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John Moore's Diary

John Moore Remembers His Friends Mr Horsley & Mr Wojas
The Quietus , July 2nd, 2010 11:14

Dear Diary,

It has been rather a while since I visited you to record my thoughts and adventures. The reasons for this are multiple. Firstly, an emotional collapse rendered me unable – or unwilling at least, to do much more than press myself into a comfortable sofa. Like many who term themselves artists, I am afflicted with severe mood swings – an atrabilious temperament more commonly known as bipolarity. I prefer the term manic depression because it sounds windswept and poetic, but it’s all one and the same thing. I have been medicated with anti-depressants for the last ten years… and alcohol for a damned sight longer. Rather like the advertisements on daytime television that attempt to sell financial packages to the terminally stupid, the markets can go down as well as up, and if you don’t keep up the repayments you will be repossessed. Well I was repossessed. My early year optimism eventually peaked in a fever of maniac awfulness and the crash that followed was even more debilitating than usual. So to those I insulted, attempted to destroy, have my wicked way with, or just annoyed the shit out of – you know who you are, I apologise.

Apart from alterations to the delicate balance of my mind, regime change has taken place and I was rather preoccupied with the general election. I actually campaigned for a local independent candidate – the wonderful Tamsin Omond – famous for scaling the Houses of Parliament to protest about climate change. I handed out leaflets, attended hustings and tried to persuade the local populace that anarchy was the way forward. Although scraping a meagre amount of votes, she deprived the Tory candidate of victory – he lost by 42, and good old Glenda Jackson was re elected.

The small distraction of the World Cup has also taken me away from musical adventures, although I did pen a World Ccup song

”You can stick Your Vuvuzela up your Nelson Mandela
England ain’t coming home today
And Fabio Cappella he’s a lovely fella
England are going all the way”

Another Moore-onic gem falls by the wayside.

There has also been death and sadness to contend with. My great friend Michael Wojas, proprietor of The Colony Room, departed this life and was sent to the great hereafter in a blaze of green glory. I composed a poem that I read at his funeral – a wonderful, typically chaotic, Colony affair. His coffin, made from cardboard by the artist Sarah Lucas, was too large to fit through the crematorium doors. Like so many evenings at the Colony Room, time was called, we all fucked off, and Michael was left to his own devices, his box covered in flowers, cigarettes, kisses and vodka – which he would very much have approved of. As far as I know, the crematorium did not explode as the flames consumed him. As his life was celebrated and toasted on Dean Street, and hundreds of green helium balloons were released, the grim reaper was not yet done, and slipped around the corner and pay Sebastian Horsley a call. Having fallen out terribly with Michael over the closure of The Colony Room, it was particularly sad, poignant and strange. As his immaculate hit took hold, did he see the green balloons soaring skyward? Sebastian was a much nicer person than he cared to admit and I hope he died happy. He will be terribly missed and long remembered.

So finally onto music – that thing I am supposed to do from time to time. The band is not in its healthiest state it must be said, being rather short of a rhythm section at the time of writing. Trying to keep a band going when its members are dispersed far and wide and have those small encumbrances known as children is an onerous task. A new engine room is being sought, and by the time we hit the Port Eliot Festival, the band should be rocking at full capacity. We have had offers of drumming assistance already – although one of them is from a known knee fetishist, and I will not let him anywhere near the beautiful Loose Moorelles. In the mean time, there is another school fete to do – it might have to be a rather more avant-garde set than the PTA are hoping for, perhaps a 45 minute version of ‘Sister Ray’ played Seasick Steve style. I might even introduce my ventriloquist dummies into the show…Gorillaz eat yer heart out.

Well that’s it for now. I could have mentioned the heart-breaking story of how I purchased a PA system from a club singer from Wigan who had suffered a minor stroke and could no longer remember the words to any songs – but that might upset you. I will end with the poem for the late, great and wonderful Michael Wojas.

In a green green room there’s a green green man and he rocks
and he rocks then he rocks some more
He sways and he rocks as the green ship sails through the green green
seas and the tar black floor

The floor starts to rise as the anchor is tossed
and the boards start to creak with the souls of the lost
and the crew calls out and the ghosts call back
“Our hearts are green and our lungs are black

We’re sailing to the Colony, We’re sailing to the Colony

On a tall green chair our captain sits
shivering his timbers - in his dark glasses
and he smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
and he ticks our names on the passenger list
There’s cunty and cunty, and old cunty’s been in
And she needs a shave or a brand new skin
“And he’s not long for this dear old world
Time to settle up dear like a good old girl.”

On a torn green chair there’s a thin green man and he rocks
and he rocks then he rocks some more
and he sways and he rocks as the green ship sails
through the green green seas and the tar black floor

and the crew start to sing and the ghosts join in
and the ship sails on through the nicotine fog
it’s man overboard as the old girl roars
and the glasses fly across the Ouija board

And the floor starts to rise and the board starts to creek
And the ship sets sail down old Dean Street
The girls start to cackle the men start to swear
and powder their noses in the you know where?

We’re going to the Colony, we’re sailing to the Colony

And it’s man overboard as the old girl soars
Above the luckless, fuckless Dean Street Whores
and he smokes as he watches and he drinks with the fish
and he welcomes you home and he kisses your lips

And you know when he does he means it
And you know when he does he means it

We’re going to the Colony Room, we’re sailing in the Colony Room

Through the green green door up the green green stairs
There’s a place for the ones who never said their prayers

Muriel, Ian, Michael – your ship will always be there. XXX