
18. PEOPLE ARE THE SAME
19. WORLD PEACE
ENCORE
20. SUNDAY


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Morrissey's next scheduled concert is on April 29th in Barcelona. As for the continuation of our own little journey, who knows!

Saturday, 28 March 2015

Day 1291 - "Beauty crumbles everywhere around me. But my faith in love is still devout."

There were, of course, no blue roses at the final UK concert in Birmingham on Friday, but an announcement on TTY that Morrissey is to play in Utah in July; which will be attended by the BRS Vice President Vulgar Angie, means that the BRS isn't quite dead yet. It should be remembered that Angie has already presented Moz with a bunch of blue roses on stage, and also infamously presented Moz with the BRS ring at the Staples Center concert in LA.



VULGAR ANGIE WITH KY & THE BRS RING, PRIOR TO PRESENTING IT TO MORRISSEY

In other news, Astra has posted a couple of comments on FTM. The first was on Day 1290, where she  responded to a comment by GWO about an old doll of her mothers: "Rosebud lips. A girl alone in the dark. With only one leg. How beautiful."













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GWO'S ONE LEGGED DOLL

Astra's second comment was left on Day 1287, in response to Jaz's comment about Alf; in which Jaz quoted Astra saying, "never let a button fuck with you":

"I remember saying this. I think I remember it being when Moz Fiend temporarily lost all of her marbles, then decided to throw an enormous temper tantrum here, and then started threatening everyone left, right, left, right, straight ahead, and then slightly left of center. Never let it be said that something at FTM doesn't always keep us on our toes. Alf's a darling. But then so are you Jaz.

Always hold on to your friends. Always stick up for your friends. Hold 'em up. Stick 'em up. Feel 'em up. Eh, I just made that up. That's probably not how that one goes.

I also remember when Harrison first christened me star maiden. That one seems to have stuck like glue. I'm glad you all seemed to like that one. It was charmingly offered, I know. And lovingly accepted by me in return.

I was only here because I wanted to spread some tenderness.

I spread my tenderness, and a couple of you saw it. A couple of you wanted to touch it. And a couple of you caught it.

A couple of you wanted to touch me.
And a couple of you who tried to, did.

In the shadows like GWO's doll with rosebud lips and with no leg, my tenderness will always be here.

Right now I am in love. Almost. So tonight, I will be lighting fires with these eyes.

My eyes will light the fires, my heart will extinguish them all, and when it's all over we will all be none the wiser.

Beacons beckoning me now, lighthouse waiting, fog shifting. Beauty crumbles everywhere around me. But my faith in love is still devout.

Stigmata on my blue stained lips. Blue roses branding believers. My silent gaze follows, while beautiful, stinging thorns sweep everything away, with the ice I have instead of blood.

Silence. Shattering. Life.

Tilburg. Let's see some passion. It should be a good lay."

Posted by Astraea to Following The Mozziah at 28 March 2015 at 17:05




It is wonderful to read that Astra is in love.

Let's hope we see some passion in Tilburg, but I won't hold my breath to see a blue rose. Roll on Utah.

Friday, 27 March 2015

Day 1290 - And so, the end is near

Morrissey's mini tour of UK arenas comes to an end this evening in Birmingham, and unless there is a miracle, it will the second tour in a row where Morrissey hasn't accepted and worn a blue rose.



Is this the end of our journey, or will Morrissey surprise us all by wearing a blue rose later in the year? The problem is, despite me laboriously using the @BlueRoseSociety twitter account to try and get Moz fans to take blue roses to concerts, the only people that I am aware of that actually took one on this current tour were myself and EARS!



People have obviously noticed Morrissey wearing blue roses over the past three years, but they just don't seem to be interested in either the Blue Rose Society or the meaning of Moz wearing the rose. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEM?


There are also quite a few Moz fans who have followed this whole MorrisseysWorld story, but they too have no interest in carrying out Morrissey's request to take him a rose - WHY NOT? Morrissey has made it as obvious as he can (without giving the game away to the masses) that he wants blue roses, and yet.....


Morrissey was due to appear on the TV show Chatty Man this evening; to be interviewed and sing Kiss Me A Lot, but Moz didn't turn up for the shows' recording on Wednesday, so sadly we won't be seeing him. Morrissey used his '@AlfsButton' twitter account yesterday to state, "Deep down in your blackest of hearts, did you truly believe that I would show up?" He then added, "One had better things to do such as scrub the toilet clean." When @MadAlix14 chipped in with, "Well I'm just off to Asda", Morrissey replied, "Also a task that far outweighs appearing on Catty Man."

Alan Carr had attended Morrissey's concert in Belfast on Tuesday, so something must have happened to make Morrissey change his mind about appearing on Carr's show.

Alan Carr Chatty Man
CATTY MAN CARR - STOOD UP

To accompany the planned TV appearance, Morrissey has this week released  Kiss Me A Lot as a 'download only' single on iTunes. I guess Moz was hoping to capitalise on a television audience of 2 million people, but with the TV appearance now not happening, and with no other promotion for the single, there is no way on earth that KMAL will make the charts, especially as all the dedicated Moz fans already own it.
 It is so so wrong that this has been allowed to happen to an unbelievably good pop song, and the blame sits squarely on the shoulders of Harvest records, and in particular Steve Barnett. Roll on a new record deal.




The one bit of good news this week, is that a knitted Moz wearing a blue rose shirt has been sold, raising £175 for Hull greyhound rescue.











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Tuesday, 24 March 2015

Day 1287 - "Crash into my arms. I want you."

The twitter user who claims to be Morrissey, @AlfsButton, returned to Twitter yesterday, and asked for roses. As to whether or not his 79 followers will carry out his request, remains to be seen. Here are the highlights from his visit:

"For the first time in my life I am speechless. Britain breathes a sigh of relief."

"There are probably more important things than Twitter but I can't think of any."

At this point, I wished Moz a 'good evening' (it was 7pm), and pointed out that it was unlike AlfsButton to use full stops at the end of each tweet, as usually he leaves them unpunctuated. I wondered if this pessoa had forgotten his MO. Alf responded to my observation by saying, "Sometimes one's laziness gets on one's nerves. Good morning."








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THE TWITTER AVITAR BELONGING TO @ALFSBUTTON, THE MAN WHO CLAIMS TO BE MORRISSEY.... AND THEN DOES HIS UPMOST TO PROVE HE'S NOT!


Highlights continued:

"You could send me feelings of rejection but I've experienced them all before."

"One has picked the outfit for Alan Carr. I shall wear my blue rose with pride."

"Sorry that was meant to say blue rinse with pride."

In response to @MadAlix14 tweeting, "that means there definitely will be no blue rose, Alf isn't known for his accurate predictions": "That is the whole point."

In response to a trending Twitter hash tag of 'AskBoris': "When will you die?"

At this point, Alf contacted me by Direct Message. I won't repeat our entire conversation, but he told me that he now wants a rose. He then posted the following pictures on twitter:







I then pointed out that the most recent version of MorrisseysWorld, MorrisseysWorldStill.blogspot.com, hadn't been updated for ages. This was met with, "That is an embarrassment to the English language. One must start again..... In fact, it no longer exists."

I immediately checked the site, and it had gone! I wish I'd kept quiet!

Alf signed off with the following tweet and picture:

"Crash into my arms. I want you."




If AlfsButton really is Morrissey, then it means he is the real Morrissey, claiming to be the real Morrissey, whilst at the same time doing his damnedest to convince people that he isn't the real Morrissey! His ploy would appear to be working very successfully, because only a very small handful of people believe Alf is Morrissey, or indeed have any interest in what he tweets!


So, is Morrissey ready to accept another blue rose, and more to the point, is there anyone going to any of the final three concerts of this current tour who will take him one? From the Youtube footage that I have seen, it would appear that no roses have been offered to Morrissey at any of the past four UK concerts. It is such a shame that nobody is carrying out Morrissey's request, especially as the request was first made via the MorrisseysWorld blog four years ago, and Morrissey has actually ACCEPTED and WORN a blue rose in each of the past three years! Without making it blatantly obvious, and thus taking away the whole mystique of the BRS, what more does Morrissey have to do to prove he wants roses? The last four concerts themselves look to have been fantastic.

The final word from Alf in my DM box was, "Remember, remember. June, June, June." No doubt just another red herring!

Monday, 23 March 2015

Day 1286 - http://bluerosesociety.tumblr.com





See in me the side of you
That sometimes makes you jump with fright
Smiler with knife, it’s your big night
Sinking bed all warm and clean
Only sadness waits for me
Smiler with knife, you’re just in time
Press the blade against my skin
Never to make love again
Smiler with knife, it’s alright
Surrendered will I am before you
I am sick to death of life
Smiler with knife - alight
If such things weren’t meant to be
Then they would never come to me
Smiler, oh, don’t worry so
Slam-in one-shot gentle pain
Someone calling out my name
Sex and love are not the same
Time has frittered long and slow
All I am and was will go
But where to?
And why now?
When my last breath falls away
Smiler trust me when I say
You’ll be OK
You’ll be OK
Morrissey (“Smiler With Knife”)

Brazil

The sun blazed down from a sky of Azure silk, folded and dusty with wisps of cloud. His table was shaded by a garish green umbrella and his eyes by sunglasses that were large and black.
He gave a nonchalant signal, a barely perceptible movement of the hand, as his eye caught the waiter’s. The dark-haired lad with a gold stud in his left ear drifted over as though carried on the constant flickering breeze.
‘Can I help you sir?’ He asked with a winsome smile.
‘More coffee please,’ murmured Albrecht.
‘Coming right up sir’
The café occupied the ground floor of what was probably once a large house. It was immaculately whitewashed with large square windows and a sign above the entrance, which gave the name of the café in illuminated italics. In the brightness of day, however, the pink glow of the twisted glass tubing hardly registered. Leonid Albrecht liked to sit outside among the palms, which he thought quite pretty, and the dusty paving stones in cooling grey. The tables were on an elevated level, overlooking a swimming pool. The pool was full of tourists in the afternoons and he tried to avoid looking at it. He had been in Rio for almost a month. He had spent innumerable afternoons in Ronaldo’s, either reading or writing, or both. He was thumbing lazily through ‘The Silence of the Lambs,’ though he had already seen the film twice. His next novel, he had already decided, would be a thriller.
The waiter returned with another cappuccino and offered a sprinkling of dark chocolate flakes. He declined with a hand gesture.
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s three forty five sir,’
‘Thank you,’ he said, gazing back at the creased page of the novel he had picked up in some dusty, cheap second hand book store. ‘Oh,’ he added after sipping the coffee. ‘May I have a teaspoon of cool milk please?’
The waiter smiled helpfully and left. He returned about forty seconds later with some cold milk in a small porcelain jug. It was white, all the crockery was.
‘Thank you’
‘You’re welcome sir’
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ said Albrecht listlessly as the sun drifted out from behind a cloud, causing him to cup his fingers over his sunglasses for a moment.
‘What is it sir?’
‘Are you doing anything this evening?’
The lad looked uneasy and brushed his forearm with the back of his hand. ‘No. Why do you ask?’ His voice remained rich and strong. His dark eyes squinted in the bright light.
‘Would you like to go out for a meal?’
‘I’m sorry sir, I-’ he said, stumbling slightly in hapless broken English. ‘I have a girlfriend.’
‘That’s fine, just don’t bring her along,’ said Leonid with a faint smile on his lips.
Then he placed two twenty dollar notes on the table for the coffees. The lad regarded the money with greedy eyes. ‘Is it for me?’
‘Yes, take it’
‘Thank you sir,’ he said, glancing round before he picked it up.
‘Meet me here at seven O’clock this evening,’ said Leonid. As he spoke, he placed a twenty dollar note on the table, and then nine more in a neat pile; he took a final small sip of coffee and picked up his tatty novel. ‘I’ll see you at seven?’ he asked, raising his eyes.
‘Okay,’ replied the lad. ‘But can we meet at Sorrento’s?’
‘Yes. I’ll see you at seven’
‘Okay’
As Albrecht traipsed down the steps to the high street, the waiter shovelled up the notes with his fingers and slipped them furtively in his back pocket. The sun drifted behind a cloud and the nearby clock struck four times with its coppery ring.
Leonid Albrecht spent the late afternoon on the beach. He was twenty one years old and it seemed like the most sensible thing to do. As waves crashed in the distance and men in speedos played volleyball on the bone dry sand he simply closed his eyes and thought.

Loud jazz burbled around Sorrento’s in the twilight of a gorgeous day. A tall young man with shaved black hair styled into the shape of a small quiff was sitting forward at a wooden table outside chattering to two plump girls, gesticulating with his hands, and a scattering of others stood about with friends or perhaps acquaintances sipping cocktails. The waiter from Ronaldo’s emerged from inside, milled around the façade for a few moments and then leaned against the wall. He was wearing black leather shoes, dark trousers and a light blue shirt with the collar open.
Albrecht checked his watch. It was five past seven. As he ambled over, the lad recognised him and started towards him. They met in the middle of the street, which was quiet at that time.
‘Hey,’ said the waiter in a pleasant voice.
‘Hi, I’m Leonid’
‘I’m Paulo.’
‘I’m glad to meet you properly Paulo. I hope you like French food.’
‘I do, I really do.’
As they strolled along the shop fronts, traffic rumbled by; there sounded the yap of a hungry street dog, faint laughter and chuntering voices. Street lamps buzzed and threw off an amber glare. As they turned silently into a dimly-lit avenue, Paulo looked at Leonid.
‘What is it that you do?’ he asked as they continued down the road.
‘I’m a writer,’ replied Leonid breezily. ‘I write novels.’
‘What kind of novels?’
‘Well,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m writing my fourth at the moment. It’s a thriller.’
‘You’ll have to show me,’ replied Paulo casually. Then he flicked a coin up with his thumb and caught it. ‘But tell me, what do you do for money?’
‘Writing is my job. My third novel sold a few million copies.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty one’
‘It’s incredible. Is it why you always wear those? So you aren’t-’ he said, pointing to his shades. ‘-how you say, recognised?’
Albrecht laughed. ‘If anyone in Rio recognises me, it’s probably for an unpaid restaurant bill.’
‘But you’re a famous writer,’ he remonstrated with a flick of the wrist and a jocular smile. ‘You must get some people wanting your signature in the street, you know.’
‘It has happened before, especially in London. But when they look at the autograph they mostly say they thought I was somebody else.’
‘Like who?’ asked Paulo innocently.
‘The American tourist/Prince William thing happens sometimes. And, of course, any young boy in sunglasses runs the risk of being misidentified as Posh Spice’
‘That’s funny,’ said Paulo.
‘It’s not funny for Posh Spice. She’s sick of being told to wipe her nose.’

The meal was delicious. Both lads gaily immersed themselves in each other’s company. They both had a starter and a main course. They shared a magnum of champagne. Leonid found out Paulo was twenty four, an only son and hoped to be an actor. He liked James Dean, listened to thrash metal and did not like television. Paulo found out little about Leonid, but they did chat about his best-selling novel, which the author insisted was not his best work, and discovered they both liked ‘Brighton Rock’ by Graham Greene. Paulo resolved sincerely to pick up the novel and give it a read. At ten O’clock Leonid led Paulo into his suite. It occupied four rooms in one of Rio’s most elegant hotels. The view through the window was of the ocean. The sky was a morass of black velvet and faint stars. Paulo stepped gingerly into the centre of the reception room behind Leonid, looking unimpressed.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ murmured Paulo. He seemed a little unsure of himself now. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.
‘Well it’s really quite simple,’ replied Leonid gently. ‘But I want you to think carefully about it and not simply reject my suggestion.’
‘What suggestion?’ he asked.
‘Paulo I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I like you, and I hope we can be friends. But I also want something else from you, as I’m sure you realise.’
‘You want me to sleep with you’
‘I want you to rape me,’ he said quite gently. He gazed softly into Paulo’s dark eyes. They winced a little.
‘Rape?’
‘Yes, I’m sure you know what it is’
‘I do,’ replied Paulo without any sarcasm.
‘Here’s what I’d like,’ said Leonid quite calmly. ‘I’ll get showered and you will sit in here as you are. In exactly thirty minutes you’ll come to my bedroom and rape me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. I-’ he stuttered. ‘I think so.’
‘Good. If I beg you to stop, whatever I say and however I say it, you make it more violent. It has to seem real. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. How much will you pay me?’
‘How much do you want?’
‘One thousand dollars,’ he replied with in a tense voice, brushing back his hair.
‘Okay. I think you’ll enjoy it, maybe next time you’ll do it for free’
‘You think?’
‘I hope so’

The following afternoon Leonid was just finishing ‘The Silence of the Lambs.’ He was sitting in Ronaldo’s wearing a tight white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His coffee was cold and his head ached a little more than usual. His shades were perched on his button nose.
As he read the final paragraph, he smiled and placed the book down on the table. He gazed up. Paulo was wiping a table. Leonid gave a hand signal. Paulo came to him just the same as ever.
‘What can I do for you sir?’
Leonid stood up. As he turned to leave he casually dropped a $20 note on the table and whispered, ‘Seven O’clock, at the main entrance of the hotel.’
‘Yes,’ murmured the waiter without returning his gaze.

As he sat at the bar on the beach front supping cocktails, he could think only of what had happened the previous night. He stepped out of the bar and wandered over to the sand. It felt heavy under his toes. Stripping off self-consciously, he cast his clothes down in a messy heap and strolled in white speedos over to the sea, which lapped coolly against the sand. He walked just by the water’s edge, getting his toes and his soles wet. He saw children playing and a bunch of youths in a dinghy. Then he found an empty stretch and swam for a few minutes.

At seven O’clock he walked with Paulo back up to his suite without saying a word. Once inside he offered him a drink, and this time Paulo asked for a glass of Pepsi. Leonid smiled.
‘Coke OK?’
‘Yes, thank you’
He poured a Coca-Cola with ice and a Baileys on the rocks for himself, with a splash of chocolate milkshake from the refrigerator.
They sat down together on the cream leather sofa in the reception room with their drinks. Just then Leonid pointed the remote control at the large television in front of them.
‘Watch this,’ he said, taking a sip of Bailey’s.
‘What is it?’ asked Paulo.
Grainy images shot on a cheap video camera answered his question. Paulo acting out last night’s fantasy. His muscles were contorted by the sheer physicality of the acts he was performing and his facial expression was quite extraordinary – cruel and brutal. He felt a curious sense of satisfaction as he watched himself, as though immersed in some remarkable acting performance, but this soon gave way to erotic excitement.
Leonid slipped to the floor like a deliberately dropped handkerchief and knelt at his feet. Their eyes met; but the images drew Paulo’s gaze back like a moth to the flame. Leonid opened up his trousers without a hint of protest. Paulo’s large, serious eyes did not leave the screen as he reclined lazily and held his right hand like a crab on its back, his thumb sticking right out. At last he threw his head back and closed his eyes, groaning from the base of his spine.
A couple of hours later they lay side by side on the bed, naked on top of the Jasmine-scented linen. Leonid Albrecht was smoking a cigarette with his feet parted, closer at the heels, and Paulo was resting on his back with his eyes closed. Leonid tapped the cigarette ash into his hand and dropped it sharply into the ashtray by the bed. He marvelled at Paulo’s exhausted body lying there beside him, glistening in the artificial light. He loved the way that big body looked when it rested: unguarded and vulnerable like a lion snoozing.
Leonid took a long shower under the three shower heads, which were on the hottest setting. He stood there like a statue with his spindly fingers hands resting on the back of his head amidst the scentless spray. He gave a sad smile. As the water seeped between his lips and splashed about the floor in big hot gulps, a few tears fell and swirled among the hot water and bubbles over the cold marble floor.

Those wild coke-fuelled eyes burning simultaneously with hatred and lust; the whispered abuse in Portuguese; the big clenched fist pressed heavily against his nose, or otherwise against the floor or the mattress - these things filled Leonid’s dreams now, like a cat silently stalking some innocent bird, driven by a need that transcends all else. He was compelled to continue playing with Paulo by something that he did not quite understand. Paulo’s boyish face aged just a little in those first days, and that lucid smile faded into something more complex, drained of vitality perhaps but imbued with luxurious sensuality. Leonid told himself nobody changes that quickly and he decided Paulo had merely been unmasked. It was hard to believe the benign lad who waited tables at Ronaldo’s with effortless, inarticulate charm had accomplished sexually all that he had done.
As the weeks passed, Leonid Albrecht continued visiting the café. They would behave as though nothing had happened between them and they did not know each other. Leonid would deliver his orders with the cool precision which characterised his speech. Paulo would respond diligently to all requests with immaculate manners and a warm smile. Every night without exception Paulo would arrive at the suite, meeting Leonid at a time agreed the previous day. They hardly spoke except when they greeted each other and, of course, to arrange the next session. Occasionally ‘Vauxhall and I’ by Morrissey would swirl gracefully about the suite. At the end they would kiss and Leonid would hand over another thousand dollars in cash; Paulo would say thank you and leave unceremoniously. There seemed no point in saying anything else. No point at all. Their actions said everything quite succinctly.
During the days Leonid would write in cafes, or on a bench by the sea, and occasionally holed up in his hotel suite, undressed with a glass of champagne and some olives. The spare, terse prose flowed creamily like full bodied French red. He sighed periodically at the beauty he had so carefully mapped out during those stolen moments, like a navigator plotting an improbable route through an impassable and treacherous land. Some heroically athletic body on the beach or a blissfully white sun, or perhaps an imagining of what Paulo might do to him next would trigger a kind of mental equation with perfect symmetry, and the result would be a new twist in the plot or a rare magical adjective. And the evenings, of course, were spent with wondrous, cruel Paulo. At night Albrecht would sleep soundly in the large double bed which would often smell of Paulo’s semen, damp and warm like a rainforest. That scent came to comfort him like warm milk at bedtime.
Paulo would do such things as would cause Leonid’s eyes to fill with hollow tears; for they were tears of physical suffering rather than of sorrow. Albrecht was not sure of this distinction, but he believed it to be thus; not least because the physical suffering seemed to cleanse his sadness. He began to feel content for the first time, smug even. He felt appreciated and adored. He was happy.
The pain bonded them tightly. The shared depravity, like blood rituals or killing, meant there were ties between them which could not easily be undone. It was true that Paulo had been the violent one, always, but Leonid had procured him for the task, had rewarded every transgression with pleasure and money. It was romantic too, in its own strange way: Paulo’s fingers would interlock with his lover’s slender fingers as they forgot momentarily about the studied cruelty, or Leonid would hear Paulo’s heart thumping against his chest wall like a military drum. They would pass like the brief episodes of rain in Rio. One of them inflicted and the other was inflicted upon. It was tantalising and entirely wrong, and both knew it. It filled their hearts and it choked their thoughts. It seemed more important than the rest of life.
Paulo always looked tired these days; and he always smelled freshly showered and doused in cologne. Eventually he quit his job as a waiter. He did not need to work anymore. Leonid missed him at the café and encouraged him to return, but he did not. Instead he got a tattoo on his chest, which ran up to his left shoulder with its interlocking greens, reds and blues. When Leonid’s pink lips first kissed that inky skin one evening, as though it were some precious religious symbol, Paulo got more. Each was done according to some inexplicable law book of sexual chemistry. A spider’s web appeared on his neck, swooping down to his collarbone, a red rose on the left ankle, butterfly over the groin, and scorpion between his shoulder blades.
His days and his nights had become utterly devoted his new role. He had his head shaved so that it was like suede, and he allowed a little stubble to flower on his chin. He looked a bit rougher. The stubble seemed to Leonid to represent a kind of perfected masculinity, just as carnations at a funeral indicate death. And Paulo lifted weights and rowed for hours each day in the gym, a drag made bearable only by thoughts of the pleasure it might bring; he ate more lean meat and less fat; he wore better aftershave; and he began to wear a black leather jacket, shades and dog tags, inscribed with the words ‘You Need It’ One evening as they showered together in silence, Paulo wrapped his arms around Leonid’s slender waist like a pair of great hungry pythons and whispered that he had dumped his girlfriend. Leonid said nothing, but he turned and nuzzled his nose onto his lover’s hot wet neck. He knew what the effect would be, and so it was. And he adored it.
Paulo’s masculinity evolved endlessly in the squalid blackness of those violent evenings, like a fungus that had always been there, simply waiting and waiting for the opportunity to sprout and multiply. He came to dominate his lover ever more completely as the days went by. In transforming himself into someone else’s fantasy fuck, Paulo was altered both mentally and physically. His skin turned paler and cooler as he grew familiar with brutality, cocaine and exquisite pleasures. His face seemed sharper, chiselled and dashing. His eyes looked black by now and seemed to pass through to the back of his skull like deep wells of crude oil; his demeanour became languid and masterful; and his smile took on a cynical twist.
He knew he could do anything at all to Leonid; fresh lusts formed like condensation, they took a hold of him and he acted them out slavishly and without question. Leonid would only adore him the more for doing it, whatever it might be. As crescendos of dark pleasure flooded into great waves one balmy evening, Paulo’s soft, smug laughter echoed about the shower like a terrible childhood memory. He stood tall over his victim with bulky arms folded, grinning self-assuredly; Leonid swooned, kissing Paulo’s large wet feet with his soft lips as the hot water rained down upon his face like nectar. He decided this must be heaven. He closed his eyes and wished to God the moment would last forever.

The following morning Leonid Albrecht remained in bed. He did not go down for breakfast, nor did he request breakfast in bed. He lay with his eyes closed and tried to think. Something about last night’s adventure had shaken him. He felt fidgety and angry, and he did not know why. He reached over to the bedside cabinet of polished mahogany, and slid open the top drawer. There was his notepad.
‘What have I done?’ he scrawled.
And then he went back to sleep.

Paulo arrived at seven. He was wearing boots, jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket, all in black. The hotel staff knew by now who he was, though they were too discreet to acknowledge this fact, and they simply ignored him as he waited at the lift. The lift operator took him to the top floor without comment or facial gesture.
Paulo knocked on Leonid’s door, and slipped his hand into his pocket. They exchanged muted greetings. Paulo immediately took a seat and waited to be offered a drink.
‘Paulo we need to talk,’ murmured Leonid.
‘About what?’ replied the Brazilian, repeatedly flicking a coin up in the air with his thumb, as was his habit.
‘The time has come when you have to decide what you want,’ said Leonid. He was wearing only a freshly laundered white dressing gown as he stroked his neck softly and glazed pensively into the distance. ‘You can take $50 000 and we’ll never meet again,’ he said in a low voice without detectable emotion. ‘Or you can continue to see me but I won’t pay you.’
Paulo stopped flicking the coin and looked surprised. ‘You’re serious?’
‘You have to decide now’
‘You want to see if I’m only doing it for the money?’
Leonid did not comment. He merely gazed at the floor.
Paulo stood up and came closer. ‘You’re crazy, Leo. You’re crazy. It’s not the money, it’s you. You’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful boy I’ve seen.’
Leonid said nothing. He turned and walked to the bar, before pouring himself a Bailey’s. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘Yeah I’d like coke,’ said Paulo. He moved up behind his lover, placing his fingertips onto his abdomen and sliding them in one soft motion up to his chest. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘It’s you, you, you. I’ll give you the money back if you want,’ he flicked his tongue into the lad’s ear. Then he growled sensually: ‘You got that?’
‘So that is your decision?’ asked Leonid coldly. He sipped his Bailey’s, winced slightly and reached into the fridge for the chocolate milkshake.
‘Don’t pay me, yes that’s my decision. Let’s stay together, or maybe even move in together.’
There was no milkshake left, so he added a little milk and sugar. ‘Yes, let’s,’ murmured Leonid as he stirred his drink. ‘Let’s move in together.’
Paulo shuffled in behind him and pressed his jeans against Leonid’s bum. He was already hard.
‘I want you more each night,’ he whispered, biting his lover’s earlobe. ‘Leonid, you know I think I love you.’
Leonid froze. ‘Love? You think what you’re doing to me is love,’ he stated with Paulo’s hands encircling his neck and shoulders and his lover’s wet lips pursed against his flesh.
‘Yes, it’s love,’ whispered Paulo. Then he stopped, realising his lover was angry at something. ‘Did I go too far yesterday?’ he asked sweetly.
‘No, you didn’t go far enough,’ Leonid replied. Then he paused and went on. ‘I’ll offer you $200 000’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll offer you $200 000 if you leave’
Paulo stood up and brushed his short velvety hair. ‘Why do you want me to leave you?’
‘I didn’t say I want you to leave. I’m just offering you $200 000 to do so.’
‘I won’t take it,’ replied Paulo instantly.
‘$500 000’
Paulo was angry. He turned and walked off, kicked a chair with his boot. It shot forward but did not flip over. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he spat.
‘$500 000, take it or leave it.’
Paulo sat down. He looked like he was thinking. Leonid studied his face in the mirror and could see he was interested now. Half a million was a lot of money to a Brazilian waiter. It was also a lot to him.
‘Are you serious?’ asked the lad, standing up again. He wiped his face with both hands. ‘Fuck it,’ he smiled quite suddenly. ‘I know what you’re doing.’ He grabbed Leonid by the hair and yanked his head round, gazing into his eyes and raising an eyebrow. ‘You want me to be angry. You want me to fuck you even better, right?’
‘No, I want you to fuck off, and I’m trying to spare your feelings. But it’s your decision.’
‘You bitch,’ Paulo smiled, pushing himself against his friend’s body and ripping off his dressing gown. His eyes were burning and his trousers were already down by his ankles.

An hour later Paulo was lying in the bath tub with a knife through his aorta, exsanguinating in a state of semi-consciousness. His blood flowed thick and fast down the plughole until he stopped breathing; after this only a few squirts of increasingly watery blood shot out of the stab wound, heralding cardiac arrest. He lay there with his eyes open and his mouth ajar, dead. Leonid Albrecht sat in his chair, observing the body from a distance and smoking quite calmly.

(published on August 24th 2011 on www.morrisseysworld.blogspot.com)

 When the blood runs, the white rose becomes a red rose. 
Log Lady (October 9th 2011)


     Ten US dates for Morrissey will be announced this coming Monday. 
    Morrissey (August 19th 2011)


       Right I’m off now. […] I have […] a US tour to plan. 
      Our Mozzer (August 13th 2011)

         Naturally my birth almost kills my mother, for my head is too big, … 
        Morrissey (“Autobiography”, 2013)

         And thence, as though from another world entirely, emerges… Steven Patrick Morrissey. His jaw wouldn’t quite slide out, of course, necessitating a forceps delivery; … 
        Our Mozzer (“Excerpt from the Autobiography”, 2011)

         It took me a while to pump up the bus fares to come to Miami, but a slight saving here, and a slight saving there, and here I am… 
        Morrissey

         With any luck I won’t even have to cancel an encore to save on lighting costs, which you may recall one was forced to do in 2011 on financial grounds… 
        Our Mozzer

         Beautiful people don’t know they’re beautiful. Ugly people know it only too well. 
        Our Mozzer


           I am NOT Morrissey. 
          Our Mozzer

           I would like to stress that I do not have either a Twitter or a Facebook account. I gather that a Twitter account has been opened in my name - as ‘It’s Morrissey’ - but it is NOT Morrissey. 
          Morrissey (May 15th 2014)

           Morrissey would like to stress that he has absolutely no affiliation with the site called Morrisseysworld, and that the views expressed on Morrisseysworld blog and Twitter page are not Morrissey’s views, and do not come from Morrissey. Morrissey has no connection with this site. Please beware. 
          Morrissey (September 14th 2011)


           Morrissey has no connection with the site called Morrisseysworld.blogspot. Whoever is on this site/page claiming to be Morrissey is certainly NOT Morrissey. Please be warned. Thank you. 
          Morrissey (August 19th 2011)

           Morrissey would like it known that the site known as Morrisseysworld.blogspot is fake. Morrissey has no connection with the site and is therefore not the author of anything written on the site. 
          Morrissey (May 14th 2011)





                   I don’t even know if I exist offstage. 
                  Morrissey

                   The best mysteries are made never to be solved. Mystery is the soul of art, just as certainty is the soul of science. 
                  Our Mozzer

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