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