I had the pleasure in taking part in a show at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival #micf2015 called “Fan Fiction” where comedians read fan fiction that they wrote about…anything.  I’ve never read fan fiction nor written fan fiction in my life.  I wasn’t sure if I was “doing it right” but it turned out super fun at the show - mostly probably because of my terrible Morrissey and RB impressions.  Oh, I wrote fan fiction about something I would like to see happen - the break up of Morrissey and Russell Brand’s friendship.  That’s right.  I’m jealous.  

I am re-printing it here for your reading pleasure. 

Russell brand walks into a slick dark bar and meets his friend Morrissey in a corner velvet boot.

M:    Shut up, Russell.

RB:  Morrissey, I haven’t even parted my lips to begin taking a breath intended to help words come out of my mouth and you’re telling me to ‘shut up, Russell?’

M:    You’re boring me. Russell. Now I know how horses fall asleep standing up. Sssh. Don’t talk.

RB:  I’m fine with not talking but I would say that the mere expression of our bodies, here sitting on the same bench is indeed a conversation in itself. As our breath breathes for us, our hearts beat and our pulse travels around sometimes we feel it in our chest sometimes…. other areas.  Like, when I see that cocktail waitress and I know that if I wanted to I could look at her in a certain way and have a conversation about what kind of sparkling water I want.  But using my eyes that are not unlike Charles Manson’s I can subliminally convince her that later tonight my sweaty, leather pants will be draped on her bedroom floor.

M:    Russell. I’m bored of you. You’re not ordering a sparkling water because we’re not staying here.  I just wanted to tell you, in person, that our little game of friendship is over.  I fold.

RB:  Why, Morrissey?  Why?

M:    I’m realizing that you amused me and I liked to play with people’s perceptions of me.  Here is this brooding celibate homosexual hanging out with a gregarious, heterosexual man in extraordinary situations like Vanity Fair Oscar parties yet resigning ourselves to a corner where people wondered, “What are THEY talking about?”  I’m over that fascination.

RB:  But Morrissey we’ve got so much in common. I have a Messiah Complex, as do you.

M:    No Russell.. I am the Messiah. YOU are both a snake oil salesman and a snake.  I just read your second book and I can’t believe that you get away with saying such trite things like, “God is in the mountains impassive, immovable, jagged giants, separating the celestial from the terrestrial. The mountains remind me of my place, as a servant to truth and wonder. Yes, God is in the mountains. Perhaps the pulpit too and even in the piety of an atheist’s sigh. I don’t know; but I feel him in the mountains.”

I wrote a song called “I Have Forgiven Jesus.  Have you ever heard of such a thing? A human forgiving Jesus for making them gay?  It’s delightful and It’s revolutionary.  And simple and honest.  No one comprehends mountains.  They only think they do but everyone sees God in their own shortcomings.

“But Jesus hurt me
When He deserted me, but
I have forgiven Jesus
For all of the love
He placed in me when there’s no one
I can turn to with this love

Why did you give me so much desire
When there is nowhere I can go to offload this desire?
And why did you give me so much love in a loveless world
When there is no one I can turn to
To unlock all this love?
And why did you stick me in self-deprecating bones and skin?
Jesus do you hate me?
Why did you stick me in self-deprecating bones and skin?
Do you hate me?”

RB:  Well Morrissey, I’m not you.  I don’t have the access to poetry that you do.  I use my body as part of my communication.

M:    Let me stop you there.  I know. I see you slink around with your necklaces that are now dragging on the floor.  Are you trying to outdo Madonna’s Rosary from 1985?  Who is shocked by some prayer beads?  And your body is a scrawny, argument against vegetarianism.  What are women exactly wrapping themselves around when they’re with you? Your ego? 

RB:  I named my tuxedo cat after you!

M:    I’m sure many teenaged girls and post punk adult women have named their cats after me, and you don’t see me giving them the time of day. I was taken with you, Russell.  I begun blowing off Nancy Sinatra seeing her as too simple – when in actuality, I miss sitting around with her watching The Golden Girls on DVD. 

RB:  Ah, the Golden Girls.  Not just a sitcom a critical analysis of feminism in sexuality and sexuality in older women and the friendships forged after men are no longer in the picture as men are the weaker sex and that is the most subversive—-

M:    Russell, Bea Arthur had a deep voice and Sophia always carried her purse even to the kitchen.  That makes me laugh.  You don’t need to over analyze everything.  

RB:  If I’m not analyzing, what am I doing?

M:    Hopefully taking a nap and resting your insatiable urge to be interesting.  The difference between you and a teenaged girl is a teenaged girl will eventually tire of herself and she’ll either take her own life or just get older. 

Russell is silenced.

The cocktail waitress approaches. Morrissey, on his way up and out, addresses the waitress.

M:  “Get him what he desires but please don’t give him what he wants.”