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 Macbeth...is 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.

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