Friday Bang Fuck

Friday Bang Fuck

Wake up

Bang Fuck Friday

It your time today

Friday Bang fuck

Overwhelming regret

Never felt so good

I want some Friday

In my cereal.

That’s right

Friday Bang Fuck

Dead celebrities

Make me smile

Bill Murray makes me want

Makes me want to dine

In your restaurant chain

Uncork that wine

Terrorize conventional thought

It’s ok

Get on your pyjamas

Go to court

Who gives a fuck

What you wear to fucking court?

Do it like MJ

Friday Friday

Friday Bang Fuckin

Friday bang fuckin’ your face

I am a pigeon

Shitting on you the Prime Minister

Bang Fuck

I want to shit on the President

Bang fuck his face

Friday Bang Fuck

That's right

Heal heal heal

Like a 10 minute microwavable meal

Friday bang fuck

Friday bang fuckin’ your beautiful ears

It’s Friday

Bang fuck time.

-------------

that was poem by Mojo

Wank in my mind

To shit or not to shit, that is the question.

Having a shit is one of the greatest things in the world. People put there noses up at it and say things like "how vile!" and "he's a no-good ragamuffin that Mojo." And they are right but they need to realise EVERY HUMAN SHITS!

This is great news of course for people like me who love to shit. Poo comes out of everyones arse! It's a Poo-Poo Revolution! I don't endorse the fetishization of defaecation but everyone should enjoy dropping the kids off at the pool. However the other day I was struck by the gravest dilemma a man ever has to face. I had to attend an important meeting and when I got to this other office I was walking like a pregnant dinosaur with gout as I tried to hold in the most beautiful poo I had ever created. Yes, I couldn't see the poo but I knew, by God, it was beautiful.

I shook hands with the guy with the tie called Mike and asked where the toilets were. He just smiled and said "use the en-suite baby". He pointed over his shoulder while my lower lip quivered nervously. To shit or not to shit? That was my question. My bowels rumbled and the MOJO POO VESUVIUS would soon wipe out the world. I didn't want to use the en-suite as I knew Mike "the Tie" would hear my screams and my cries of ecstasy and possibly banish me from the United Kingdom out of disgust. I weighed up my options and instead I said "I need to make a quick call first." I ran awkwardly out of the building and I swore never to return. My "quick call" lasted approximately a whole afternoon and it was the most spectacular afternoon I had ever spent running through town desparately searching for a toilet. Finally I found a toilet in a Public Drinking House and the rest is history. I don't like to reveal what happened but it was bliss. Afterwards I felt like a dear friend had departed and I weeped into my Sarsparilla as "Bar Stool" Goopy and " Pool table" Mick and Mack laughed at my anal tale of sweet delight.

I didn't know where I was going to go from here. I needed an angel to save me from this world. I live a regrettable life.

---- the end-----

I would like to dedicate this blog to Marvin the Marshmallow in apology for shitting in his toilet and forgetting to flush. He didn't banish me from the U.K. but I have to wear an electronic tag to track my every move so that I never poo within 3 miles of his house.

Lunch with Mojo

Lunch is fucking cla. Look at Obam-bam there....his popularity in the polls is decreasing but he's just had some lunch and he's going out there to fuck that Tea Party up. He fucking loves lunch plus hes thinking "Who are all these wankers? I just came for a quiet pint at my local boozer and these cunts showed up."

Yeah, lunch is great. For two years though I used to find lunch a total misery. I worked in the Mournes and I used to go to lunch with my boss every day. Now, we didn't work on Wall Street...we worked in THE MOURNES. He used to buy the Irish News and talk endlessly about the local deaths. He usually just made grunts. I loved him more than any man I ever met. In a little room in the middle of the mournes whilst the rain was pouring down outside on a dark November day we sat down for lunch.......

My boss = Ah, are you right?
Mojo = Aye, fuckin' shit day
My boss = aye
Mojo = what about you?

[silence]

My boss = (sigh) aye
Mojo = aye

[silence]

Mojo = you know I'm getting fucking sick of ham sandwiches. They're shite.
My boss = aye
Mojo = aye, wile bad craic like.

[silence]

[more silence]

My boss = awh......
Mojo = Wha?
My boss = awh no
Mojo = what's wrong?
My boss (whilst looking at the Irish news)=wee paddy fitzpatrick is dead .I must tell Mariead
Mojo = who's that?
My boss = wee Paddy?
Mojo = yeah, did you know him?
My boss = He's married to wee Margaret's cousin Gene.
Mojo = Who's Margaret
My boss = she's the lovely wee lady who passess the basket around at mass.
Mojo = ........................................................ oh. Did you know her?
My boss = aye, she gave me the basket last week.................. I was in the aisle seat. Paddy wasn't there though
Mojo = .....wile sad that...... it's always a shock
My boss = aye....poor Paddy....fucking wile sad

[silence]

[more silence]

[even more silence]

Mojo = What's it like living in the Mournes ?
My boss = Wha?
Mojo = You know the Mournes?
My boss = awh it's good like.
Mojo = fuck all is happening though
My boss = aye I know...but its good...look at the scenery........it's better than fucking Newry. That's one shithole! Ha ha!
Mojo = What? I like NEwry.
My boss = You're just saying that because you live there....
Mojo = I know.
My boss = you're a cunt
Mojo = fuck off you're a cunt.
My boss = Ah look....... Castlewellan are playing mayobridge at the weekend......big game!
Mojo = aye, that's a big one
My boss = aye
Mojo = Wile craic like

[Silence]

My boss = [grunt]

[more silence]

[rustling of paper]

My boss = back to work...c'mon ya cunt.

Mojo = shite


And that was my life every day for two years.


=============== the end =======

Mojo

The best thing you can do tomorrow

I'm just sitting listening to Glen campbell's version of "Wichita Lineman" and planning my tomorrow. It is a warm blanket of a song. It reminds me of going to the park with my da when I was a wee lad of 5, already knowledgable about the hypcorisy of modern society and pointing out older men in macks and asking my da "is he a paedo, pops?"

The best thing you can do tomorrow is switch off your mobile phone and fuck it in the corner of your room. Let it sit there in the darkness. Give your head some peace. We're not made to carry a phone around all day. It's a new idea I'm championing called "Phone Break days". We carry these fucking things about and it endlessly toys with our emotions. Why is nobody calling me? Am I a leper? Am I a fucking leper? Should I be texting my gay uncle in Edinburgh? What about my brother? Will he hate me if I don't ask him how he's dodging deportation?

I remember when mobile phones got popular in the late 90s and I thought, "mobile phones are only for cunts".. Little did I know millions of people around the world would have a mobile phone within a couple of years. Yes, little did I know that I lived in a world of cunts and I was also a cunt. I was innocent then. I purposely didn't get one for a couple of years after having an argument with my girlfriend in the middle of the Limelight ( a nightclub in Belfast, East Ulster). She was texting one of her friends during "Creep" by Radiohead and I shouted at her through the music "how can you text through 'Creep'?" I was then head-butted by some wobbly Belfast cunt and knocked to the floor. I then needed to have a piss and decided to avoid the queue for the toilets by pissing on the dancefloor. I blame that debauchery on the emergence of the mobile phone. If my girlfriend didn't have a mobile phone I wouldn't have got headbutted and I wouldn't have had to piss on the dancefloor during "Creep".

Yes, stop exposing yourself in public. You don't need to tweet so much . Be more private because you'll become nothing. Every bit of you will be public property and there'll be nothing left of your soul. Psychologists have said recently that Facebook and Twitter and other such social networking sites are destroying people's sense of self. Now, nobody has any private self. They can be put together like jigsaw puzzles by looking at their tweets and facebook profile pictures. I'm on facebook as Teddy Tango, named after the great athlete of World sport, Teddy Tango. I don't really want to reveal too much of myself and I think I'm happier about this. Too much time is spent in the culture factories, dreaming up new ways on how to make money from words, music and beauty. Step out of the factory and smell the roses. It's a beautiful world out there. We need to kill and dehumaize the MAN. His body must be unrecognisable to family and friends.

MOJO

(PLease note: The MAN = the political leaders, the bankers, the business men, the warlords and anyone who is responsible for the destruction of the Earth principally for short term gain)

Monday - Not even Bennie could save us.

My life is a travesty. It is in tatters. Down lost the All-Ireland Final yesterday and I can't seem to find a barber and my shit hair is just getting out of control. I'm frightened of men touching my hair. Actually, I'm frightened of anyone touching my hair. It's creepy when men touch your head particularly when they're standing behind you. Do you like it when strange bullish men touch your head? Of course you fucking don't! I am planning on maybe going to a hairdressers and having an awkward conversation with a female hairdresser I never met before. Afterwards I will run home crying with my hands hiding my hair. Oh Terry T where are you? Terry T is my barber in Newry and I really miss him. I miss his laugh and the way he talked to the trees. I miss him more than soda bread. He gave good head. And I mean that whole-heartedly. He never encountered Eugene but I think that phrase should be altered for Barbers. There's very few that gave good head and terry T is one of them.

Yeah life is shit. What's good about it? The sun? Fuck the sun, its bollocks. Sorry, I'm in a bad mood. Everything is shit when you're in a bad mood. Even puppies fuck you off when you're in a bad mood. I seen a puppy today and said "I wonder if I could cook that wee fucker. Hmmm puppy burger..." Why create a lie? Just be honest, everyone has wanted to eat a Puppy Burger at some point. Lovely lovely puppy meat.

I'm sometimes glad I've never put a teenage girl up the duff. It sometimes my only comfort in life. I don't think I've had a bad run. Maybe its over. The gold run. Maybe the gold runs over.

It was a Monday today. I expected it to be crap and it was. I seen a woman fall in the street and lots of people ran to help her. That was the best moment in my day. I stood there and just cried into my Down scarf. I am in mourning after getting beat in the GAA All IReland final. Not even Bennie Coulter could save us. Now I yearn for a better tomorrow. One that is Bennie-less but can be ultimately redemptive.

The end

Dating in the Dark

There's a lot of smart cunts out there. Stephen Hawking isn't a smart cunt, he's a tube. And his theory that the Universe just spontaneously appeared out of chaos is wile shite. THE WEE FELLA HAS GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME. He passes his 11 plus and he thinks he can say what he likes! No, the smartest cunts, are the men who sign up to be contestants in the hit dating show "Dating in the Dark".

"Dating in the dark" is a show that consists of three men and three women who meet "in the dark". Now, if you were to meet a woman in the dark you'd be tempted to pull your cock out and dance around the room singing "I get around" by the Beach Boys. Who wouldn't?

I have watched every dating show ever created in the past 30 years and this one is in my top ten. It seems like the producers are incapable of choosing someone who isn't a wanker. This makes for great T.V.. Wankers make excellent T.V.. The big negative is that the men can't take their cocks out and have a wank in the dark.

The three people meet each other separately in the dark and sit with each other and learn all about each others personalities . For example, Steve met Leni in the dark and found out that they get on like a house on fire. At the end of the show they both stood in a darkened room and a separate light shines on each of them so that they can check each other out separately without seeing the other persons reaction. It is excellent T.V.. They then went back to their quarters and regretted the previous 2 days when they flirted with their supposed DREAM-DATE who actually has a face like the back of a ballbag. It is excellent T.V.. I've been watching it now for the past year and have decided that love is superficial. People get on so well in the dark but if they don't like how the other person looks then it all ends in tears. I often cry whilst watching it. But then again, I burst into tears when I watch car adverts. "the trees! The trees! You're killing the fucking trees!"

Yeah, wile cunts.

MOJO

Mojo’s Tales of the Unexpected- An NCWC Anniversary Special

Fat pigeon

I was walking down the street today and seen a really fat pigeon. Jesus Christ, he was one fat fucker. How the fuck did he get that fat? He looked like a right wanker bullying the other pigeons. He even pecked some food out of one of their mouths. I wanted to kill the fucker. I was holding a synthesizer at the time and the thought of squashing him with it rang loud in my mind. I tried to punch the cunt but his little wings flapped like mad to propel him a metre from the ground. Because he’s a fat fuck he can only fly a metre off the ground. Fat pigeon bastards are the bane of my life.



Deep anxiety

It must be the hangover I have but I think most of the world is going to murder me at any moment today. I was in the local one-stop and a girl was standing beside me as I was picking a sandwich. She was a lovely looking woman but I thought she may be standing indecisively staring at sandwiches just so she could get close to knife me. I looked at her, she smiled. Shit, she definitely wanted to kill me. I gave her the Ulster look (one of deep anxiety) in return and ran out of the shop.

The Twin Towns of Cougartown and Mojotown

I recently dated a cougar. It was a fun time. She was a bit like Courtney Cox in Cougartown. She had an insatiable appetite for lovin’ and Eugene was traumatised by the whole experience. I really am sorry Eugene I never knew this would happen. After much thought I felt that I was kidding myself so I woke up and decided to abandon my trans-generational love affair like my hero Kirk Mc Cambley. He is a hero of mine and I want to live my life vicariously through Kirk. The end of the affair was like Apocalypse Now and I felt like going out and getting wile fooked directly afterwards. I did get wile fooked afterwards and everybody lived happily ever after.

The Systematic Destruction of Marvin the Marshmallow’s Life

Since hearing about the departure of Carlos D from one of my favourite bands Interpol I have lived a near despondent life. I sometimes leave the house angrily and end up just standing by a tree and yelping. I am like a dog that has lost its owner. On many occasions I have just went into town and recklessly dismantled the remnants of my life through dance and supermegafuntimes much like the wee fella in his 1999-2010 period often cited by historians as the beginning of the end of humanity. Carlos D will be sorely missed in the Interpol line-up. He stood demonic at the side of the stage when the Bojo-Krojo Superfun Love Division went to see them in Blackpool. He swung that bass low with a sinister frown. You could tell that one day he would leave his beloved band and become a fascist dictator. It was always on the cards. Because of his leaving I get on buses now, to nowhere. All of the time thinking; how can I live with Carlos D gone? Because of my random Love Attacks on MCR I have been really pissing off Marvin the Marshmallow. I keep calling around and waking him up at night. He fucking hates me but when I ask him if he hates me he says.. “No...no. You’re Mojo. It’s allowed. But if it was anyone else I’d gut them.” Marvin the marshmallow is a dove of peace and I could never see him harm a fly. Although I still pray every night now that he doesn’t murder me as I know he deserves to kill me or at least hurt me alot. What do the waves have to say now? I blame Paul Banks for Carlos D leaving Interpol. He’s completely obsessed with the sea. It must have been hard listening to Paul’s wank all day. It’s ok to dip into but jeeeeeeeeeeeeeez every day! Pauul Banks, you have ruined my life. Walk the plank you horrible little New York bastard.

Bus Confessional

I was getting a bus the other day and for some unknown reason Eugene started to get excited. It was just at the start of my journey but Eugene wouldn’t calm down. Calm the fuck down Eugene. But no, he disobeyed. The bus got to my stop but I couldn’t get out as people would think I’m some sort of paedo or sex attacker. So I just sat on the bus hoping Eugene would calm the fuck down. But no, the bastard stayed excited. The bus stopped off at all its stops but I didn’t realise. Then it reached the depot and the bus driver stopped the bus and then he came up to me and said “Come on the fuck. You need to get off. We’re at the depot.” I removed my coat and covered my groin area with it. I gave him the Ulster look (one of despair) and ran out of the bus tear some and annoyed. Eugene, you are my nemesis. My life is in tatters because of you, Eugene.

Marty Bogroll

Marty Bogroll

How the teenagers
laugh at you
school kids point from buses
mockingly
On a racer,
sitting by the canon
Motionless
Forever homeless
Outside town hall
Wrapped up in blue
The Yew tree is swaying
Your ginger beard bristling
In Lonesome Town
Ageing, dreaming
Small-town acquiescing
4 O’ clock wet October
and I’m not sober
every street of Lonesome Town
Holds a memory
The Birthplace Healing
I was Indian Jones on this road
Eddie Murphy on that one,
Wynton marsalis over there
I was myself on that one
Bill Hicks on that avenue
I kissed a girl on that bench
I got chased down that street by some guy with a knife
I fell in love with the World on these streets
And that’s why I’ll never stop loving it
A miscrocosm of Earth
And there he is
A town legend, holder of dreams
Marty Bogroll
Lost in existential bliss

My love is gone
And all my friends, where are my friends?
Popping out babies...
Where did they all go?
You’re the only person on this Earth
I want to know.
I buy you a Friar Tucks chicken burger
Your laughter
Is a young boys laughter
I get a chicken burger too
on the banks of the Clanrye
Intoxicated
by the happiness of junk food
the innocent pleasure of the ignorant
“Why do they call you Marty Bogroll?”
“I don’t know
You can call me Martin though.”
His blue eyes yell
For all the lost lovers
I cannot dwell
on sad irises
Your life has been completely different
To millions
You are the ginger Santa Claus
I become fixated
On a shopping trolley in the river
I feel like jumping in
Like a dog
For a wee swim
Martin says, “Thank you
For that Mojo.
It was lovely.”
Dinner with Martin is a tender thing
A laugh
And he’s gone
Off on his racer
No longer a caricature
Newly fragile
Just like us all
And I’m left alone again
in Lonesome Town
Ready to run away


MOJO

Mojo's Favourite Cover Version

Mojo’s Favourite Cover Version

Often people say, fuck me Mojo, it has to be Jeff Buckley’s version of “Hallelujah”. Aye, it’s grand like but it’s filled with such melancholic despair it’s hard to bare. I used to listen to it when I was younger when I thought aliens were coming to invade the Earth. I shivered myself to sleep and then I’d wake up at 3 am and when realised I wasn’t being abducted by aliens I'd wank into a container which I would put into a cryogenic chamber. Then usually I'd bury it about 10 feet down in my back yard..often bursting pipes on the way down. I'd go to bed covered in mud and weep til dawn. All so that my sperm would one day impregnate an embryo so that my children could listen to Jeff Buckley just like me.

Then there’s the aggression of Jimi hendrix’s version of “All along the watchtower”. Which is just lovely but it just kills the standard. It’s like watching a man with a monster penis fuck a dwarf. It is excellent though yet it isn’t my favourite.

Then there’s all of Johnny Cash’s American series. They’re all beautiful and touching. Fuck all them I say. Most of the time you’re thinking...poor Johnny, he must have dementia. It’s very hard to do a good cover of a song that’s already good and he picks some of the best songs ever written. Watching The video for “hurt” is like watching someone design an interactive two-dimensional headstone. Poor Johnny, at least he’s got the Lord.

One of the funniest cover I've heard is “People = Shit” by Richard cheese. It was originally recorded by the loveable heavy rock outfit Korn. It’s close but no cigar. "Kathleen" by Tindersticks is also ao song I listen alot to when I'm feeling sorry for myself so it can never win.

Then there’s Sinead O’ Connors “nothing compares 2 U”. its a marvellous interpretation. However when you’ve seen an orange faced morbidly obese girl slow-dancing hand in hand with her brother to it at a local teen disco, its emotional punch wears off. It’s still a brilliant cover. She also ripped up a photo of the Pope on television which more or less ended her career in the USA. God help our wee Sinead. It's probably one of my favourite recordings by a human being. It's desolate, aching, world-weary and beautiful. But it's not my favourite cover version.

My favourite cover is “Help me make it through the night” by Bryan Ferry. It just oozes sex. Look at the cover of the album for fuck sake. I will agree, Bryan Ferry has fucked up many songs. He’s shat over them with a Tyneside-like bravado. But here he has given the Kris Kristofferson penned classic the freaky Englishman treatment. He’s saying now to the Kris Kristofferson song...You used to be sweet country farmhouse sex-song? Well, now You are a penis in the glory hole of some dirty bastards sex dungeon in central Sheffield kinda song. The song has been covered from everyone from Elvis to Ike and Tina Turner and our Bryan comes out on top. I don’t condone Bryan Ferry’s behaviour at all and I am odds with the song if I’m honest. . How is Bryan Ferry’s better than them all? Fuck knows. It’s just class. You know on initial listening that KY Jelly is also required to help Bryan Ferry make it through the night. And that makes it real. None of this hugging by twilight shite and talking- about-where-you-had-your-first-kiss-bollocks. It’s hardcore deep pounding in Bryan’s case. Do you want to help Bryan Ferry make it through the night? Baby, you better get lubed up. He’s lived a life we can only be in awe of.

If you can’t find Bryan Ferry’s classic album “another time, another place,” sometimes when someone you love sings a song even if it’s out of tune I often think that’s maybe the best cover version there is, even if it is really shit. It’s not expecting to be on an advert for yoghurts or doesn’t yearn to sail a yacht around French Polynesia. It’s a version of a song just for your pleasure and when you hear that cover version in that moment it is the most wondrous cover version of all.

Hurricane Mojo

3 decades

The fire was burning my face
So I stepped back
To see my youth
In flames
The history of man and woman and Earth
Demythologized in the ashes of my life
like dinosaurs, lost in the wind

I woke up on a bench
near Trocadero
with eiffel tower mother
at the end of my bed
It was the day after the fire
when Hurricane Mojo
quietly ruled Paris like DeValera
a conflagration of supermegafun bonus deluxe Spectaular
A woman was poking my leg
Speaking in French
I said "je voudrais un baguette. Ulster dit non!
Ulster dit non!"
Alone, clutching my mobile
Acid in red eyes
This is what I had become;
A wild and boundless adventurer of hearts
I am the European Adam Green

I could feel Jean Paul Sartre
stroking the back of myhead
Fuck off Jean Paul ya cunt.
I thought about the neuroses of the people I have known
Jesus,Mary and Joseph!
They need to chill the fuck out
'We're here for a good time not a long time'
Reminiscing about Newry Hospice
People all about to die
Happy to wake up each day
under reproduction paintings of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
The saying 'If you didn't laugh you'd cry" has become poignant to me
I remember syringing fluid from the lungs of a 40year old woman
she had terminal lung cancer
It was just to make her day a little more tolerable
We both wanted to cry
But we laughed hysterically
"Fuck me, my lungs are fucked," she said.
I tried to hold it in
But I burst my tits laughing
It was beautiful


I bought a 5 Euro coca cola
and treked to the Sacret Heart cathedral to light a candle
I was entertained on the steps
By a young black breakdancing child
He was including a football with his breakdance
It was wondrous.
I hoped that he would live to become the most celebrated breakdancer
the world has ever known
I went into Sacred Heart
I lit a candle for everyone I know
I said a prayer to the weird baldy looking fella Saint Martin
I prayed for Ulster
I prayed that the Down G.A.A. Team would lift the Sam Maguire
I hate Gaelic Football too!
I prayed that one day humanity would rape and pillage another planet
in a distant galaxy
I seen a priest.
I remember the priests that taught me
i tried to like them but in retrospect
they creeped me out
Why wasn't I raped by a priest?
Was I not a sexy child?
Thank fuck for that.
Dirty bastards.

I left the big cathedral
Fuckin' huge it was.
Outside I could see Paris
Wow.
That's incredible.
Two lovers kissed on the steps
I kissed my ice lolly
in regret
I made a promise to myself
I shall go out and find love.
Or love may find me
Tomorrow,
The Mojo Wrecking Ball of Love
will smash the skyscrapers of hate, self-doubt and despair
to reveal the many gardens of love
There is a power in me
and a power in you
A power to change
things for the better
I
AM
ALIVE

apologies for this ejaculate
Mojo

Kids in Philly; Mojo And Bolesy Take America; Act 1 Scene 1.

KIDS IN PHILLY.



Kids in Philly by Marah; a masterpiece in street rock






Our old mate Dave and his friend Bruce

Dany Brillant. His album "Puerto Rico" is a body-mover.

I flipped the switch. The music played. Bolesy was a “Marah” virgin. His little Bangor ears had never heard such majesty. Marah used to be my favourite band. They are a rock band from Philadelphia and their music is as cool as fuck. It says “I don’t mind being Coney Island-Jersey old style because I’m going to fuck you up big-style.” If their music was a building it would be the Chrysler Building. Bolsey had lived an empty life up to that point. Instantly, he became enamoured with the beauty of the young Bielenko brothers. It was like showing a child a Nintendo Wii for the first time. He laughed with a profound delight. I laughed too, but I wasn’t sure why. I was his Magical musical gatekeeper for that moment and it was a privilege. It’s just a privilege knowing the Boles. He is a quiet genius and a wondrous philanthropist. He was probably lying about liking Marah but I didn’t care as he became the only other person in the world who I knew who liked “Marah”. And even if it was a lie, it was a lie that I would hold onto for dear life.

Bolesy and I were studying in Philadelphia at the time. It was a fantastic time of watermelons, cool beers al fresco, sunshine and sorority houses. Well that was me, Bolesy spent most of the day studying and discovering new theories. He was Archimedes and serendipity was his only bed fellow. I felt free like a Chris Cornell vocal ad-lib; soaring into the unknown with a very high probability of death. Bolesy, the eternal gent, is a model for living. Often when we were strolling through a park he would stop abruptly and point out a bird and say “Look Mojo, there’s a hummingbird!” And then we would stop and have a wee look at a bird. We would smile and often go into hysterics at the wee bird. “Look at its wee legs! Awh...so small...yet so resilient. He’s just like you Bolesy.” Then he would hit me with his walking cane. Ah yes, better times. It was nice to go to a park with someone not obsessed with tits and ass. Then one day, I was walking home from a long session in the Orthodontic department and I seen a poster.

“MARAH LIVE! IN THE KHYBER!”

Fook me! I premature ejaculated and ran home crying to Bolesy.

Mojo (M): Bolesy! Marah are playing in Philly!
Bolesy (B): What? I can’t hear you through your tears.
M: Fuck me, Marah are playing in Philly!
B; What?
M: Marah! Bolesy! I let you hear them the other day. Remember?
B: What?
M: Remember you laughed with pure delight at their seminal classic “Kids in Philly”?
B: Who? What?
M: Bolsey?

I realised I had disturbed him during a smoothie. This was a mistake. Bolesy = Smoothie. Smoothie = Bolesy. Walking in on Bolesy drinking a smoothie is like walking in a couple making love. I felt bad about the whole encounter and hid under my bed crying for half an hour. I hated myself.

Mojo: Sorry Bolesy for disturbing you earlier.
Bolesy: Ah, that’s ok Mojo. What were you squealing at me now?
Mojo: Marah are playing in the Khyber in Philly!
Bolesy: Let’s go!
Mojo: Really?
Bolesy: Let’s go. You bet.

It was one of the greatest moments of my life. We got our tickets on a Monsoon-like Saturday from the Khyber and waited impatiently for a week until the night of the concert. If this was a film there’d be a musical montage (preferably a Huey Lewis and the News song) with us going to the park, looking at birds, reading in the park, running around the hospitals of U-Penn in our surgical gowns high-5ing other men and women in surgical gowns and me trying to penetrate the sorority houses around the university. We wouldn’t wait but time made us wait. I erected a shrine dedicated to Marah and I would spend 2 hours each day dancing in front of it to their music.

The day of the gig arrived. I wet myself that morning. We took a bus down to the Khyber which was on the southside of the city on second street. It was a great wee pub and it had only two small rooms. One with a bar and one with a very small stage. It’s decor had a quiet confidence and I just wanted to ride all of it’s clientele. I had found my home. Then the crowd came. There was about 30 people in the audience. It was the direct opposite of Oasis in Maine Road in Manchester. The Khyber was Marah’s local but yet fuck all people in Philly or in the world know or like them. Then they took to the stage. Wow. I was in Philly watching my favourite band in their local and I was inebriated and happy. They began with an instrumental version of “The Rocky Theme”. I shat myself with excitement. Something mystical was happening on the stage. It felt like a baptism; a turning point in my emotional evolution. They played most songs from the “Kids in Philly” album and with every song they made another dream of mine come true. The venue was so small every member of the audience could have raped the Bielenko brothers if they had wanted to. The band despite the low turn-out were rocking out and giving us their heart and soul. I thought this was admirable. They could have just told us all to fuck off but they beat those drums and hammered those guitars and gave it their all. During the gig Dave and Serge came into the crowd for a guitar duel and I said to bolesy;
Mojo: “I’m gonna kick that cunt up the hole”
Bolesy: “No! You’d never.”

I then kicked Serge Beilenko up the hole mid-solo. It was an affectionate kick. I think he liked it. Bolesy then said “fuck sake, I didn’t think you’d actually kick him up the hole. You’re a dick Mojo. Why’d you do that?”
I didn’t know why I done it. Then I started to hate myself again and felt like the most evil man in the world. I must have been the most evil man in the world, at that moment. I apologised to Bolesy as I applauded the band like a hard-up circus sealion. I seen a real hot girl at the bar and became happy again. I put on my sexiest grin. She was like putty in our hands. I thought she may like me more than Bolesy but that ’s always the way. I always win out in that often hard-fought battle. She was giggling like a good-thing and I got a tap on the shoulder. It was Dave Bielenko. He smiled at the girl. She nodded and said we were wild craic.

"Hey Dave, these guys are from the University of Ireland! And ones called Mojo!"

She must've been his girlfriend as they had a deep connection beyond words. It was either that or Dave was THE MASTER PULVERIZER. Thankfully for everyone she was his girlfriend and he just loved us. We loved Dave. I had to explain to his girlfriend that Ireland was an actual country outside America and not a university. She laughed at me as if I'd just told her an hilarious one-liner.

We all talked for hours and Serge came and joined us. I didn’t tell him I had kicked him up the hole. Bolesy held court as he amazed the band about our own crazy adventures. I nodded approvingly at his rapturous monologue. Everyone loved Bolesy. I couldn’t blame them, he’s a lovely cunt. DAve and Serge joked about the reviews of their latest album and told us that one of my heroes Bruce Springsteen came and played on their latest album “Float away with the Friday Night Gods” which was produced by the famous Oasis producer Owen Morris. I came in my pants again. Dave and Serge were good mates with Bruce and he would often come to their gigs for guitar duels (pictured above: Dave duelling at one of Bruce's gigs). I remember walking around Belfast on cold winter days with Marah singing in my ears on my CD walkman and now I was in a bar chatting casually with their singer about how he came to write my favourite album. It was a marvellous moment.

It was a magical evening because me and bolesy then decided to fuck off and go disco dancing in the club across the road. Serge and Dave applauded our belligerence. They gave us their number to meet up again for funtime megaparty and we said our goodbyes. Marah would never forget the night they first met Bolesy and Mojo. We had many more adventures with Marah and they have kept making albums despite limited success. They are true musicians and artists. I will love them forever.

Needless to say it was the start of an incredible night. I felt like Dany Brillant (pictured above) and Bolesy felt like Tim Burgess at a creative dance class. We collided with some lovely Muscovites and danced to the dawn. The city of brotherly love embraced us and we opened our arms. The world was different after that point. It was no longer just shit. It was still a bit shit but now, it was beautiful.

MOJO

P.s. The new Dany Brillant album is quite exquisite.

Mojo Goes To The Polling Station

Today is “Vote for a Fucker Day” or what the sexy people in England call “Election Day”. As I strolled along my leafy suburban street coloured in orange, blue and red posters I ruminated, publicly. What fucker should I vote for? Should I vote for the prick with the funny sigh? Or the smug prick? Or should I vote for the up-and-coming smug prick? I was in a quandary. My brain began to hurt under the pressure so I went to the local vegetarian cafe to watch men and women vacantly stare at their I-phones and laptops. But I also went to sit and think about who I should vote for.


I am from Northern Ireland, a fragile state held together by chewing gum, beer, love, hate, semtex, trans-generational adultery and widespread bigotry. I have a unique political view. I have lived during the so-called “Troubles” and also the N.I. Peace Era. I used to think I was going to be murdered and raped by terrorists then all of a sudden the politicians of Northern Ireland kissed and made-up. GOOD FRIDAY 1998 WAS AMAZINGLY GOOD FRIDAY 1998!!!! I fell to my knees in my living room and kissed the carpet in delight. My young body would no longer be buggered by a man in a balaclava and then cut up and abandoned on the main Belfast to Newry dual carriageway. The intense euphoria I felt when the Good Friday Agreement was signed, has never been equalled. No amount of ecstasy tablets, cocaine, lovely girls or furious ejaculations could ever equal the happiness I felt on that day. I suppose you could say it was the happiest day of my life. I could see how voting tactically or multiple times illegally could change the world. Proportional representation was a beautiful thing.

Hunter S. Thompson often sided with the Democrats in the good ole U.S. of A and that actually sickened me. He loved Jimmy Carter like wee Jimmy was candy floss or a colt 45. He got pretty pissed off by George W. Bush becoming President. He may have even alluded to the end of the world in his suicide note. But he made a mistake. He cared too much about politicians and his leader. But his writings did make a difference on how people perceive politicians and the world. However, we the people, are greater than politicians. They’re a bunch of wankers. J.F.K. isn’t the lovely womanizing bootlegging master-speaker we think of. He brought his country to war with fucking Vietnam. Vietnam! What a cunt. During “The Troubles” every person in Northern Ireland lived a politicized life. Many lost their lives or the lives of those close to them and everyone lived in fear apart from Frank Mitchell. I detested my situation. I hated all politicians. I could directly feel their slithery hands toying with my political balls when I turned on “UTV Live” every night. I wanted to just live. I wanted to just live like Tom Hanks in the film “Big”. Then suddenly they appeared from Parliament Buildings in Stormont Belfast, with smiles. Hume, Adams, Trimble, Irvine, Bertie, Bliar and a load of other political freeloaders appeared like the Reservoir Dogs. I thought, ‘fuck me, they done it. They actually agreed on something. They’re not all total-wankers anymore. They may actually care for the people. That’s a bit surprising. Fuck me....... Hilarious!” The novenas, the tears shed, the blood, the lost, the unidentifiable bodies of close relatives, collusion, the dirty protests, Maggie-fucking-Thatcher, the Maze, car bombs, bomb-scares, tit-for-tat killings, Bloody Sunday, the serial killers, the resemblance of Martin Mc Guinness to Art Garfunkel, the corruption and the many years of hurt were all given the fingers. ‘Fuck you sadness!” That’s what it meant to me. But I was happy anyway. I learned to live a happy life with the cunts in power. And Hunter S fucking Thompson can kiss my Newry hole. I love big H.S.T. but we can agree to disagree on certain issues. This is what being an adult is about. I never put my faith in the ruling class. I will always treat them with a blatant disregard and at least a mild contempt, on a good day. They are just people with assholes and the propensity for error like everyone else. I’ll not get too worried if they mess up the country or not get too excited if they are a resounding success. They’ll stress themselves out ruling and we’ll enjoy living. I will never have the same power as a politician yet I hope they treat the people who pay their wages with a love unrequited. They will be chased to the edges of hell if they do us bad. And if there is a revolution I will be on the frontline, ready to spill my blood, for Earth. By the power of Stevie Wonder we will change the world!

I picked up my pencil and put down my “X”. And what a lovely fucking “X” it was.


Mojo
(Every spelling mistake was intentional)

Scotland = Mojoland

I was sitting at home fuckin’ shit up with Marvin the Marshmallow. We were throwing Bombay mix all over our faces. And we were dancing in our chairs to “What you got” by John Lennon; a Marvin the Marshmallow favourite. A phone call came in from Carryduff. It could only be one man. I hoped that it was the Director of the N.C.W.C. but it was the wee fella.

“Glasgow. I go Glasgow! Destroy lives! Superfun! Come Papa Come!”

I got up off the sofa and drew up my plans for the immediate assault on Scotland’s second greatest city after Dundee. It was all an eventuality and total pulverisation was imminent. I informed my fifth cousin removed ‘Freyjopolopolis’ that supermegafun was only a 220 mile drive away. To my surprise and delight, she was in.

I put on my silver fucksuit and put my foot to the floor. Freyjopolopois rode shotgun. I was Sal Paradise and she was Dean Moriarty without the drugs, dysentery and the homoerotic undertones. My expectations were none and the sky was sky blue. The sun set crimson, cloud formations transformed into farm animals. As we drove listening to the calming words of the mighty Raekwon I began to pine for a Service Station. We had travelled 100 miles and I salivated for greasy fix. My bowels said no but my heart said awk aye mothafucka. Kendal Service Station blew me kisses and there was no question that this would be the lucky diner for Frojo Corp. We clapped our hands as the young obese teen served us up our microwaved burger and popcorn chicken. It was a glorious meal in the Lake District. We felt like an advert for living. Wiping my fingers on the steering wheel I pulled out of Kendall and we were only 120 miles away from Party Central Scotland. It was GO-TIME.

And then it came; the long and winding road through the industrial south of Glasgow. We were lost but it was ok, all we needed to do was to follow the tall buildings. They were our lighthouse. I had never been to Glasgow before. I wanted to tickle it like a freaky squirrel. We crossed the Clyde. Glasgow felt like a combination of Dublin, Belfast, San Francisco and Tokyo. We were Glasgow. Glasgow was us. We started to tickle Glasgow like a freaky squirrel. It giggled on my shoulder.

The first person we met when we got there was Ted, Lenny Henry’s best friend. He showed us to our room in the Premier Inn and we tossed a coin over whose uncle he could be. I lost and he is now Freyjopjop’s favourite uncle. Secretly we both wanted to fook him but he’s way out of our league.

I hadn’t a fuck where we were and it took the call from the good shepherd Monsignor Fuckyears, Archbishop Dal Ard Mhacha to get us to Partyville. We flagged a taxi and we were there. Monsignor Fuckyears was there to greet us and it was lovely to see him and his smile again; the smile that could heal a million hearts. I could see the wee fella holding court in the living room, raised arm above head, smile with excited listeners. The lovely Germans were there, Herr Phantastisch und Madame Phantastisch, and everyone was very happy. Glaswegians are a great race. Ok, you have the occasional outburst of bigotry but all –in-all they’re a lovely wee bunch. I wanted to lick all of their faces but they’d probably kill me. 2 police officers even came and joined in on the party. They were wearing bright neon tops and I thought they were hardcore party animals. But they were minus-craic and they made us turn off the music and forced us all to go home. I didn’t mind though. I enjoyed a bit of order for a change and nothing but an angry female police woman with a stern Scottish accent could stop the wee fella. He was out of control but he was the out-of-control that we have all come to cherish. I secretly wanted to shag the female police officer.

“I want to cry myself to death,” were the last words I remember the wee fella saying. The wee fella was on fire yet I couldn’t wait to go back to my hotel to hang out with Ted. It was the first day in what would be the best weekend of fun Scotland has ever seen.

I would like to write more but I realise it may lead to a criminal conviction. Nobody was hurt but Glasgow was utterly destroyed by the Krojo-Frojo Funtime Alliance. The Kryst was yet again a superior human being. He operates on another level of fun to everyone else. He made us all smile and that's the greatest compliment I could give him.

A special thanks to Alec Baldwin for helping me believe in myself. And a bigger thanks to the Scottish girls who are the last great hopes for the advancement of Zoology.

Have a lovely week

MOJO

Electric you

Electric you

Dizzy, the world in your eyes
Blessed is the whiskey flavoured condom
Blessed is the tea bag buoyed in hot water porcelain
Blessed is your fragile body,
Unbroken in sheets
Sleepy kisses open up curtains
The dawn is devoured
Tender and strong
Like Warren Zevon
Electric, in you
Whirling like a thunderstorm
Coming alive
Birds on their first flight
We fall
And we catch the air
Breathless, we rise

----
Mojo

THE BIRTH OF KROJO AND THE DEATH OF THE EARTH; a Mojo-love story

THE BIRTH OF KROJO AND THE DEATH OF THE EARTH; a Mojo-love story

I’d been living in Belfast in two separate millennia and I was getting fed up with the vast cornucopia of cunts that I would continually encounter. I went to a party around the time and I was innocently chatting to a girl and some guy started shouting at me for no reason.

“Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck out of my house!” He shouted.

You’re a cunt, I thought. I worked hard all week and my weekends were getting progressively more shit. What was going wrong? I had hit a break wall.

I had broken up with a girl I had being going out with on and off for a year and I faced a world of early morning pre-work despair and pathetic Belfast religious humour.

It was the start of the Mojo Destruction Years. No more Mister Nice Mojo I thought. It was at this time I started to pound the world relentlessly. I felt like Michael Jackson during the recording of “Off the wall”. I was reinventing dance music. Quincy Jones wept with delight at my daily contributions. My friends could only stand back and disapprove. “Burn this Disco Out” was my mantra.

“Mojo, are you ok? What’s wrong? Why did you just projectile vomit over that dog? Are you ok Mojo?” My friends would say.
“Fuck you. I’m fine. I’m fucking fine. That dog’s a wanker. He never stops barking.” I’d say.

I felt lonely. I had lots of friends but I was changing into Teen Wolf and nobody understood me anymore. And that was the hardest thing to take. I wanted to listen to a Mariah carey remix whilst shitting off my balcony. Whereas previously I’d be more than happy to sit in with a Douglas Coupland novel listening to “grace” by Jeff Buckley. And my friends would joke and say “ For fuck sake Mojo, Mariah Carey?”

“What about ‘Heartbreaker’? How can you just dismiss the masterpiece that is ‘Heartbreaker?’ ” I yelped.

Then one night, everything changed.

I stood lost at the bar in Whites Tavern, a popular squashed bar/nightclub facility in the centre of Belfast. I went down early to get a seat. I was alone. The place was empty but soon I knew it would be packed to a level that would be potentially life threatening. Behind me I could hear a loud voice incoherently extol the virtues of Stephen Patrick Morrissey’s solo career. Then laughter, I could hear lots of laughter. I turned around and there was only one other person at the bar. He wore a cravat and a green velvet jacket. I was wearing my black velvet jacket. He was my face. He had abandon in his eyes and danger in his smile. I knew right away that he definitely wasn’t a cunt. He was a destroyer like me. That fact was undeniable. He grinned like a Caucasian chuck berry and said

“I’m the Kryst.”

Kryst + Mojo = Krojo. Neither of us knew at this moment that this was the birth of Krojo Corp and also bizarrely, what would eventually lead to the death of the Earth. I smiled like a heterosexual Caucasian Little Richard. We took that Saturday night and held it up against the wall by the neck and taught it a lesson. Women screamed with delight beneath us as we done what we done best. We danced, we laughed and we loved women. The crowds gathered around the original Krojo duo in what seemed like minutes. It was a harrowingly beautiful beginning. Little hotties were spinning plates on long wooden sticks. They hung on our every word. They watched us dance with disbelief. We were other-worldly. The dream team had come to Whites Tavern and no woman could resist Krojo Corp. Separately we were unstoppable love machines. But together we were The Earth Shattering Emperors of Super Deluxe Bonus Mega Love Unlimited.

I remember the night. The moment was what mattered. To love is a constant fight. There were cunts everywhere that night. We were threatened by cunts but we persevered and love won out in the end. We met girls and made dreams come true. It was what scientists and historians in the distant future would refer to as the “Fun tremor” that would eventually lead to “The Great Love Earthquake” that would bring humanity crashing to its knees. The future glistened like a disfigured mirror ball. It was beautiful chaos. Belfast was set alight.

To be continued.

MOJO

Manchester, I hid my soul in a biscuit tin

Manchester, I hid my soul in a biscuit tin

Acheeeeeeew!
Manchester, I should’ve told you
That I’m allergic to cats
I hid my soul in a biscuit tin
And the biscuit tin
Lügen haben im Rotary-Club missbraucht *

I am with manchester
legs sculpted from the Pennines
a face formed from factories
Eyes like searchlights
to large stadiums
and forgotten Morrissey B-sides
Her lip unfortunately tastes
like "Toxic”
By Britney Spears
I so wanted it to taste
Like “Girls just want to have fun”
By Cyndi Lauper
So I just do what I always do
I ran away
And left her in “The Venue” nightclub
Alone at midnight
I done the only thing I could do
I went for some fried chicken
At “Finger lickin’ chicken”
Her name was Debbie
We already had been out for dinner
But it was shit
and very expensive
Every moment of our relationship
Was a crushing disappointment

As I washed down southern fried chicken breast
With a glass of beer I thought about Marvin Gaye
A psychosexual freak like me
He used to pay prostitutes to fuck each other
as he watched
happy, pissed
and on speed.
He was pretty messed up.
I thought why Gaye didn’t make a baby
I thought about the ease at which reproduction happens,
In Poleglass or Salford
Heart against hearts
Babies spat out of vaginas
Muscular contractions in self-righteous vulvas all over the world
A ghetto baby every day
wedding rings, 14 carrat gold lies
Temporary amusement
Around your ring finger
I blame it on the fucking boogie
It’s fucking ‘boogie’s’fault
Stevie blamed it on the sun
But that’s like blaming the fall of humanity
On a frog
Yeah, I definitely blame it on "boogie"
The Jackson’s were right
I eat another lovelychicken breast and think about L.A.
The city that has destroyed more lives
Than Stalin.
Michael Jackson
Jon belushi, Marilyn Monroe and Joey from Friends.
Oh horrible world
Joey didn’t deserve such a weak spin-off sitcom.
Oh , horrible world.
Joey didn't deserve that
Why?

+++++
end

Dedicated to TOCOTRONIC, my favourite German Indie band.

*[Lügen haben im Rotary-Club missbraucht (German) = Lies abused in the Rotary Club (English)] - a nod to Tocotronic.

Waking up in Brixton...

Waking up in Brixton.....

I woke up one Saturday in my flat in Manchester. I was thinking about doing something different. Not the “let’s go bungee jumping”-different. Not the “Let’s go camping in the lake district”- different. And not the “Let’s drop 3 es and pound the dancefloor” different. No, I wanted to do something a little more edgy. I wanted to embrace randomness. I looked out my window. I could see some girl jog pass along the river. I felt sorry for her. Yeah, shes got a great ass but all of this for a great ass? I thought again; she does have a great ass though and a great ass is worth so much to me. It’s worth putting the work in to achieve a great ass. Some girls have naturally lovely asses. They are what the famous French philosopher Yann calls “Sexy beech” (English translation = “Sexy bitch”). In so many ways a lovely ass is my elixir. It is the thing that will save me from ruin. I sat on my balcony with a cigar wondering how I would destroy the world today. What to do? What to do? I sang the “What to do?” song aloud as I puffed my cigar:

“When a man wants to destroy the world
What should he do?
What should he do?
When the world around him has turned to shit
What should he do to try to better it?
When the puppet people are getting him down,
What should he do to turn his life around?
How can I turn the world upside down?
Puppet people I will destroy you....fucking destroy you all
Puppet people, my Empire of Fun will rain down on you
Like joyous molten lava droplets of fun.
What to do?
What to do?
Destroy the world, destroy the world
Oh,
Oh, I am only a little big man who wants to destroy the world.”

After my song I went in and done what should be done in a day, in 30 minutes. I had a shower, shave and a shite. Then I had a hearty breakfast. I phoned up Marvin the Marshmallow to discuss Wittginstein and the progression of 20th Century Cinema. I clothed myself. I donned my smoking jacket. I high 5’d the sky. I pondered about Martin mc Guinness and Peter Robinson. Could they ever be friends? I thought about Martin and Peter bathing each other. “Let me flannel you first.” “No! Let me flannel you first.” I thought about the rise of Michael Barrymore with “Strike it Lucky” and then his eventual decline. I got nervous as I thought today might be the first day of my decline. I phoned up all the Baldwin brothers. They were all a-ok. My nervousness went. I had done everything I would do in a day in 30 minutes. I was complete at 10.30 a.m. What to do? What to do? Paul and Daphne were heading into town for drinks later but I wanted something different. Marvin the Marshmallow was busy creating art that would one day change the world as we know it so he was unavailable. Marvin is a busy marshmallow. I went for a walk.

Manchester was thriving like a bee orgy or summat. I enjoyed watching all the little bees running around frantically with their mock-Louis Vuitton handbags and anxious faces. It was a joy to watch. I clapped my hands with delight as a man and woman argued about what shop to go to next. They were probably dead inside. Who cares? I went for a smoothie. I fancy a coconut and strawberry smoothie. I went to the smoothie shop but when I got there I changed my mind. “Fuck smoothies, I’ll have a coffee and sit outside and smoke another cigar.” It was MOJO’S CIGAR day. A disgruntled tanned camp man served me my coffee. I thanked him and then I laughed a bit at his moodiness. I thought “Tanned camp coffee boy, you are a wanker. The bath houses of the Village are too good for you. I am paying premium for your pathetic coffee and this is how you treat me?” Then I laughed a little more. Ooh, ah, just a little bit...ooh ah, a little bit, a little bit more. I exhaled and thought about Gina-G and her awful 1996 Eurovision performance and it made me grin. The little cloud of Mojo-smoke rose towards the tall buildings. I strained my neck to see it rise. A ray of sunlight escaped through a cloud and caught one of the many steel and glass monuments to THE CUNT. Oh throwaway world, even Gina-G can enter into the Eurovision song contest, there is hope for us all.

The thought of the middle-aged Timothy Westwood in oversized sportswear made me leave my emotional coma and go to Picadilly train station. I decided in about 22.5 seconds that I should go to Brixton in London. I needed to be involved in a knife attack. STOP PRESS “Young Ulster Lad Is Next Victim of Knife Crime” STOP PRESS “His Mother says ‘He was just buying a cream egg’ and calls perpetrators ‘Monsters’” STOP PRESS “Mojo for a day. Hero Forever.” STOP PRESS: “MOJO’s CIGAR DAY GOES ALL WRONG.” STOP PRESS: Knives Banned From The World.
I wanted to go to a hip-hop club. I needed the bass. Fuckin’-beats yearned for me to be there. (Fuckin’-beats = music to fuck to). I was hungry for some booty bouncing in my face. Most of all, I wanted to know what it was like to be the hit pop star “SHAGGY”.

I took the train to London and walked to Brixton. I went alone yet I felt like I was connected to the Universe so I felt all the gang were back. Venus was licking my face. Andromeda was my wingman. I wanted to have a “Jamaican” the same way one has a “Chinese”. A Jamaican must be metaphysically full of ass. Ass-tastic! To my utter excitement, there was many “Carribbean” restaurants. Each one called my name “mojo, come to me man.” “No, Mojo come to meeee mon.” I found a wee Carribean restaurant. The food was exotic and served with a smile. It was the greatest dining experience of my life. It was like my taste buds had five simultaneous orgasms with each bite. Ass in my mouth, ass in my mouth. The whole experience was exhausting yet life affirming. I had a nap in a park afterwards. I lay watching cloud formations. I let a little spider walk on my face and fuck it. I named him “Facefucker.” He fucked my face wile good. After fucking it, he had a nap. I felt used, empty again. I wondered how I would find a good hip-hop gig or nightclub. I approached a dangerous looking gang of hooded youths in a park:

Gang member 1 (G1): “Hey Whitey. You shouldn’t be here.”
Mojo: “I’m Mojo for fuck sake.”
G1: “We don’t give a fuck who you are. Get the fuck out of here.”
Mojo: “Ok.”
Gang Member 2: “Look, that wanker’s got a blue t-shirt
G1: “Let’s kill the cunt.”
Mojo: “For fuck sake, you’re an insult to Huey P Newton.”
G2: “What did you say Blue T-shirt?”
Mojo: “ I said you are an insult to Huey P fucking Newton.”
G1: “Hey, this geezah’s got balls.”
Mojo: “I don’t have balls. I have one ball. The other one is a prosthetic ball. I have ball”
G2: “Hey, he’s a funny cunt. Blue T-shirt do you go to comedy school?”
Mojo: “I just want some sweet female ass bouncing in my face.”
G1: “Yeah?”
G2: “Blue t-shirt. Come with us. We’ll take you to Pussyland.”

I started to sweat. I didn’t know what just happened. I wanted to run away but they seemed like a nice bunch of lads. We walked out of the park and gang member 3 said he was going to slash my face until I said Huey P Newton. I said I was going to pull his bowels out through his mouth if he spoked to me like that again. I was treading on thin ice. He laughed at my nonchalant chatter. We were all soon one big happy gangsta family. I felt like I was in my grannies. They said I was to be called “Blue” or “Blue t-shirt”. They were to be called “Extra Special K-2, Sonny T and Leopard. I renamed myself “Mojo B” and they seemed to like it. I had a secret desire to kill all 3 Gs. I hoped that this didn’t manifest itself at a later date.

We went to a flat in a high rise at around 6 pm and there was a party going on inside. I bought a carry out and was getting well-on. I didn’t bring my credit cards or mobile phone so the only thing people could steal was my train ticket back and £180 in cash.

I know all about the civil rights movement in America and spent ages regaling my hosts with stories about the Black Panthers and Martin Luther King Jr. I done a few Snoop raps and then we were all more or less related. Some Big morbidly obese G told me where Pussyland was. We all went to Pussyland then and it was a brilliant hip-hop disco with a good proportion of Gs to Hos. Although there was hardly any white people and I felt like E.T. did in the film “E.T.” All the Gs dropped e’s in the queue and they hit the dancefloor straight away. I didn’t want to do any e’s so I went to the bar. I was standing on my own at the bar for awhile sipping a Pernod and White and a beautiful girl approached me:

Out-of-my-league-girl: “How do you know K-2?”
Mojo: “Extra Special K-2?”
Out of my league girl: “Yeah, how do you know him?”
Mojo: “We go way back.”
Out of my league girl: “I’m Awesome-O.”
Mojo: “I’m Mojo. Lovely to meet you.”

She slapped my ass and then the magic began. “In da club” by Lil Jon was dropped and we freaked to the beat. She switched her style and got her ass shaking on top of Eugene. Then, her ass was in my face; I was home. Her ass and my face became one; separated at birth. The last thing I remember was getting freaky with Awesome-O in the toilets of a Mc Donalds. Then I woke up in Brixton. Waking up in Brixton was just the start of the story of Mojo and Awesome-O.

(to be continued)

Mojo

I'm the Mojo who loves you

Always telescopic poems

Life = [Happiness + love + spirituality(optional)] – [sadness + hate]

Happiness = Deep understanding of your psyche + positive thoughts and self-affirmation +
Openness and acceptance to the imperfections of yourself and other people + food + shelter + company + water + hope for a better tomorrow + music + fun + comedy

Defiant living is essential. There are too many wankers in the world. I live a defiant life. I was chatting with my friend Freyjopolopolis and I said that if I was to give her any advice about life it would be “do whatever the fuck you want.” Do you want to be a guitarist? Be one. Do you want to swim with dolphins? Do it. Do you want to be President? Go on that ride. It’ll be a laugh. It’s hard to cope with life but there is one thing that I know; I really want to live. I have been brought to the abattoir so many times but yet have not been shot in the head and hung on one of those hooks. My granda was a butcher and he spent his life killing animals. He was a lovely man: The best. There is too much fun to be had. I would not chose to live a life killing animals but why knock it. People take life too seriously. They fail to pay a bill and spiral into self-decay. Invite hell to your front door and spurn it. Fuck your demise. You will live through it. I worry that Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix had too much fun and died. I have outlived both of my only two idols. I love those two cunts. They really lived to the extreme. I would prefer to live like Jimi and die young than lead a tediously long life. I believe this fact with all of my heart. It is my only doctrine to living. So I do not have any more heroes (a term that has been used Papa Sir Higgs but that was originally used by me).

I have fun. If you wake up and are paralysed with a deep anxiety by your present situation;, Get on a flight. Fuck your job. Tell the wife “I need to see the Pacific Ocean”. Take a break from living. Otherwise you’ll be staring at death. Live defiantly. Say to yourself “fuck off wanker, I’m living.” Life is sometimes painful but fight on. It’s not a religious quest and it’s not a moral quest. It’s just living the same way a fish lives. There’s no prescribed way to living. Damon Albarn (lead singer of Blur) once gave up on life (See “No distance left to run” or “Beetlebum”) but he fought on. Now he’s one of the most successful musicians in England with his pop concept “Gorrilaz”. I fucking hate “Gorillaz” but I like to know that a man who used to be a heroin addict is singing out my radio. Lou Reed is the same. He used to be a crack addict but look at him now. He’s probably living in a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. He once lived a life of harrowing despair but now he wakes up sees the sky and smiles. He probably loves porridge. Being optimistic is a constant fight. Believe me, there are people out there who live pessimistic lives. Their neuroses will bring you down. They are usually the people close to you (family/friends). I live a war of love. I see and hear negativity every day but I kill it in my brain. I say “Fuck you, I’m living.” Kill negativity. Not just in your local vicinity but more importantly kill negativity in your mind. You will come across it at an almost momentary basis (nearly every second of your waking life) so get the knives out and LIVE. LIVE!

Hawaii

I went to Hawaii last year (pictured above). I woke up drunk one Sunday. I was very pissed off. I punched the wall of the shower as I thought about all the wankers I had met that week. My world was full of wankers at that point. I wanted to kill my boss. I phoned him and told him I had appendicitis and decided to go to Hawaii. There was a dental conference happening there and I thought I would go over and mix that shit up. I phoned up Henry, my accountant, and left a message on his answer phone;
“Henry, I can’t meet you on Tuesday. E-mail me the spreadsheets and I’ll get them in Honolulu.”
I phoned up Dave
“I hate the world Dave so I’m going to Hawaii. I may seem dead but I shall be on a tropical island.”
I phoned up my podiatrist:“You’re a cunt, there’s nothing wrong with my feet.”
He was a cunt. I hate that fucker.

I kept thinking: Humanity = Earth’s Natural Resources – Human Idiocy.
So I decided to say “Fuck you humanity, you’ve done nothing but maim me. So I’m fucking off to Hawaii.” The future of the world seemed bleak so I thought I would just take a trip to the other side of the world and shake hands with Obama’s extended family.

Hawaii is nice in August. I spent a lot of the time on an aeroplane. I flew from Manchester to New York to Los Angeles to Honolulu. I slept the whole way there. It was a lost week of alcoholism, beaches and conferences. Most of the time I was there I was thinking “I wonder if I could meet an Hawaiian woman and just stay here forever.” I went on my own and it was great being on holiday on my own again. I flew into Honolulu which is on the island of O’ahu. I immediately wanted go home when I stepped off the plane as it was like an oven. The wee fella wasn’t happy. I didn’t take any luggage which was funny so I first had to get to a place that sold shorts and t-shirts. After that shit, I went and got drunk and found the conference hotel. I thought it would be better to try to find the hotel very drunk and on a hired bike. The bike was a tandem (for 2) but only I rode it. I got into Hawaii at 2 pm and I eventually found my hotel at 2 am the next day. However I somehow lost my bike at “The Big Kahuna Burger”. I fell in love with Honolulu that day as I spent the day drunk, lost and chatting with random strangers about turtles and different types of cocktails. When I was there I liked to walk about pretending to be a Japanese secret agent there to plan “Pearl Harbour 2”.

The next day I had to go to the conference at 9 am. So I had a lie-in to 1 pm and went to the beach instead and decided to go to the 3 pm lecture rather than stress myself out. I sat in a lecture theatre with sand between my toes sipping a cocktail in a Hawaiian t-shirt listening to someone bollock-on about dental implants. Everyone else was dressed in suits. I got very drunk and all that dentistry bullshit made so much more sense. I sniggered when a World Authority on Implants spoke about the use of implants in orthodontics. I mixed in well with the other delegates as we spoke about the future of implant dentistry. They were all born to murder innocent people but happened to find their very sociopathic nature very suited to minor oral surgery. I remember lips moving yet not hearing anything. I fantasized about a meteor hitting the conference hotel. An American dentist named “Chad” befriended me but he just wanted to get some blow and hos. I said “Chad, I haven’t come the whole way to Hawaii for some ho. I’ve come for many hos!!!” Chad was a wanker too and I plotted to kill him from the moment we met. I’m glad I didn’t kill him but it did cross my mind when he accosted a very dangerous black man with an eye-patch for some drugs. He had a fucking eye-patch! My rage was silent but I went home early on that particular night and defecated in his hot tub. He deserved it because we spent the night in some of the dodgiest bars in Honolulu, with Chad trying to convince random women to sleep with us for money. Chad bought two hos and brought them back to his hot tub that night and was shocked by my little present. I didn’t tell him I did it and I hope he doesn’t somehow discover my blog. I enjoyed listening to him at breakfast, telling me about his aborted sex trip, with fury in his two blue Minnesota eyes. Chad was a twat. I still giggle at the thought of his browning hot tub water...my poo-poo were like coco pops...they turned the milk chocolatey. It was a wondrous surprise. Dentists are wankers. Believe me, they’re wankers.

So, Mojo what did you learn on your Hawaiian expedition?
Eugene doesn’t like sand in his eye

Did you not learn anything else?
Never try to beat a ho at poker

What was your favourite moment?
My favourite moment was when the police busted into Chad’s hotel room when he was having a drug-fuelled orgy with 3 prostitutes. I could hear his screams as he was taken to the station.

Is Honolulu worth the trip?
I’d prefer to go to Omeath. I have tried to obliterate the entire trip from my memory and didn’t want to talk about it until this moment. The memories though were too painful to hide.

What about the conference?
I enjoyed the conference and particularly liked the hands-on element. The other delegates did not have any propensity for love.

Would you go back?
No fooking way

Do you really hate your podiatrist?
Yes, he lives a vacant meaningless life and I hope he stands on a landmine one day.

How are you still alive?
It’s just luck

Any luck with the women these days?
No

What’s on the Mojo Jukebox at present?
RAEKWON. GHOSTFACE KILLAH, SONGS IN THE KEY OF LIFE by Stevie wonder. And "Sky Blue Sky" by Wilco.

What next?
I’m writing a childrens book at the moment. I want to change the world and paint the stars with Magic Mojo Juice.

Thank you,

Mojo

D.I.Why? - The Mojo Guide to D.I.Y.

D.I.Why? - The Mojo Guide to D.I.Y.

I was sitting at home the other day and I thought “Fuck me, I’m a useless bastard.”
It dawned on me that I don’t have any power tools and even more harrowing was that I realised that I have never used a power tool. I usually try to hang up framed pictures on the wall with blue-tac. I immediately googled: “D.I.Y. power tools Manchester.” I was given a number for a school called the “D.I.Y. School” I rang it up:

Mojo: hi who’s this?
Man on the other end of the phone: Who’s this?
Mojo: It’s Mojo.
Man on the other end of the phone: I’m Kevin. Why are you phoning Mojo?
Mojo: can I sign up to use Power tools?
Kevin, the D.I.Y. Man (K): You can use Power tools without signing up to a course
Mojo: Ha ha , yeah but I want to do the Power Tools course
K: There isn’t a Power tools course. We have a Home Maintenance course where some of the course we teach some power tool skills. We’ll show you how to use a power screwdriver and drills as well as cordless tools.
Mojo: Aye, sign me up for that one
K: I need to be specific though. Power tools only makes up a small percentage of the course.
Mojo: Aye, you said the magic words. Anything with “Power” and “Tools” and I’m on that shit.
K: Do you do DIY?
Mojo: Are you kidding? I’ve only learned how to use blue-tac. I thought a hammer was a rap star in the late eighties. That’s until I met that cunt Timmy Mallet.

So off I went to the D.I.Y. school. It was the first time that I had been to school in many years and I couldn’t wait to dig out my old Thundercats lunchbox. I filled it to the brim with jelly-based sugary snacks and 2 grams of cocaine. I grabbed a Yazoo and ran to my new school as happy as a cunt.

I busted open the front doors and I realised that I was in the right place. People were wile happy. It’s what I expected. MENTAL NOTE: Men with Power tools = profound satisfaction. Fuck me.... they must’ve been all on speed. I was playing catch-up so I went to the toilets and done a few lines of coke. I stepped into a room entitled “The WORK Room” and I smiled so brightly that it lit up the dark abyss that is my soul. It was predominantly men and they gave me knowing nods. I gave my own Ulster version of a knowing nod, which was a very paranoid facial expression. TO ULSTER!! People then frowned. I frowned then too. And then I wanted to go into a corner and blubber like a lost child but then I was approached by a bullish man about 5 feet tall. He had a crew cut and a “don’t fuck with me” smile:

Bullish man: Hi! I’m Kevin.
Mojo: It’s Mojo!
Kevin (Bullish man): Ah.. Mojo...you’re the power tool man. Finally,
[pause]..
We meet. There’s your work table. Go and have a cup of tea. Watch you don’t get the sugar mixed up with the MDMA....a common mistake. {laughter}
Mojo: I’ve made that mistake!

I feared that Kevin may kill me if I didn’t have a cup of tea. He gave me the “I’ll fucking cut you down if you don’t enjoy my tea you fucker” look. So I went to the kitchen. There were pictures of naked women near the kettle attached to the wall. That made me very happy. I made a cup of tea and I read the little articles next to the naked women. “Hi I’m Katey. And I’ll be voting for Conservatives at the next election. David Cameron is soooo dishy” read one article next to a tanned brunette girl with 36 DD breasts. Another read, “Hi! I’m Julie. I enjoy scrabble in my spare time and love a man with hard pecs. Yummy! Don’t do drugs kids ;)” I immediately wanted to run to my nearest gym and pump some iron. I threw the rest of my cocaine down the sink. I was a new man.

The course was the best day I’ve had in a while. There was no sex to complicate things and no awkward goodbyes at the end. The “Kiss or not to kiss” dilemma could be brazenly ignored. It was better than that Christmas I spent in Auschwitz with Santa Claus. It was better than that day Nelson Mandela was freed from Robin Island and was made King of all of Africa. And it was better than thon day David Hasselhoff brought down the Berlin wall with his music of love and peace, all by himself. He was looking for freedom and when he found it, he gave it to the world. What a fantastic guy. I clutched my Power Drill to my chest as I thought about David’s great fight against the evils of communism. What a brave man. I wondered if I could ever be as brave as him as I watched someone laugh as they screwed in a screw with a power screwdriver. It was a beautiful moment. Everybody in the place was smiling as they were using the power tools. This is what heaven must be like but with free sex and beer on tap. I fancy having French actress Marion Cotilliard (who starred in the Edith Piaf Biopic “la Vie en rose”) as my workmate in heaven. She’s a wee minx and I bet she’d love to see me use my Power Drill. Kevin spent most of the time high-5ing my fellow students as we successfully cut and hammered things. We were getting praised for enjoying ourselves. Kevin was the greatest teacher of the Power Tool. I’d only met one teacher of the Power Tool but I could tell by his politically incorrect conversations and the incredible way he blasphemed that he was the greatest. It’s hard to put into words how happy I felt. I often feel like I am wearing a jacket consisting totally of semtex that is ready to be detonated by Noel Edmunds at any moment but yesterday I felt as if I had lost my semtex jacket and inevitable death was possibly, unlikely.

Open your heart to the POWER TOOL.

MOJO
P.s. It seems strange but every word above of this blog is true.
P.p.s. Not the David Hasselhoff bit.
P.p.p.s. Not the King of Africa Nelson Mandela bit. He’s only the King of South Africa. Tootin’ Kamoon is the king of the North.
P.p.p.p.s. Not the 36 DD bit. I wasn’t sure about her breast size as I’m not that au fait with breast sizes. They were big though. Little boob children.
P.p.p.p.p.s. I hear Bruce Forsythe used to tell a woman’s breast size just by weighing their breasts in his hands. Sexual.