Zzuntub

In a concrete built environment, all very solid, angular and drained of colour. I am at the head of a group, the group itself more or less being lead by my friend Ayy Jay Ess as I power out in front in an angry and unsettled strop. This is because I have taken umbrage at Ayy Jay Ess for directing the group's attention to copycat John Miller graffiti. It's obviously fake but Ayy Jay Ess still enjoys enthusing about John Miller's genius to the attentive audience while I, for some reason, (inwardly) object to this-

We reach a set of steps, cut into the harsh, solid surroundings, that lead up to a University building. I have purposely ignored some graffiti on the wall prior to this but make my way, bothered, back down the steps to inspect what all the/Ayy Jayy Ess's fuss is about, dismissing the (admittedly quite good) postering – 'WAH!' or John's cat character Zooty? - and sloganeering immediately (but staying longer to study and admire it anyway)-

I am in some enormous dimly lit lecture theatre that slopes sharply down to the stage. I am with a black guy – cropped hair, thick NHS glasses, stubble – and he and I converse as we make our way to our seating. The chairs are much older than they first appeared, and the seating is quite cramped, covered in worn fabric of faded reds and blues. There is no aisle to speak of and we simply (cautiously) step on the seats as we descend. The theatre becomes more and more visibly tatty (and steep!) as we do so – I am questioning the condition as much as the vertiginous design at this point – and yet I seem to be drifting, gently springing with minimum contact between (several) rows (at a time) as we near the stage-

Xovvit

“Boris Johnson sacks Australian CEO on his couch.”

“WW2 fillings responsible for second fire.”

I am looking at the back page of a newspaper. There is a two-thirds photo of a Formula One racing driver, Rema(?), dressed in the standard red jumpsuit. He has short curly hair, matted to his head, a dark complexion, large, slightly bulging eyes, his mouth set in a pained, gap-toothed semi-smile. The headline, to his bottom right, concerns his “feral grandmother”. There is a picture (there?) to accompany this. She stands, her arms aloft in a triumphant pose, her feet planted firmly apart. Her skin is dark and leathery, a huge diamond of black pubic hair growing up from her crotch, peaking below her saggy, wrinkled breasts. Her head is tilted back, her toothy mouth open to the sky as if uttering a mighty roar- 

I am watching football on a big screen in a pub. I am directly in front of the screen, resting my bottom on a timber table to my back. The table is covered in piled newspapers and I am conscious that I am crumpling them at the edge and continually shift my weight accordingly. I am not sure whether I am watching (The Stone Roses) singer Ian Brown as a player or in fact “Ian Brown” the team playing. He wears an all white strip and looks to be of an age comparable to his early solo artist years. His team are playing, and losing to, Cameroon. I turn to the guy on my left and we have a short discussion about Ian failing to capitalise on The Stone Roses reunion, about how he should be playing in the World Cup- 

I am sitting at a table sorting through box after box, searching for a (particular) pair of socks. We are planning to go the opening of an art exhibition by Cee Cee. My friend Vee Dee is there, urging me to hurry up and make my selection. I expect I am partly stalling as I do not want to go – I do not like, nor respect, Cee Cee. We are drinking too. Eventually Vee Dee (and the others decide to) leave me to attend the opening. I am still puzzling through boxes, taking out pairs of socks and examining them. One pair especially I try and wrestle on to my feet, giving up as they are simply too tight. Do I suddenly come to? All the boxes are gone. The artist Pee Kay passes by, commanding two flatbed railway trucks, trundling by of their own accord. The side facing myself has a white sheet that rises about 2 metres into the air, and adjacent to that each end is partly covered in a surrounding sheet too. I am convinced he has taken my boxes and follow him to a large warehouse that houses even more flatbed trucks, each covered in similar white sheeting-

Weleest

I am with my brother-in-law, Dubya Haitch, and another man and we are drinking shots of some sort of strong misty grey alcohol from a pouring jug. We are sitting outside in a large l-shaped garden. The square timber house that occupies the rest of the plot is split between (I think) myself and another family. Dubya Haitch and the other man leave. I pour a huge glass of the alcohol and then, thinking better of it, pour it back from my tumbler into the jug. I'm worried about getting (more) drunk- 

I am round the other side of the garden, that which could be considered as belonging to my house neighbours. Around the perimeter of the house there are 2 or 3 steps down from a surrounding porch to the garden. My neighbours, an older man and women dressed in a kind of Star Wars shanty style, have opened up the wall of their house, shifting large timber panels here and there, forming a sort of stall that looks onto the garden. 2 border collie dogs run from within and lark around. A child – there are several bustling about – has shaped the words “poor person's doorbell” from curved wood shavings. It takes me a little time to puzzle this out, and there are perhaps more words to the left, but I cannot understand them, and assume it's spare shavings- 

I am sitting with the comedian Stewart Lee in this side of the garden and he is (much to my surprise) capably strumming a rather nice looping refrain on an acoustic guitar. He seems to be singing the lyrics “it rains” and we chat for a bit. I am happy that my joke, referencing “poor person's doorbell”, of “on a rich man's porch” makes him laugh. He walks over to the other side of the garden, joining the rest of the gathered family and, in spite of my concern that he'll be too oblique and alternative for them, seems to fit in perfectly, introducing himself and continuing his strummed song, singing “Oh, it rains!” to a delighted baby. He keeps sweetly singing this tune as a young boy and myself puzzle over how ripe the apples on our tree are. It seems as if one side is ready to eat, the apples fat and red, whereas on the other side they are smaller, grey and faded (yet somehow more natural looking). Kay Emm is there as we eat apples. I wish that Dubya Haitch had not left-

Barcoh

The comedian Sacha Baron Cohen lies on his back on table, a sheet draped over him. His hair is short and flecked with grey and he has greying stubble on his chin and cheeks. (There is something Freddie Mercury-ish about him.) I seem to be standing on the left, inhabiting that body and experience, and yet I sense another version of me also stands to my right. It's as if, knowing his comedic background, I am intentionally trolling him with my hands, and I keep placing them in near-inappropriate places to gauge his (often amused) reaction - as he himself (knowingly) knows what I am up to. I place my left hand tenderly on his (stubbly) upper neck. Next I lift the sheet and press the palm of my hand to the side of his stomach, checking on his response- 

I am at my old architectural work. It's lunchtime and a few of us, including Gee Dee are standing outside in a gently sloping alley of sorts, one with occasional stepped sections to help maintain the gentle incline. The surface is a rough concrete and there's another alley that goes off to our left. The sides of this environment are finished in pale, smooth render and it feels like we are having a drink, perhaps a pint of beer. I ask Gee Dee where the firm's other office is, hoping to go there and finish some necessary detailing that afternoon. He says he'll show me and we walk for only a few minutes before we come to it. It has very tall windows to the street, finished with a metal trim several inches above the ground, and there's a bank of several computers within, their screens facing and clearly visible to us. Though the screens are all switched on no one looks to be working there. We try to get in and are admitted by a smartly dressed young-ish British Asian man. He has a round head, his hair sparse on top and his skin is smooth, shiny and youthful. We go into the abandoned computer room – do I fleetingly pass Jay Cee, another former work colleague in the tightly angled corridor? - and discuss what I am hoping to do. This sees me taken through the back to another room where we stop in front of a single monitor. Seeing the complex display I explain that it's not set up for what I want to do, that the programme here is of no use, and that I'd rather use one of the earlier machines. Time is disappearing and I know it is already 4:15. People are talking back and forth, Kay Emm talking to Enn Arr. I am scrabbling in at the side of the metal trim, jamming books into my bag, worried about how I will complete my work-