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:
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.
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: “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
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