Sunday, 28 February 2010

I sexually abused my ironing board

I sexually abused my ironing board

I came home drunk the other night at about 3 am. Fuck knows how I got home. But I remember running home with a kebab at a very fast pace. It was a Wednesday night and I had been to that beacon of hope “The Venue Nightclub”. I can’t remember much about my experience other than watching one lonely guy dancing alone on the dance floor for several hours to Motown hits. It was a slow night and I went out with RORO Corp. Unfortunately I put the play on one of the members of RORO Corp and embarrassed myself. I can’t remember this though. It was a great night but I would like to publicly apologize to both members of RORO Corp for my sexiness. Sorry girls. We did some fancy dancing though. I was like Prince on acid. When Mojo meets RORO Corp it’s always a good time. That shit’s historical.

So I got home and sexually abused my ironing board. We’ve been going through a lot recently. It's been hard between me and the aul board lately (pictured above with new 'lover' Kermit the Frog). Last week we both decided it would be best if we see other people. We’re not really talking but when I came home drunk I roughed it up and give it a good seeing to. I’ve gotten the silent treatment ever since. But that’s understandable as I’ve just raped my ironing board. I don’t think we’ll ever patch things up. And Kermit's definitely not going to forgive me. He said he wants to cut off my legs and eat them as an ironic punishment. This is a new low.

I’m scared of the lollipop man

There’s a lollipop man around the corner from my house and he gives me the heebie-jeebies. I have passed him on many occasions over the past two weeks and he stares at me as I pass him. He must be a paedophile. I’m scared Mummy! He also just sort of jumps out in front of moving cars like Willy Wonka. He has a maniacal laugh and all the children look equally as scared as me. He lets them across the road and then watches them for about 5 minutes as they walk away. I have day-dreamed about being an Anti-Lollipop Man Super Hero. I would spend my days monitoring all the Lollipop men in the country and if one stepped out of line...BAMMM!! KAZAAAAM! Mojo would be there to contact the authorities and help to speed up the legal proceedings. Lollipop men, Mojo is watching you.

The drummer had a rat up his ass

I went to a jazz night the other day and I was sitting there stroking my make-believe beard and I realised the drummer had a rat up his ass. He had quite a pained expression on his face. It made me have a pained expression on my face! Every time he hit the ride cymbal his face would scrunch up into a rather weird shape that both horrified and amused the audience. He definitely had a rat up his ass that he was trying to shit out. I was sitting there and I had a Mojo Moment. I stood up and declared “This isn’t music! If this were my club I would banish you all.” Jazz is musical masturbation and theres only so much jizz you can swallow before you learn your lesson and need your stomach pumped out in the "BEBOP HOSPITAL OF DEEP SELF-LOATHING."

Alan Yentob must be sent away

I’m tired of the Guardian and Alan Yentob. I wish they would just go away and leave my mind alone. Alan Yentob, the Creative Director for the BBC and presenter of the Culture Show is probably one of the worst people to spend a day down the pub with. You’d have to keep explaining to him the off-side rule. And he’d sit there with his glass of chardonnay and I’d have to listen to him critique the life I lead. Here’s how a Mojo-Yentob conversation might go:

Alan (A): “What are you doing down the pub all day when you could be in a museum looking at some art?”
Mojo (M): “Museums are shit Alan.”
A: “Museums are shit? How can you sit there with your pint of...."


M: “Beer?”
A: “Yeah, with your pint of beer and say that museums are shit?”
M: “Because I’ve been to the Louvre and the woman shouted at me because I touched a sculpture. A sculpture Alan, that wanted to be touched.”
A: “Jeez, you’ve a lot to learn.”
M: “Fuck you Alan. I never say that about your tragic grasp of lad culture.”
A: “What about the ballet? Or even the opera? Or the theatre?”
M: “Look, I’ve been to see them all and they’re bourgeois badges of the middle classes.”
A: “What do you mean?”
M: “Well, name one gangster in the hood who goes to the opera. Ticket prices alone make it inaccessible for most young people. I mean if you are a fly mofo and you somehow had 40 quid to spare that week, are you going to drop some e in a rave or sit beside a bus load of old dolls at La Traviata?”
A: “Oh good heavens, that’s not the case.”
M: “Alan, I know the brothaz and I know the sistaz and I know that they’re not wasting the skunk money that week on a Harold Pinter play.”
A: “Erm...”

[Awkward pause, a barmaid passes and winks at Mojo....some canned laughter]

M: “Exactly Alan. Exactly. Do you want some Scampi Fries?”
A: “ can you eat those? They smell like thrush or something worse.”
M: “Haha, you're right...But you stick with your caviar. Your taste buds have only evolved to enjoy fish turd.”
A: "I am Alan Yentob! ALAN YENTOB!"

[Alan Yentob stands up abruptly, downs his Chardonnay, grabs his Guardian and storms out of the pub]

Cue canned laughter and a big breasted blonde to pass the camera.

Have a wonderful day

Friday, 26 February 2010

Give me "The Mojo"

Give me “The Mojo”

One day Frazier and I were fucking about with some beer mats and who comes along but Dan to destroy our amazing beer mat pyramid. Then Woody started spraying us with lemonade and Cliff slipped on the lemonade puddle just as he walked in to the bar. That Cliff, he’s so clumsy! Oh wait, that’s not my life. That’s the hit 90s American sitcom “Cheers”.
Back to reality; I was sitting alone in my home “Casa del Moj” whimpering to myself about how much of a disaster my life is and then I had the displeasure of looking in a mirror. My hair was in a horrendous state.

“Dead babies!” I yelled.

The last time someone felt this sad was when Roddick took Federer to 5 sets in Wimbledon and the smug twat still beat him. I felt just like Andy; Poor wee Andy in his wee white shorts muttering obscenities under his breath. Looking at my bap it was as if the war and several battles had been lost, on my head. I kicked over my partially built Lego castle in disgust and ran for the door.

I ran like Michael Johnson with a hip fracture to the train station and shouted at the fat controller, “Fat controller! Take me to where the big aeroplanes are! This is an emergency!” I jumped aboard the train and it took me to where the big aeroplanes are.

I ran into the airport and shouted at the Wrongly-applied-fake-tan-woman, “Wrongly-applied-fake-tan woman! Take me to Belfast at once!” I was then quickly taken to prison. After my release, I boarded the H.M.S. Kirk Mc Cambley for Ulster. It was a relaxing journey, I met a group of young Everton supporters and we all bonded over Pernods and White during discussions about Daddy Moyes "Buy Black" policy. On arrival in Ulster I ran straight to the Theatre of Hair-Do Dreams. There was only one man who could help me now. That man was the only man who ever cared...........for hair. That man was Terry T, my barber.

Terry T (T):“Mojo, brother, what’s cookin’?”
Mojo (M): “I need your help Terry T”
T: “You want some coke?”
M: “No! Look!” I pointed to my hair.
T: “Shhheeeeeeeeit. Such tragedy. Such tragedy on a scalp.”
M: “Yeah, I feel like Macbeth is entirely responsible.”
T: “Who is this he one of the McAteers from John Martin’s Street? I’ll kick his fuck in.”
M: "No, no, no hes a Partick Thistle supporter."
T: "That explains everything....Wanker. So what do you want today?"
M: "Give me 'The Mojo'."
T: "No problem. Another embarassingly shit haircut coming up."

Terry T then does what he does best, talk and cut hair.

T: "So what's been cooking Mojareeno?"
M: "Just the usual self-loathing and despair."
T: "Awh, the goodtime blues...I know it well. So often, you are up and so often you are down."
M: "Aye...too true Terry ...too true."

[a pause...I watch Terry T staring out the window whilst simultaneously cutting my hair]
Mojo: "Who the fuck blew up the courthouse?"
T: "Them dissident cunts."
M: "Were they not a Punk band from the late 70s?"
T: "Aye, I think they were. I blame Tyrone."
M: "Tyrone who?"
T: "The whole county of Tyrone. Every single one of those Tyrone cunts. They are all to blame."
M: "True Terry...too true."
T: "They're a wild bunch them Tyrone ones."
M: "They make the South Armagh Battalion look like kittens."
T: "I was cutting this fellas hair once. I think he was called "Steel Man". He was from Tyrone. And I had an argument about the middle east and he attacked me with my own scissors. He tied me to my barbers chair and shaved off all my hair. Then instead of leaving by the door he jumped out through the window. It took weeks to clean the glass up."
M: "Fuck? Really?"
T: "Aye, Tyrone is to blame. Tyrone is always to blame. I have an exaggerated hatred of Tyrone but starvation in Africa...Tyrone's fault.....the crisis in the Middle East..Tyrone's fault.....the John Terry affair...Tyrone's fault...Stephen Fry's smugness...Tyrone's fault. . It can't help but hurt the world."
M: "So true Terry, you are a wise man."
T: "Tyrone...hmmpf.....should be called "Try-one" instead."
M: "Thats an acronym."
T: "Aye, thats an acronym Mojo."
M: "You're genius knows no limitations Terry T."
T; "True...."
T: "True..."
M: "Hey thanks Terry. You've outdone yourself this time. This has to be the worst haircut you've done in awhile."
T: "Thanks Mojo. Go champ. Go out there now and slay the world."
I left Terry T's Theatre of Hair-do Dreams and went over to Savages for a packet of Monster Munch. They were tragically beautiful in my mouth and I wondered how someone as gorgeous as Kerry the checkout girl lived her daily life. Did she shave her legs and think about the universe? I tried to savour the moment. I watched a dog pissing against a wall. Two pigeons, on a curb. Kerry scanning a newspaper. The red light of the scanner catching her eyes. They glistened. One day she would succumb to Eugene. She was already simmering a deep love for the Moj. Her blue mascara eyes could not hide the truth.