Monday, 3 August 2020


I am with Alex Paterson (of The Orb) and we are in a casually adorned room, lounging on sofas (and working on a track together?). At this time, however, we are listening to The Orb album 'The Dream' (or rather, I am, wondering what DRAP makes of this particular album, and whether he minds hearing it). I suppose, as it's not that highly regarded, he must be pleased to know that someone rates and enjoys it. I leave as he sits quietly listening to the track 'Duja Ve', with it's soaring and upbeat vocals-

I am now standing in a garden of stepped grass, several levels rising to the back of a 50's bungalow. I am talking to a tall, lanky guy. He has a slightly abrasive and threatening manner, an intensity to him that slightly concerns me. Somehow I can't shake the feeling that he is more intelligent than he makes out, urging myself to put aside my reservations and fully engage in the conversation with him. He has exaggerated, rubbery features - a flat, squashed nose, sunken eyes and a thick lower lip that hangs above the jut of his lower jaw. (He reminds me of a drug addict who lives in Yorkhill, which likely explains my hesitation.) I also feel anxious to return inside and to continue working with DRAP - in the back of my mind it is Friday and I am sure he will knock off work at 4pm. I wonder where I am. The guy I am talking to offers me a brandy and I hunt through a box (from?) and take out two sturdy crystal glasses (that I think belong to him too). When I take them to him there's some amusement about my footwear - I have always sensed there was another person present and he seems most manifest at this very moment of ridicule. I have on brown leather slippers and I quickly go one the defensive (knowing I should have put on some other boots?)-

I am in a top floor/attic flat with sloped celings and Velux rooflights. On a table therein are several pencil line drawings (in a nice comic art style) of smiling faces. They are quite good and all are signed in the bottom left hand corner by K. Penman. There is a leak from the ceiling directly onto the red bed covers below. I panic. There is a damp cigarette packet on the bed. My wedding ring-

Thursday, 30 July 2020


Visiting Gee, my old upstairs (and across the hall) neighbour, (un)conscious that here in the dreamscape he is living two floors directly above my flat. His apartment is dark and dingy with a low ceiling, poorly lit by two conjoined high level windows that seem to be the only (limited) source of natural light. We are standing in the hall and to my right I can see into the living room. It is quite compact, with brown carpet on the floor, walls and ceiling. There is an old tube television, with a timber veneer finish and standing on four tapering wooden legs, in the corner. It is a surprising sight – I expected his place to be both modern and clean. We are talking in the hallway, beneath the window, and (to my inner alarm) water begins to to pour through the carpet-covered ceiling, soaking into the floor below. The damp, black wound from which it trickles would suggest to me this is not a new occurrence – I am worried about my flat. Then, as the flat walls begin to warp and bend – why did I not notice they were leaning before? - adding to my concern a strange pipe construct (that almost but not quite meets in the middle) appears to (nearly) span the space. Water seems to flood from the upper pipework and, whilst it does not quite successfully join with the lower section, some of it is caught and drained away. I struggle to see if I can get the two separate ends to meet to reduce this needless and damaging spillage-

Wednesday, 22 July 2020

Dream Grabzzz....

I am talking to the guitarist John Squire and he categorically states that there will be no new Stone Roses material-

I have taken it upon myself to join my friend Haitch EmKay on his holiday in Croatia – seems it's a very last minute decision on my part. We are outside the hotel, on a large external balcony (that ought to be) in the sunshine. Except it is snowing. I can see the snow gathering on a large glass canopy that slopes from the building's edge to the ground. I remark to Haitch that he'll not be putting photographs of this on Facebook-

I am on a bus, travelling with my old friend Cee Cee. He's seated somewhere up the from and is behaving in a very (typical) boorish manner, and keeps pointing me out to the other passengers. I have pulled the hood of my jacket up and over the back of my head to hide my face. An Irish girl, talking loudly, walks down the aisle, mentioning me-

I am on the floor of a room, jostling with a huge spider which dodges me at the other side of some kitchen table furniture-

I am with my friends Dee Bee and Dee Arr. There is a powder in a plastic tub with a small flip-top lid inset into the surface. This contains “suicide powder” (that I cannot help but think of as “suicide paste”-

Critic (Dee Pee of The List magazine?) who is able, by using a system of concise and pointed trolling to then reduce the (dreamescape) gone-to-seed comedian Alan Davies – who here has lanky, greasy hair and is considerably overweight – to near tears by gently accosting him backstage(?) and uttering a single, hushed word-

Tuesday, 14 July 2020


I am with RIDE and we are playing a gig. Mark Gardener is not present and so, with Steve Queralt opting for (replacement) rhythm/second guitar, I have gamely stepped forward (or convinced them I'm capable enough) to fill his boots and am a good fit for bass. The opening track is 'Seagull' and, of course, at that exact moment I have no idea how to play the bassline (which technically kicks off the song). I run my fingers gently over the strings, softly fretting them here and there on the neck in an embarrassed attempt to quietly figure out the riff. With the song having subsequently fizzled out – to the obvious impatience of the band and audience – we try another, one beginning with a simple picked guitar refrain. I quickly (and luckily) happen to chance upon two notes that sit nicely enough (even if they unimaginatively adopt a steady back and forth timing) under this. Again I get lost at the chorus and only really establish the correct key/notes as we jump back into the verse, leaving my playing trailing once more-

Monday, 6 July 2020


I am with another guy, a man, who I am pretty sure is the rapper Kanye West (at least by name and in my mind, if not actually looking very much like him). We both have a small bag – like a Greggs the Bakery bag, plastic film to the top, a white paper portion forming the bottom/underside and back – that contains a representation of us, a sense of our essence. I am disgruntled as Kanye's bag contains a miniature reproduction of a complete tiger's head whereas my bag holds the nose/snout of a lion - I don't see this, I just know it somehow. This disparity causes me great concern and I argue my case with Kanye accordingly-

Friday, 3 July 2020


I am in a gift shop – something tells me it is Culzean Castle? - and am looking at what is on offer. All I can picture are black ink line drawings of faces and they each, as per my own drawings, have eyes that are blank. I'm not wholly convinced of the quality of the actual drawing – some of the features are a bit squint and not in line - and mention this to my mother, saying that I could easily do it (better). As we walk outside she scoffs at this statement and is obviously not convinced. “Oh well, if you think so...”-

I am talking to Cee Oh'Bee (owner of City Centre Comics) and we get on to the topic of not filling in the eyes of a drawing and he informs me that this approach means that you can use anyone's likeness and it will never be subject to contention or copyright and thus can endlessly be used for promotion and profit. I then make (for him) a full size line drawing of Sir Sean Connery's face to be used as a mask, the blank eyes cut out and the nose partially cut to allow your own to pop through the cardboard backing. However, I end up wearing the mask and as Cee and I walk together. Cee is talking and I realise how did I think his strong Glaswegian accent could never be contorted into the smooth tones of Sir Sean and so I attempt a 'shhh shhh' style imitation of Sir Sean's voice. This vocalising is hilariously bad, but I continue to persevere with it as we encounter some company. I go up to our friend Jay EmmCeeEss and try my terrible accent, thinking I'm being funny (and realising as I do so that he is engrossed in conversation over a book with a woman of some importance)-

Thursday, 25 June 2020


I am at home(?) or my mental comfort zone suggests as much. By my Father's chair, to my right, in the corner of the (living?) room I notice what I think is a spillage on the glossy laminate floor. Tackling it with kitchen towel I realise that the (ceramic?) hot water bottle lying on the floor nearby is, when I lift it, cracked and broken and a gloopy, red wine-ish coloured liquid – a surprising amount as I cradle the seal in my hand – is pouring from the neck. My Mother is cross – I'm assuming she's assuming my father (who is not present) has stood on the hot water bottle by accident. My little brother and I are on mopping up duties, trying to stem the tide/damage of the liquid with kitchen towel. I notice, after some frantic rubbing, that the glossy surface of the laminate flooring is slowly peeling away to reveal the pale, untreated timber surface below. This is worrying, the gloss coming away in large flakes. Suddenly it's as if the flooring has turned into strange, elongated (representations) of classic funk and soul lps – the covers themselves are in bold reds and blues, the band names set in artistic fonts, the groups lounge, stylishly dressed in the inset photographs – and there's now a team of us who have been commandeered by a Sly Stone-esque figure to marshal us, to organise us so that we might click this failing (record) floor back into place. It seems to be two panels of flooring exactly side by side, then a single offset panel, then an other two aligned and so on. Someone (me?) shouts, “the funk of America is moving!” and immediately after I question whether this exclamation could be deemed to be a little offensive, if not racist (though Sly does not visibly react, suggesting it is not). The floor appears to move in coordinated waves and someone (who is definitely not me) drawls that it (or is it Sly's instructions?), “rolls over you like a carpet”, a stoned and puzzling observation if I ever heard one-