My Booky Wook 2 (25 page)

From: MorrisseySent: 26 May 2008 00:02:57To: RussellSubject: RustleThank you for your y-fronts. It was only a matter of time.Thanks to Sharon Stone for the candle - tell her to ask for Jeff Turner when she’s next back at the Peacock gym.I hope you can drum up at least one new joke for tonite’s show - do your best, anyway.Bucket’s full of luv to you MOZZERREY.

The Sharon Stone to whom he refers is of course my beloved Sharon, whom once at dinner in LA he sat listening to spellbound as she forensically discussed her routine attendance of a south London boxing club, a topic I’d brilliantly raised knowing it would pique Moz’s interest. He sat rapt as she fine-tooth-combed her way through the details. “You know in Peckham Rye, up Asylum Road?” Morrissey nodded. “Well, Peacock’s Gym is up Hangman’s Lane … you heard of it?” Morrissey smiled with acknowledgement. “If you go a bit past the bus depot” … he continued to smile ... “there’s a lovely pie and mash shop – do you know it?” Morrissey sighed, “Well, I don’t know about a pie and mash shop; I lead a very busy life.” He just changed the rules of the conversation in an instant. Before detail had been all, but now, spying a wry giggle, the game changed. MORRISSEY!!!!

My response …

From: RussellSent: 26 May 2008 12:15:44To: MorrisseySubject: Moz defThe show was a triumph. The new joke knocked em bandy.I think I may’ve made a mistake with the y-fronts, my mojo might’ve been contained in there; I feel their absence like an amputated limb. I’m like a eunuch who’s still got his unmentionables but doesn’t know where to put em - they’re ornamental now. But what fine trinkets.Your new record is fantastic; it feels like the summit of a trilogy or the centre of a triptych, whichever suits, regardless it is a marvellous evolution of its two predecessors.Oh well... what’ll I give you next year? The mind boggles.xxx Branded for life

This next – regarding our plans for the documentary – is a beautiful example of his sense of humour and puts the kibosh once and for all upon those who would dub him a misery guts.

From: MorrisseySent: 03 November 2007 21:42:07To: RussellSubject: Branded for lifeRussell dingle:my idea (which is piles better than yours) was Russell Dingle & The Morrissey Band adrift on a small boat off the coast of Central America with just one cameraperson and a week’s supply of Mini-wheats. there would be many nail-biting questions for telly-viewers throughout Nuneaton:who will throw russell overboard first?what will russell wear?who IS russell, anyway?why do we in Nuneaton deny our love for Morrissey?and so on. Sensationally, M. ps / I am now in South Carolina. You’d have a bit of trouble here, I fancy.

I love that one. He called me “Russell Dingle” as he is a fan of the rural teatime British soap Emmerdale. I once asked him why this was, and he said, “Because it’s brief.”

If Morrissey asks you a favour it’s like Suge Knight offering you a cigar – you’re concerned about the possible outcome but what choice do you have?

Morrissey asked me for a favour. He wanted me to interview him as an “extra” on his album at the time, Years of Refusal. I said yes. Then he asked if we could use the Sunset View house as a location, and again I said yes. Don’t let your house be used as a film location under any circumstances except perhaps if your childhood hero is behind the request. Film crews will treat your house as a set, move stuff, smoke and fart and do as they see fit. You only have to observe the way location crews behave on city streets, blocking the roads to film, holding up traffic, not letting people carry on with their daily lives – shushing them. When I see one I make a point of barging past the shot. “I live in this fucking city!” I shout, or think (depending on the size of the crew). “Your pretend film is not as important as my real life!”

Imagine that in your house. Only Morrissey could make it worthwhile. He entered after his horde; only the make-up lady was welcome other than himself on account of arriving with some massive boobs. Morrissey perused the house. I perused his make-up lady’s boobs; that is the miracle of big boobs, they remain interesting above all else. I have stared over the shoulder of enlightenment to get a butcher’s at a cleavage. I would eschew a drink from the Holy Grail to see some knockers wobble. Morrissey spied the portrait of him above the fireplace. “Is that weird?” I asked, but he didn’t seem to think so, he is acclimatised to devotion. We strolled upstairs and there was a girl in my bed. Morrissey was polite, she was probably a bit too young to be impressed (by Morrissey I mean, I’d already put on a dazzling display of sex-robatics). That is one of the problems of the widening gulf between me and my quarry, the reference disparity. I once took a gorgeous floosie for a wander round Abbey Road where Oasis were recording a tribute to Sgt. Pepper. I was with David Arnold, the great composer and oddball who was arranging my soon-to-be ridiculed cover of “When I’m Sixty-Four” (which me and David maintain is brilliant in spite of Noel’s relentless abuse). David gave me the direction that I ought sing it as if I were a contemporary Paul McCartney looking out of his window, all frail. I thought it was haunting. FUCK NOEL!!! David by way of politeness began to tell the young lady of Abbey Road’s history. “This is where the Beatles used to record, you know the Beatles of course?” She looked at him like a cat watching a tennis match. “I’ve heard of them,” she said vaguely. The way I’ve heard of GG Allin or Plushies, esoteric oddities at the outskirts of my interest. She made up for it though later when knowledge of pop music plummeted down the charts and orgasm rocketed in translucent shards to the top of the hit parade.

I interviewed Morrissey in the only non-leather chairs in the house in front of the fireplace, having removed the portrait of him in case it looked too staged. For a man who’d requested the interview Morrissey was incredibly uncooperative. Interviewing him is like a blustery old colonel trying to cajole his pretty young wife into fellatio. He may not have seemed incredibly grateful at the time (grateful is hardly a word one associates with Morrissey), but the next day he sent me a beautiful basket of fruit. The grapes formed a glorious centrepiece in an orgy I was involved with that day, inspiring the unforgettable line “I can’t believe I’ve had a Morrissey grape in my ass!” I informed him of this titbit via email. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” he responded.

Friendship with Morrissey, though, hasn’t been all fan worship and arse fruit. There have been challenging times due to his fastidiousness and ability to control me. Obviously this chapter had to be sent to Moz for approval as I would never dare offend him. What follows is his emailed response to our mutual friend Jen Ivory.

From: MorrisseySent: 03 June 2010 13:58To: JenSubject: Rustle -vs- Lord M, Supreme Court Divisionjivory:I don’t like my emails being reprinted. I’d feel as if I’d been interfered with by the Romford Kiddie-fiddler.I don’t like being referred to as “The Queen”, especially by a man who wears make-up, has ringlettjes and wears eye-gouging rings on each of his 12 fingers. I don’t mind “Monarchy”.I don’t like being referred to as “Her Majesty”; I’d accept His Misery.I didn’t refer to Rustle’s assistant as “Sharon Stone” - I called her “Sharon Stoned”, which is much funnier. Trust Rustle to pear-down my sharpness in order to make his own Bargain Hunt jokes sparkle.The Peacock Gym is in East London, NOT South London.Sharon Stoned was referring to Peckham and Asylum Road as directions to her OWN house, NOT to the Peacock gym. Rustle is OBVIOUSLY back on the Bulmer’s, or else his memory is a shaky as his legs.“Then he asked if we could use the Sunset View house as a location.”What! I was TOLD that this is where the filming would be. I don’t go around asking people if I can film in their houses. What is this -Cash In The Attic?“If you know anything of Morrissey you’ll know it is not unusual for him to ... disappear during a gig,” ... oh really? such as ... when? and how exactly do I “disappear”?Through icy fog?Finally, Rustle KNOWS I’d walk over hot coals to read at his funeral ... I mean, to do ANYTHING he requires, but let decorum and dignity be today’s watchwords, otherwise I’ll set the pugs loose. Please give him these notes, and my undying love. thanks

M

This eloquent evisceration demonstrates the price of my devotion almost as clearly as one disastrous night in London, to which he refers.

I went to see him perform at the Roundhouse in Camden, a cool venue that I’d played not long before and the only place in England the Doors ever played – plus the Ramones did it too. Surprisingly Morrissey’s shows have a disproportionately high yob fraternity in attendance. I think a certain kind of working-class male have Moz as their only emotional outlet, along perhaps with football. That night I was there with a pretty young woman who’d never heard of the Smiths, causing the revaluation of my life to become a more pressing priority, but not yet, for now the hedonism was sufficient distraction still. In attendance along with the yobs and the wistful were an impressive selection of British celebrities. I was sat quite near Little Britain star and long-time friend David Walliams (who, in spite of incessantly ribbing, I adore on account of his beautiful heart which he keeps in his oafish chest), David Baddiel (who was one of my favourite comics as a teenager and who is now one quarter of my idealised domestic template), and further along the row I saw dear Jonathan Ross.

If you know anything of Morrissey you’ll know it is not unusual for him to cancel gigs or disappear during them. We his fans accept this as part of his genius and a price worth paying. On this evening, three songs in, with all looking well and the mic cable swooshing like a good ’un, M’s voice began to falter, crack and finally toppled like Saddam’s Baghdad statue. So off he went, a bit like Saddam. Also like Saddam it would be bloody difficult to persuade him to return. The yobs grew restless. Boz Boorer, lead guitar, and the rest of Morrissey’s band shuffled about like a football team trying to compensate for the sending off of a star player, but if Rooney’s been sent off you can’t plug the hole by getting Boz Boorer to drift upfield and play with his back to goal; he doesn’t have the pace. The band looked at each other and wondered what to do, the yob rumble grew louder. Walliams leaned over. “You know what,” he whispered, “you should go up there and do stand-up.”

“Fuck off!” I said, in spite being the kind of attention-seeking missile who’d love to explode into that war zone.

Jen Ivory, Moz’s mate and safety net, was sat behind us and overheard. “You know what, that’s not a bad idea.” It was a bad idea. “I’ll go up if you come,” I said to Walliams.

“Alright. Let’s ask Jonathan.”

David B wisely swerved it but Jonathan said, “Yeah alright, it should be a laugh,” an attitude he was employing a bit too freely.

So we agreed, the three of us would go up and make the announcement. I saw a flicker of relief betrayed on Jen’s face as the four of us (David B came to gawk from the wings) made our way from the seats and to the backstage area. I felt we were like vainglorious musketeers marching to a well-choreographed battle. What we actually were was dickheads.

I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred the awful dread that rose in my guts as the three of us walked on to that stage into a storm of boos and bottles. Never has the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger” ever seemed so poignant. They slaughtered us, as if they sensed the motivating vanity behind the altruistic veneer. It’d been a long time since I’d been jeered on stage, even the VMA audience had the courtesy to be silent, but these derisive cries took me back to the terrible time when the sound that now drowned me was as familiar as the sound of my own heartbeat. Jonathan made a quick announcement but the crowd wanted only two things: either Morrissey or blood, and Morrissey wasn’t coming back. I tried to lighten things up with a few jokes, using my experience with dealing with hostile crowds – they were not buying. In the back of my mind I remembered the beautiful girl I was there with and burned with a further circle of shame. Walliams was struck with a bottle top and went down like JFK – that was probably the only good thing that came from the whole god-awful experience.

Morrissey later thanked me and offered the words, “You may be a whiz on Opportunity Knocks* but that doesn’t mean you can play any audience.”

I learned a painful lesson that night. Don’t go on to a stage if your name isn’t on the bill. Also that the crowd can turn as fast and as fierce as the tide. Beware the wrath of the masses, beware the rage of the mob.

* A popular Seventies talent show – a beige X Factor.

†

He’s from Barcelona

It was the biggest media event since Princess Diana died. An event that received as much news coverage as the mysterious death of the most famous woman in the world. When it happened it was blown up like 9/11. It was on the front page of every newspaper, every day, for almost a month. Every television news broadcast opened with the story. Twenty-four-hour rolling news channels rolled with the news for twenty-four hours. It was analysed, debated and contested by an entire nation. Even the country’s leader, the Prime Minister, was involved when it was discussed in the Houses of Parliament. What was it? A prank phone call. And who done it? I did.

Meredith, the acupuncturist in London who I visit in her electronic hermitude, would in less enlightened times have been burned as a witch. Once she told me that within me I have a supernova black hole of destructive energy. She said that the magnetism within was so powerful that people and things around me would need to be powerfully centred or they’d be sucked in and destroyed. I took that to be a metaphysical endorsement of my charisma, I didn’t realise it could have such material and far-reaching consequences.

Back in England, bruised from the VMAs, all I wanted was simple familiarity. The radio show had become one of the constants in my life, a pleasant routine that had abided for several years where me and my mates would together produce and perform a show. Made by Vanity Projects, it was ours, which gave us control. Plus Lesley Douglas, the all-powerful controller of the station, loved me so I was indulged like the world’s naughtiest little boy. The show had a loyal audience of around a million people, some listening live, many more listening to the podcasts on iTunes, which was rare on Radio 2, whose listeners are traditionally older. In fact Radio 2, within the BBC, a proud and traditional organisation, is perhaps the most respectable and professional outlet.