Oh, the excitement of Morrissey Eve!
On Morrissey Eve all the little Beaker Folk sit up wondering if "Santa Moz" is going to visit. On Ed Balls Day, they'll have written their list of crippling teenage emotional angst, in the form of bad poetry, onto the dried fig leaves of last summer. They use a special ink made from the ashes of Northern industrial heritage mixed in their own tears.
When they burn the fig leaves, to send them to Mozza, the smoke carries such melancholy into the atmosphere that the birds sulk and refuse to build nests for weeks after. Then on the night itself, all the Beaker Folk leave out lamb chops and bags of mince to ensure Morrissey isn't tempted to come down the chimney.
Round about midnight, there's a peal of a bell and an urban decay smell. And then little Johnny Marr pops in to tell us that Morrissey isn't really feeling up to it this year. But through the night, we hear a chiming guitar on the breeze. We try to drown it out by playing "Bat out of Hell" really loudly, but that just gets on my nerves. Honestly, Meat is murder.