Liyannip

I am with Ian Brown and John Squire of The Stone Roses. We are wandering in the shallows on a beach. We retreat closer to the shore as some vague snub-nosed fish – not a shark, I'm quite sure – is menacing us as we paddle-

Zeekle

 

John Cleese. "If you jump on my laptop I'll break your f*cking neck!"

"What a waste of three f*cking months!"

Orvanp

I am with my old childhood school friend Arr Pee and his little brother Gee Pee. Arr has a neat 'helmet' haircut (as opposed to his long, unruly hair of reality). I need to be home for 1pm as my parents are having 'guests' for lunch. I text my mother (and she replies, like a screengrab?) that I will leave at 12:56. 12:06? I have half an hour-

I am reassured that Arr and Gee still have a box of toys which I handle (kinda wishing I still had them too). I changed my shoes and am all ready to leave. I cannot locate my Doctor Martins shoes. I hunt for them, panicking, aware that time is slowly ticking away-

Fat fingered f*nny.

Car thing.

Skinny fingered f*nny.

Look at the size of that (portable) potty! (is that what it is?)

2 x 100 x 50cm packs under each arm as to put both under one arm would be very awkward to carry. I need to take a taxi to get home-

Arr and Gee's house is huge, scabby and chaotic, tubs of clothes everywhere, the paintwork flaking off. Again I am reassured by this somehow-

I leave urgently to avoid meeting their parents and just make it by the skin of my teeth – his father returns from walking their dog, their mother trailing some distance behind. From my high vantage point I watch them enter the house, Arr's mother (in shades) looking up and at me as she disappears inside. I think I am sufficiently hidden from view, but cannot help wonder if she saw me-

Talk about the state of the house. ￡110,000 spent on the rear stairwell so actually not bad (as opposed to my opinion)-

Alec Guinness is to be the 'guest' for lunch. He's a very old man. I laugh to myself and consider saying, 'hello there' in my best Star Wars Obi Wan Kenobi homage when I meet him. Will he think it's funny?-

Four of us are walking past Arr's house. Who here's got a wife? I am surprised when my old school friend Ess Bee says that he does. Do I?-

I am walking alone, shifting the packs of portable pottys(?) from arm to arm as they are uncomfortable, being tucked up tight under my armpit causing me to strain my arm to hold them. I wait at a set of traffic lights. Should I take a taxi or not? I am trying to orientate myself for home – I'm not sure but I seem to be slowly getting more and more lost. Did I in fact head off in the wrong direction after leaving Arr's? Lots of small classic cars are now being driven towards me to my annoyance as I stumble along a narrow (but familiar) cobble stone lane. Am I on the right route at last? I duck through the middle of some sort of stacking crates construct where I have an encounter with a jolly/annoying fat fingered f*nny who is out to slap/hinder me-

Figgett

I am in a spacious, dimly lit corridor facing a set of large, industrial-looking elevator doors. The doors are thrumming, emitting steam/smoke and radiating an intense heat. I suspect there is a fire (somehow) and approach a group of hardhatted workers on the floor above, alerting them to my concerns. One of the workers checks out the elevator and more or less confirms my suspicions. Suddenly the lower third of the doors buckles outward in some sort of rapid release. Next I look the doors have simply vanished and, as well as the previously mentioned worker, another, a black gut with a bald head appears – he seems to be emerging from within the lift shaft-

I am then making my way outside, the immediate environment all twisting out of shape around me. Outside and to my right stands my former work colleague Dee Cee. She is standing on a kind of artificial ridge and talks to a worker who is over on my left. Beyond that is another former work colleague, Jay Tee. He is talking to a group of workers who seem to be (in charge of) operating a crane/lifting mechanism. There are several large industrial containers outside too. These begin to buckle and collapse from their elevated positions, It's time to make a(nother) run for it-

I am then (in all likelihood) on the other side of the ridge and about half way down a steep slope that curves down towards a rocky shore populated by several groups of (normal) people. I watch, not hugely afraid, as three large containers, one after another, tip over the ridge and slip and slide, skidding dangerously past me on their way. I am aware they are quite Doctor Who-ish, being modern CGI effects – that are not wholly realistic or all that effective. Even the perspective of these yellow containers, that seem to intentionally jerk and rotate to miss me, looks to be a bit 'off'. I do hear someone nearer the shore say, "f**king hell!" and wonder how they'll let that pass on a kids' television show. (I am now certain I am in an episode of Doctor Who.) Next to me is an older woman with two young children, a boy and a girl. She is casually discussing some mundane personal matter, quite unaffected by the ongoing drama-

Ecliood

I am on a train and (an as old as he is now) Clint Eastwood is there (to be interviewed). He sits semi-side on with his back to me, partially reclined, his legs up and bent. It seems as if random people on the train are asking him random questions. It can't be very interesting for him as Clint falls asleep! The trains stops and several passengers, including Clint, shuffle off into the night time snow to go to the toilet, the scene framed by the open carriage doors. Clint, a tall, identifiable figure in the distance, starts to run back towards the (leaving) train. I remark that, 'it'd be just the thing if he falls', and splat! He tumbles flat onto his face. He stands up and while he makes the rest of his run he makes up a snowball that he throws at me. I manage to elicit a rare, deadpan smile from Clint by commenting that, 'not many people can say they've been hit by a snowball by Clint Eastwood.'-

There is now just a handful of us waiting to change trains on what seems to be a low-level/underground platform. (Also a sense we are wandering a dark-ish main street in some town, looking for a Heston Blumenthal restaurant.) I meet my friend Ay Arr on the steps up from the platform and stress to him how surprised he'll be when he meets... Clint! - who stands a full head taller than Arr. I then meet and bring down my father, again emphasising the surprise. My father approaches Clint from behind and, realising who he is, shakes him warmly by the hand. Clint, however, suddenly arches backwards, a cut (from the fall? now) clearly visible on his right temple. As he falls to the ground he says, 'I don't feel so good.' A crowd starts to gather and I am desperate for someone to dial 999 for an ambulance. I run upstairs to the girl in the ticket booth and ask her if she knows First Aid. She does not but instead directs me to the woman in the William Hill betting shop across the road-

I dash across but it seems to simply be the back rooms of a Chinese restaurant. Until, that is, a kindly old chef, mighty cleaver in hand, tells me, 'downstairs'. The William Hill is painted white throughout with a low ceiling and a thick carpet on the floor. A few men lounge in Jabba's Palace-esque booths of sorts – the place feels more like a private sex club. Indeed, the guy I ask about the WPC(?) seems to have on stockings below the waist. He directs me to the WPC but she is not there, just a bunch of random photos/flyers with a face on them that I leaf through in vain. One seems to have the slogan 'no line' and another reads 'sticky marshmallow end'-

Ruzwa

https://culturedvultures.com/

In New York City? I am in a large, sparsely furnished apartment. It is bright and airy with a rustic timber floor. The Wu Tang Clan – in name only at this point, none of the members being familiar – are present. They inhabit a large IKEA square shelving-esque white unit. Each member is in his own individual square shelf, and any vacant ones contain a variety of lurid green snakes with white bellies and sneaky bulbous eyes. I am scared of these creatures, as I am supposed to be, as I approach the large unit. One snake eyes me suspiciously, gently shifting it's many coils. Are there dogs too?-

I am then confronting the whole Wu Tang group. They are massed in an intimidating throng in front of me, filling my entire field of vision, as I chuck them out of the/my(?) apartment. I keep wanting to berate them - the word 'belligerent' constantly in my mind (and on the tip of my tongue) – but refrain from doing so (out of 'respect'). We finish up outside where the unpleasant staring match finally dissipates and they head off in taxi cabs, leaving me alone (as requested) with the (actual) RZA-

He and I sit on some 'brownstone' front steps and attempt to trade mobile numbers. My phone, somehow reduced to a tiny, slender piece of fold-out kit, will not, to my absolute frustration, behave. I cannot even recall my own number nor seem capable of using the miniature keypad. I key in 07455 but want 07457 and cannot go back. To add to my annoyance some fans have begun congregating around RZA and I lash out, grabbing a Chinese fan and dragging him right up close to me-

I am now in a (Central?) park lined with green railings. I am being attacked by kung-fu experts. Suddenly the dreamescape pulls back, whizzing through the grass overlooking this scene to where Woody Harrelson is dispatching more henchmen in my direction-

Flizzm

I am examining ceiling tiles in some (office-esque) environment that I know is both owned and under construction by the Disney Corporation. The tiles are quite unusual and seem to consist of three tiles fixed together to form one element – this 'sandwich' effect is visible when one looks at the edge. I look at the black trim/supporting framework and am left with no doubt as it says 'manufactured by Disney' in imprinted letters-

I am then in some sort of wider lobby area (with Kay Emm?). Whoever it is accompanying me is looking at a colourful abstract painting on the wall – a 'Van Doonan'(?) no less! - and, in spite of my spotting his signature, she/they nearly tip it up and off the wall in trying to turn it around to verify. Only my quick reactions save the painting (and day)-

Ghallee

A couch that seems to be, somewhat puzzlingly, saturated with water. I am taking out the sodden seat cushions – they have a curious black fabric lattice make-up that I try to suss out. Alan McGee (of Creation Records fame) is there too. There is a square nub that fits in under the seat back of the couch, presumably the cushions fit back to this and are held in place-

Poddle

Climbing up some enclosed shaky timber ladder, emerging into-

Two small boys and their tiny beds – foldable plastic fabric coated constructs that click together via metal poppers at each corner (presumably so they can be packed down flat between times)-

Now two older boys (aged 8-10-ish) and I am talking to one of them. He has a round face, smiling blue eyes and a shock of short, but scruffy, ginger hair. His nose, by contrast, is like that of a Muppet, round (stuck on!), with a wide nostril to each side. It is bright yellow with round green spots dotted over its surface. Talking to him I notice that the right nostril has a small 'chip' to its left (and I cannot help but think that I 'picked' that away)-

Nofsur

My uneven bottom teeth seem to be fragmenting, slipping and falling forward, tumbling in my gums, almost flaking off in sharp, slender strips. My top teeth are suddenly gone too, replaced by a single, central sliver of a tooth (almost Nosferatu-like)-

Zarple

I am with my good comic artist friends John Miller and Ay Ess. They have both produced wonderful (and wonderfully different) new comic strips. John is working in a strange but beautiful stripped-back pencil style, fluid and rounded. I am puzzled by how unlike his usual work it is. On the other hand Ay has produced a slick, realistic piece – I'm looking at a lovely three quarters splash (page) of a woman with such delicate linework and lovely, sympathetic feathering inks that give it/her superb shape and depth. I'm so happy, if a little jealous (and crushed) that they've both upped their respective games-

On closer inspection John's work becomes almost like a slide, an immersive, layered experience that I am almost inside, a strange, fuzzy, black and white film-esque image that gently shifts as I explore it, looking around within it with my eyes-

Fotrill

Myself, Kay Emm and our baby son are back at our old flat. Having not lived there for over a year we still have plenty sets of keys and have just stayed there overnight. I am anxious to leave before the new owner returns, flying into a panic when I spot her driving into the rear car park. I greet her at the front door and make some (implausible and garbled) speech in an attempt to explain why we still possess keys. She (thankfully) seems to be quite okay with this explanation and, when pressed, does not seem at all annoyed by the hidden 'quirks' we left behind (without obviously telling her about them). We go into the larger of the back bedrooms which, this being the dreamescape, feels more like the front lounge of my childhood home, being spacious with a big bright window. The one exception is in here, a thick 'seam' of green moss that runs along the centre of the floor and rises, curving up like a sharp, thin skate ramp, a few feet. I'm taken aback by this and am shocked when the owner suggests (by simply letting my imagination do the rest) that she's not going to do anything about it... but that, cue raised eyebrow, her lawyer is-

We are trying to leave when an old neighbour, seen leering in at us from outside, is keen to talk (and therefore likely accost) us-

Hyikt

“The City of the Killer Wasp” An animation made I quite a hectic style. It takes me a while to work out the title as I am baffled by the Megaman/Astroboy hybrid of the titular character (and further confused by the rapid and blurry cutting-

It seems the titular Killer Wasp is vanquishing some (Despicable Me-esque) baddie from his domain – a sort of mountainous city HQ – by sticking him in a barrel and sending him tumbling down the cityside. The barrel, upon reaching a sort of docks/waterside area splits apart and dumps this unfortunate villain in the water. The Killer Wasp converses with his sidekick – and I am sort of involved – as it seems the baddie has suddenly vanished. Did they successfully get him or not?-

Fallad

I am with my shopkeeper friend Gee Ayy and it seems his mother has passed away and I'm helping him out. We could be at the old Studios in Hope Street, Glasgow – prior to this I vaguely recall trying to sweep and tidy a debris and sawdust strewn floor with a woefully inadequate fanned brush – and we could be alone with a.n.others fading in and out of the dreamescape. There is some upset/consternation over a single biscuit, wrapped in an individual wrapper (like a seeded oatcake) that appears to be essential for the funeral/occasion. (Does it have his mother's face on it?) It transpires I've put it up in a cupboard stacked, just like in my own home, with boxes of crackers and biscuits, and I sort of know exactly where it is. I fetch it for Gee but he's not interested and scoffs silently, dismissing the offering in an offhand manner. My other friend Ay Ess (who has appeared) suggests that he'll take it for his mum – who, I think to myself, died years ago – but I quietly, by means of a pained expression, manage to get my point across that this, with a nod to Gee, is neither the time nor place for such an insensitive act-

Now there's a sizeable gathering in the room, folk seated and standing in a cluster to my right by the door, Gee sitting on his own, cutting a morose, dejected figure, to my left. A woman, seated to the front of the group on my right, manages to pull her emotions together enough to sing a song – it should be Deacon Blue but it's a bit more 'Zombie' by Cranberries - “and we drink and we f**cked” which surprises me. She finishes by (unwisely) gulping down (from a broken glass!) red wine, shards and all, fighting all the time to swallow-

Imperf

I have been at an Oasis gig (though being the dreamescape everything seems to overlap, the account of the experience almost in real time as I tell it). I am now in some tall ceilinged tenement-esque office. My old work colleague Gee Ess and his wife Emm are seated in a back room. The space is bright and airy, the desks facing each other as they work away. I am talking to them about the concert. I am raving a bit, saying it was 'f**king sh*te!'. Gee has a small bird cage next to his desk (which is by a large window). At first there is no bird then a yellow budgie sort of materialises, slowly taking shape – I coo enthusiastically-

Am I out front of the office, or is this the gig, the band spread out, each member atop their own circular podium? Folk chatting/overhearing as I still seem to be raging about how terrible Oasis were/are. I'm not concerned if I offend anyone-

I am now out in the street talking to my oldest friend Aye Dubya and his pal (early 50's, long-ish 'James May' hair and a wide, friendly face). Aye is there, but somehow not. I talk about leaving the Oasis concert early, how I stayed for 'Shakermaker' (my favourite.... in the dreamescape) and that the rest was sh*t. I mention that the performance of 'Hindu Times', this being the particular look that Liam Gallagher is/was sporting, was actually okay too. I say that the three(?) guitars all at once does nothing for me. I wonder what Dylan Carson (of the Seattle band Earth and who lives, in the dreamescape, in Edinburgh) is up to tonight. I can't recall the venue, some mid-size...? I ask Aye and his pal to check on their phones – mad in head yes! Bar!-

Car boot golf clubs. A second car rolls and crashes into a wall. We talk more, turning away and it rolls down the hill more. It's going to squash some children. Scary!-

Sootawf

I am in a sort of kebab house formed of several interconnected spaces, all somewhat plain and drab, simple painted concrete wall finish everywhere and double door sized openings in between. I immediately discount one outlet as being 'Polish crap' before moving on through to another space. (Is the shop called 'Mason Cross' or 'MA' for short?)-

The floor here, a rubbery black vinyl, is covered in patches/splotches of 'surface matter' that could be excrement but could just as well be mistaken for kebab meat – I say as much to my black companion and he laughs. Less amused is the wild, skinny Thai fellow (with a shock of jet black shaggy hair, his neat features clustered into a small but expressive face centred in his overlarge head). He threatens me with a tiny scalpel blade that he has pinched between thumb and forefinger. He orders me to leave the ante-room now! He's replaced by a much heavier looking fellow who sports rubbery, Grecian features. He too threatens me with a scalpel before, in a lightning fast movement, he launches a machete at me that he had concealed in his belt. The blade misses me and lodges in the wall. Looking at the sturdy fellow again it seems he was too fast for his own good – he has (somehow managed to) cleanly cut his right arm off just above the elbow in his act of throwing. The dreamescape cuts to a close-up of his face as my (admittedly quite small) fists clatter off it in slow motion, first from one side then the other-

Sinnet

I am attending some sort of celebrity/ex-pro tennis match being held in a large, multi-floor venue (which at times feels like a construct of stacked scaffold structures, somewhat insubstantial, wrapped in blue tarpaulin material. The stairwell, by contrast, feels like part of a solid old building being finished in cold concrete with flaking paintwork – almost like some derelict 1970's housing block-

The event is organised by my old architecture employers and at times I see one of the directors Gee Haitch – he is wearing an unusual white suit with splashes of coloured pattern and eyes me through the attending crowds. I am accompanied by an ill-defined friend/partner and am there to (reluctantly) perform some sort of task, the pair of us making our way (as instructed?) from the top(?) of the arena down through the uncomfortable throngs of people, carefully negotiating the distinctly insecure stair passages. As we near the bottom things are descending into chaos. Punk-ish schoolboys – for something now suggests it is more that sort of mob – begin, at first playfully, to spit, scramble and (play) fight in the (now) building-esque stairwell, and I am lucky enough to skip through a closing door just as the young bodies really let rip, forking into a gleeful mass of violence-

As I scramble round the door I see what I am convinced is a photo of Ewan McGregor as a grinning young boy, replete with a mop of 'helmet hair'. The photo, taped to the (glass of the) access door, is torn across the top left hand corner. This seems a particular shame to me as I'm thinking about how few photos there are of him when he was younger-

By the next (and final?) drop to the ground level the genial party mood, in spite of my misgivings, has returned – things feel sprightly and youthful (in a young women mixed with cocktails kind of way). Unfortunately the route to the main arena is actually some sort of flume/water slide affair into which I accidentally tumble and fall – it's an opening in the floor – and before I realise my mistake I am trapped, crushed from above by some sort of black inflatable object, the force of several eager, boisterous people behind it. Needless to say that all my shouting and scrambling, all my efforts to climb back up and out, go unheeded-

At the very bottom the mood has changed again (and abruptly). It is now raining and the scene has a distinctly washed out feel. The centre court, partly obscured by tarpaulin uprights, is deserted, the few people lingering nearby are morose and depressed. My companion immediately collapses onto a sun lounger to our right (exactly where I had expected our tennis stars of yesteryear to be) and sprawls (asleep?) in the fine rain. I would do the same only the lounger to my left, located towards the opposing side of the court, is already similarly occupied. Do I sense Gee Haitch expects me to step out into the drab, foreboding centre court and entertain everyone? I certainly seem to be waiting in the wings – thinking maybe my older friend from the comic scene Jay EmmCeeEss will step up to the plate? - and kick at the black rubber matting underfoot as I contemplate my next move-