Hyontuh

I am out walking with my older brother and my American brother-in-law. My son and my brother-in-law's sons are very much in mind – I'm conscious of their presence – if not in body. We are strolling (in Reno?) somewhere and I need to leave them to get something? -

I next find myself at the house of my old Largs Primary/Secondary school friend Enn Tee in John Street(?). The home has been extended in every direction to form a 'Community Library' with a very warm, rustic and casual coffee shop feel inside, the books tucked into timber shelves around the perimeter, the airy central space rising three storeys up to a vaulted(?) ceiling complete with roof lights. Enn sits just within the entrance and, to my surprise, is wearing a nun's habit. After some random, muddled browsing we acknowledge one another and start chatting (a little awkwardly). When she takes down her habit's hood she has short blonde wiry afro hair that is, oddly, growing over her temples. Some other old school friends – Ess? + two other males and a woman – sit chatting to our left. They are all much older but their faces are still identifiable. By contrast (and thankfully) none of them recognise me -

I am walking back to join our family party when my shoes get stuck in mud. At this point (now shoeless?) I am scared as a large alsatian dog – in a near-rerun of a frightening childhood experience – darts out some nearby bushes and leaps and bounds around me. I immediately put up my hands in surrender, hoping the owner is correct in that the dog “just wants my stick”, again a direct callback to the my younger self's incident  -

I am now explaining, with the help of a Google Maps-esque 3D map, how Enn is presently a nun and has converted her old house to create a library -

Wogert

I am with (a young version) of the musician Roger Waters and a vague ill-defined woman. Roger's mantra seems to be “f*ck it!”, and a loud exclamation of this prompts many rash actions, including sliding and skidding carefree down a steep sandy slope on our bottoms to a beach. I draw the line at the next, smaller, slope as it's more akin to rubble, and not the sort of surface you'd giddily slide down. I'm aware we need to be at my parents' house for dinner – I can see the uncooked fillets of fish, isolated in my mind's eye, awaiting us – but have no means of contacting them, although I keep referring to my mobile for the time. It's 5:05 – did I doze off? -

Yeooz

I am at (or after) the dentists and need to make another appointment. The receptionist girl at the front desk is Ay Dubya (formerly of Kelvingrove Dental Care). Although she is visually morphing within the dreamescape I know it is her and go along with her fluctuating appearance as matters progress. She advises me not to book my next appointment here as this could lead to confusion and/or a double booking, and she'll show me where to go. At this point she is unrecognisable, with a strong profile and long curly hair, a complete transformation from her actual gently pretty Zooey Deschanel-esque looks -

Cut to a sudden close-up of her (changed) face and the freckles around her cheeks and nose radiate and illuminate with genuine warmth and affection as she fixes me with a loving gaze. This then cuts to an isolated cartoon/manga-style face that floats in the air, hearts popping at the side, the eyes wide and near-bulging -

I enter a large square lift, dimly lit and semi-industrial. A few other patients linger as I work out from the notice on one side that the floor for dentistry is 'Saturday'(?). It turns out it's not a lift, the whole space suddenly pulling out into the light as part of a bus, revealing the glazing and grab handles. “Hold on!”, exclaims the chunky young woman to my right as I stagger to keep my footing and clutch at a nearby upright to steady myself while the bus races across the rainy roof(?) of this huge and amorphous hospital. I cannot help but think of the sheer weight of the vehicle as I stand and look out through the front windscreen in disbelief -

Orehrew

I am in a strange (comedic) situation with my friend Ay Arr, his daughter and his mother(-in-law?) and possibly my work colleague Cee EmmCeeGee. The initial confusion/amusement is that the mother lives in the basement and that I assume, until she corrects me, there is no street (or house?) access and very little by way of home comforts. The next assumption is that I have superpowers and am able, as she desires it, to transport the mother back in time by two whole days (why?). My immediate concern is that I cannot even lift the mother under any pretence of heroism and when the daughter/Cee suggests she wishes to come along too then I am completely stumped. (Only Cee(?) has/knows of powers and ought to be able, by the will of her mind, to assist in this strange request) -

Gollft

Myself, my old secondary school friend Ay EmmCeeHaitch and my old work colleague Gee Haitch are at an old fashioned tearoom together. We're inside the entrance porch-cum-lobby, looking in at the premises through a glazed door, formed of small panels of glass supported by finished timber uprights and verticals. There's a fake clock on the wall with blue plastic hands and it's set to 3:50 (evidently when they shut) -

Ay suggests using a trick off my friend Enn Bee and asks me for a piece of paper. I hand him a post-it note (with some work related pencil sketches and notes on it). He slips this under the door and works at the lock – it is for some reason locked from the inside, the delicate key still in situ – and manages to drop the key onto the paper and successfully draw it under the gap below the door. As we gain entry Gee sets the clock to 5:50, the actual time. We immediately tell him to set it back as otherwise folk will know we've been there! I feel okay as we set about inside – we keep the lights off as it's likely every employee is at home making dinner. Ay quickly cooks up three small, plain open burgers for us. Gee is suddenly sick in a bin and Ay scolds him, clean that up and use the toilet!, making sure that we leave no trace. He also remarks that Gee ate a lot of crap food (mainly sweets) earlier -

Just then three men enter, saying that they came by earlier but we were shut. One remarks that we must have opened at 3:50(!).... The middle of the three is a (sort of) Native American with long straggly hair, sleepy eyes and sallow, horse-y features, complete with a noticeable gap between his top front teeth. The men flanking him are white, on the heavy side and smartly dressed. The man on the left has an open burger of his own, only this one is garnished (and looks very tasty). The Native American wishes to use the toilet and Gee dashes off to give it another clean (on his/their return?). I suggest that maybe chef (Ay) can rustle up some more burgers -

Rungkhin

I am looking down at a panorama of (the dreamescape) Hong Kong, all tall, pale buildings with countless wee windows packed into a tight street plan. This seems to be on a promontory(?) and through the gaps in this tight-knit cityscape I can see smaller islands dotted about, each populated with oversized red triangular tents and Russian soldiers – they have occupied HK with China's consent. My POV pans along this scene to the left. At one point I (just about) witness a soldier throw a Molotov cocktail into a huge looming tent, only the result is lost as the scene steadily vanishes 'out of shot' -

At the end of this promontory three men, two of whom are garbed in yellow waterproofs, the other in a white jacket and black trousers waterproof combo, are fishing on a low square pier/wharf about 1m above the sea level. I instantly think 'he's gone' as a wave surges up and engulfs their standpoint, washing the furthermost man out into the (now) rough waters. The two other men dive in to his rescue, one grasping his legs, the other his head and shoulders. There seems no hope now as another mighty swell pushes the doomed trio further out into the churning ocean -

Dovci

I am on a train (quite conscious that I am wearing my Covid-19 mask at this point, my vision somewhat obscured) and am standing and waiting/looking for a seat. It feels like I finally walk through to the next carriage where a burly builder lad sprawls across two seats, lounging in one, his muddy 'workie' boots perched on the other. He wears a dark blue boiler suit and the two seats (and seat backs) are covered in some sort of blue waterproof sheeting with a black elasticated lining – there is caked mud on this from his boots. I ask if I can sit and do so, taking care to perch my bottom on the edge, mindful of the dried dirt -

He's quite amenable and we chat away. At one point he asks where I live. I hesitate but eventually say B-, immediately apologising for how it's “quite posh”. From there I mention I need some (building) work done to my house and we talk the job through while he makes notes in pencil on the back of a business card. It gets quite intense – I'm aware of A. N. Other observing intently and that we are now standing huddled around the scribblings -

I suddenly tune into the automated train announcement - “This is Paisley. The next stop will be Johnston” - and panic. This is my stop! I immediately rush out the closing doors on to the platform then realise I have left my phone and bag! I jam my right foot in the doors to prevent them closing and holler about my phone and bag, all the while sweeping my hands over my head in an attempt to catch the train driver's attention. He finally pops his head out the cab opens the doors. The builder lad (with a knowing look) only passes me his business card and, kind of stunned into incomprehension, I watch as the train drives off -

Sovvid

 

I am on a film studio lot, standing looking towards two doors, each leading to a (different) internal film set. Studios 15 and 16? The veteran horror film director John Carpenter is standing at the door of Studio 15 and will not allow (me?) access. He is quite defensive and our (mostly one way) argument continues for some time. I just know, and am somewhat puzzled as to why he is filming a movie for the James Bond franchise -

Swell Reptiles - The UK's biggest online reptile specialist

I am now witness to a tortoise that has become separated from its shell cartoon-style, the animal slick, pained and bloody and the shell a solid object (with holes for the head and legs and no other visible crack or damage). I think the tortoise will be okay just as a car slows and scrunches over the top of its sorry shape (which holds up remarkably well, the vehicle's tyres bumping up and over no problem) -

Dransun

I am on a grassy moor of sorts, the sky dull and overcast, the general vibe being damp and chilly. To my left is a near-concealed opening in the slope of the landscape, a sturdy concrete construct that is (I know) a secret entrance leading to the mansion home of the (former Mansun) singer Paul Draper -

It is there or thereabouts that I find (indeed, I know I'm going to discover) a cardboard box chock full of hastily written sheets of A4 paper, an epic document that I know is Paul's autobiography in its most rough of forms -

I am then in quite an old fashioned office space with a very cold, stripped-back and minimal 1960's feel. I am seated near an internal wall, working, and ahead of me, sitting along an adjacent wall that runs across to tall windows, are two men at desks facing each other. They are, to my alarm, fiddling with the chunky metal radiator at their feet. Suddenly there is a surge of water from the valve that gushes across the floor, just stopping short of the toe of my shoe. The second time they are not so lucky and water jets out the valve, soaking and flooding everywhere. I turn my thoughts to my work, thinking ahead to the three documents I have left to action tomorrow -

Flavviw

I am on the fourth floor of some building searching for a vacant bathroom to change my clothes – I think I am looking to swap my pyjamas(?)for a vest top and light trouser bottoms that I clutch in my right hand. The clothes are made of fine brown paper (bag material) -

I decide to go down to the third floor and I enter a strange, cramped stairwell (that my mind tells me is half-way between floors). There's barely a landing – it's more of a slight concrete shelf – and down to my right an anxious man, all matted hair and nervous grin, is crouching down. He says something to me (I cannot recall), chuckling to himself as he does so -

The dreamescape reconfigures itself somewhat so that this small space now has a metal grill, finished in brown gloss paint, that divides the area. On the other side from myself and the crouching man are piles and piles of VHS video tapes and DVDs and stacked (by some means) against the surface of the grill (which I can see has quite large rectangular spacing) are countless ZX Spectrum games – I just know this for a fact! I decide, against the advice of my nervy companion, to squeeze under the grill to get to the other side. I am just thin enough and, after a slight scare when I looked to be stuck, I am now through -

Now Frank Skinner (thought it's actually Matt Lucas) begins a comedy stand-up show. Lucas' face is distorted and distended and he keeps wrapping a fabric chord around his (considerable) nose or chin -

Khussg

I am in some large, mostly empty, cinema-cum-theatre. It feels distinctly old fashioned. I am hoping to see a documentary (on the film Chungking Express). I keep moving from theatre to theatre looking for both an audience and a screening. Noticing posters for (a documentary on?) Sunset Boulevard I somehow keep getting muddled up, frustrated that I am constantly now asking ushers for that film and not my original choice -

I am now in a vast, busy auditorium and an American football is being thrown by the crowd, itself moving with some sort of momentum towards the back of the room. Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai is there (of course!) and, in the few catches and passes that I complete, I am anxious that I impress him -

Wewsdrot

I am in the back of a car being driven (from right to left) by an old cemetery. The scene is bathed in warm sunlight, the small, modest gravestones arranged in a random, not quite cramped, manner. It occurs to me the feeling is of quiet reverence, favoured over garish opulence. We travel on down this winding road – the cemetery is on a steep-ish hillside, the sea beyond – stopping outside the 'Lora' restaurant -

I am at the entrance to the restaurant, noting the 'Lora' sign over the sandstone doorway, when I am greeted first by an older, bespectacled balding gent, then, coming bounding out to meet me (the singer) Rod Stewart. Rod is casually dressed, his shirt sleeves rolled up as he sprints towards me (opening with, “The energy companies are ball-less!”, triggering some notion of a security guard losing his investment?) and near-plants 3 sloppy kisses within the vicinity of my face. I say, “three kisses! That's the most I've had since I came here (here being Poland?)... and from a Scotsman”... (is he?) -

Eezul

It seems my former Hope Street Studios colleagues Bee Tee and Cee Cee have bought (the dreamescape version of) my old Glasgow flat -

I enter the flat's bathroom, which is similar in terms of (basic) fittings but not in layout – the sink is now to my left inside the door, the rough timber carcass of it's framing exposed, a pool of water – so typically Cee, I think – draining from the soppy rust coloured carpet into a hole in the floor -

I am now in Bee Tee and his wife Ell's bed/sitting room, a dim and chaotic space – it could very well be a drug addict's abode – and am hoovering using an extension hose which to my frustration keeps clogging and jamming with fluff. I am constantly checking I have not accidentally sucked up anything of value. Their bed runs along the opposite wall to that of the window, by the door, and it is there, to my surprise, I finally find some children's toys, a selection of bright yellow trucks and suchlike -

It seems I am entering the the very same room for a second time, only Ell is now reclining (on a bed/sofa?) her top pulled up so she can gently stroke her exposed stomach. “Wow! You're pregnant again!?” I say brightly. The look of sheer hurt (and self-confusion) on her face stops me in my tracks! She pulls her top down. I then see their (2 year-old?) daughter who sits up on the settee. All I can say is, “Oh!” Anything else that springs to mind – praise, shock, reassurance – simply clogs and stalls in the thought process. Their daughter has a huge head the size of a football. It takes all my mental capacity to register and process this as her head swivels (not turns!) on its neck towards me to reveal a curious and ugly face. It looks like her skin/features are sculpted in some sort of crude 80s FX/animatronic stop-motion style, even more so when, in response to my pulling funny faces, she contorts her sparse features into grotesque caricatures, her thin lips curling over perfectly arranged small teeth, her eyes popping and bugging as she widens them mischievously, everything rippling and shimmering as she does so. I am speechless, haunted -

I make my excuse to leave, meeting Bee (and avoiding Cee?) in the hallway as I do so, rescuing his keys from the outside of the front door as I go. He thanks me, somewhat fuzzily confessing to doing it all the time (as I do too) -

Outside in the communal hallway I am taken by how busy it is, students coming and going to the flat upstairs -

Vondelopsh

Myself and an (ill-defined) A. N. Other are looking into a gloomy room with a table ahead of us. There the singer Sophie Ellis Bextor (or a very good lookalike) is holding court. She produces two envelopes and removes two card statements she wishes us to read. The first I cannot remember but the second says something like, “every minute of every day someone somewhere is being raped.” or “somewhere every moment a man is raping someone.” The impact and shock of this statement is inevitable. She then asks to hear my thoughts on this and I am unable to express myself, caught off guard, making excuses and stumbling over my words – it's an undeniable and harrowing thought -

The dreamescape now transports me outside and I suddenly realise that to my left, emerging out of the anonymous, ill-defined crowd, is my former work colleague Gee Ess, his father standing to the left, nearer to me. I go over (somewhat mindful that Gee's father died over 20 years ago, before he and I ever met). His father is quite surely "played" by the Australian actor Terence Donovan (Jason Donovan's father). I as I get closer, close enough to shake hands, I see that Gee's father has leathery skin, tight and brown over his tired, sunken features. He smiles and acknowledges me but with visible effort. After the father ambles off (around some sort of shallow outdoor pool) Gee remarks that he's not doing well as he is “stiff” (whatever that means). Gee and I continue to catch up and, as we go up and across a sort of railway-esque bridge (presumably over the aforementioned pool) he asks, “have you heard about the Ogilvies?” I admit I haven't, all the while racking my brain, thinking he may be referring to the marriage of one Mark ?, an old mutual friend -

Gee Ess and I then continue around the left side of the pool (following in his dad's shaky footsteps) which is formed from a sort of chunky slabbing that runs into a sturdy and primitive bus shelter-alike stepped structure. I'm busy making some point about being young and having no motivation and all the time, as opposed to being old with no motivation but no time (or words to that effect) when I spy the author Stephen King poking his head around the corner of this construct. He is smiling and in complete agreement - “how true.” We're almost past but I cannot resist praising Mr. King (whilst apologising profusely for doing so) on his novel 'salem's Lot. I begin by saying I'm 46 years old and thought it was time, considering my father is a lifelong fan, to read one of his books and explaining, not always clearly, how much I admired the writing and the way that one's imagination takes over, creating another layer of true horror/dread. As I wrap up this muddled appraisal a gaggle of fans come by and accost Stephen -

Grifint

I am siting at a table surrounded by several young (30-ish age) women. Apart from the lady opposite – smiling, with a kind face and a 'bob' haircut – they are all quite undefined. I/we are talking about the state of my hands when the lady opposite says, “like trigger finger?” I say, “That's it exactly!” and go on to describe, a little to their disgust how this can happen if the cyst in my finger tendon starts to get caught under the protective sheath that runs across my palm where they meet. I hold my middle finger in a crooked position for effect, then show again as if holding or firing a cowboy gun -

Lewal

I am sitting in a long anteroom – aware of a larger (living) space at my back. I am seated in a single-moulded stylish white plastic chair. There are two more chairs to my right, nearer the (open) entrance/doorway through, and a further single chair opposite me. My younger bother sits next to me and Emm Kay, a former female office co-worker, is in the seat next to him. We seem to be taking/awaiting instructions from the (unseen) individual across from me -

Emm is smoking a fine cigar which she informs me is a 'WALL-E' brand. I say I had no idea that the animated film tied-in in such a way. I'm glad of my brother as I hide myself behind him somewhat, embarrassed as I am in the presence of Emm. The instructor then begins to tutor us through putting on some sort of roomy/rubbery space suit (that seems to cross over into oddly shaped swimming pool safety inflatables) -

Niforl

Coin Collecting & Numismatic Magazine - Coin World

My old friend Aye Dubya and I seem to be competing over some ancient money and I settle for 17 (likely) Florins, comprising a 2, a 5 and a 10 coin, holding them up and inspecting them proudly. Aye seems aggrieved somehow, suspecting I now have more (in value?) than him -

Both he and his mother give pursuit, the action switching to an outdoor environment with a lawn – I have no recollection of the dreamescape's 'before'. We seem to be circling the grass and I drop my coins, packed together as they are in a small, clear, sealed plastic bag, by the upstand to the lawn. I keep hoping Aye hasn't noticed while I keep trying to dig them in with the toe of my shoe. A dog seems to be buzzing around me, threatening my clumsy plan -

Wushlyre

I am walking on a dull and damp (feeling) day, a gentle drizzle falling (in the mind). The colours are muted. A silence falls over everything as I walk over a stone railway bridge, bushes and trees on either side of the line. (It could be my childhood home of Largs, such is the feel of the place.) -

I pass a man who enters the scene from a street to my right. He has a huge dog on a lead that, as he struggles to control it, leaps and bounds, pounding at the pavement/road. I'm quite surprised, not to say scared, by how slender a command he has over it -

I turn off to the same street on the right where another man allows his dog to chew on the boot of a fellow in a high-vis vest who lies struggling in the road. I intervene and the man calls a halt to his dog. The bloke in the vest, visibly shaken, gets to his feet. The man with the dog is of British Asian descent, with an almost creamy sheen to his beautifully smooth light brown skin, close cropped hair, a long, strong chin and small, bright and knowing eyes. By contrast the man who was under attack is jet black with a goatee beard and wide, imploring eyes – I almost get the impression he is apologising, as if I should not have gotten involved -

I look back at the British Asian man, who is slyly amused, smirking at my saying I will report him to the Police. I notice he now has a huge mop of curly hair, here greying, here dark. As I bluster and bumble in the face of his disconcerting indifference – not helped by the distraction of his victim seemingly interjecting on his behalf – I spot he has a car number plate hung about his neck, the letters and numbers on display across his chest. How silly of me to not think of using this to identify him to the authorities -

Cilernuh

The actress Tia Carrere (of the show Relic Hunter) is willing to pay 5 million pounds if my son (aged 3) will hunt her down (with a gun?) and try to kill her. I explain he's too young but ask about another wee boy (aged 6?) who is expressing an interest. Perhaps I could broker a deal for a 20% share, a cool 1 million-

Lavinia-

Lacantoab

Canal Boat Holidays: Barge, Narrow Boat & Canal Boat Hire in the UK

My long-time friend Aye Dubya and I are involved in some sort of canal boat race/venture.... only I seem to be speeding ahead without him (as ever...), somewhat conscious of this fact. At times the (narrow) canal has no locks at all, simply sloping up to dry land. At times like these the boat merely shrivels up akin to a long deflated balloon-

Are we racing against two young women? This attractive pair in their early 20s appear to be following me/us and there is definitely something of a rapport. One of them sports a light blue top, a single strap over one shoulder, that has material spikes 2-3 inches long all over the surface. I experience a pang of disappointment at one point when she takes it off – given the jaggy top's bulk it seems her breasts, quite small in another halter/crop top underneath, are not as big as I imagined-

I emerge from some sort of narrow tunnel next to a great building structure. A friendly enough guy with cosy(?) ginger hair and a blue suit approaches me, asking if I know where I am/what it is? He tells me it is Ibrox (stadium) and I try to feign that I am impressed (whilst inside I wish I had the courage to say that I don't care... that no one cares)-

Eruisq

I am at a 'teen party gig' at a house. Former The Stone Roses guitarist John Squire is present and he plays a new song on an acoustic guitar. It's very short and when he gets to the solo he either falters or fluffs (intentionally?) and stops playing abruptly. We all clap to help him find the time – too fast and we cannot. He gives us a mocking smile. I help find a slower rhythm. John then plays a short, sharp solo and again finishes up abruptly, the song over?-

Now outside, John is firing a cap gun at an upended popcorn paper bag (a return to his “prankster past”?. Foam? He then plays his solo album song Joe Louis which quickly descends into babble only to, as the melody nags, emerge into a jolly song (I Am The Walrus?) by The Beatles-

John Squire - Joe Louis

Pofp

Myself and my erstwhile work colleague Jay Cee. FOPP has shut. It is empty save for my old Hope Street Studio companion Dee Zee and a record player. We need to be at the Studio for 6. My old childhood neighbours Ess and his brother Bee Arr are there. We sit about-

I am now in Avalanche Records where they have two Acetone DVDs at £8 each. Unfortunately both are smashed – will still play? - so I ask if I may test them (without paying?). FOPP is shut-

The Acetone DVDs have now turned into audio cassettes. I play them at home and it seems to be a mixture of live and demo tracks. There is also a Verve cassette that I open. The price tag inside is £35!-

Lisab

Fawlty Towers on television. Basil Fawlty plus Jesse/Hanna/Manna, the man/boy from the television show Breaking Bad. We are outside in some vast sunlit garden (after a 'too spicy' Gourmet Night episode-alike altercation inside?). A smartly dressed black man and his (pregnant?) wife arrive to tend the plants. How much are they paid, I think, $10 and hour, and why?-

As she goes off to buy some odd (nutty?) food she's craving at the end, after Basil has paid everyone - somehow keeping most of the money for himself (with no protest from Manna or the couple) – we see from behind Manna the focus of the dreamescape switch to the rooftop in the background. Here, following an earlier argument, a young man and woman emerge and shoot Manna (dead?). I have to write this down, I say, as the titles, in purple hue/Spanish on black, roll – no credit for John Cleese? - as I cannot believe what I just watched-

Atokad

I am in a Woody Allen film. I am sure myself, work colleague Gee EmmCeeGee, A.N.Other and the actress Elle Fanning (Super 8, Neon Demon) are present. We are riding about young – at least as young as Dakota (Fanning)! - and carefree-

Only we come to a strange construct - sturdy steel bridges on either side for a triangular shape and we look over the third edge (to where the structures converge) and into the dim gloom below. I seem to the only one of the 4 of us who can discern a monstrous toad-like dragon creature hunched in the shallows, sheltering confident in the shadows under the low bridge to our left. I can just make out its fearful shape, its eyes lifeless and impassive. Is it Gee who is suddenly running there and swept up by the creature before I can bark a warning? Is the scene itself looping in the dreamescape, only now I'm down there too, helping/watching him fend it off by rapidly inflating a canvas dinghy from his backpack, thereby buying him/us precious time...?-

Stohglleh

I am in a taxi driving through a cyberpunk-esque cityscape, a plethora of towering skyscrapers formed from great cubes twisted at all angles, cluttered and imposing. I am seated in the front (but am neither driving nor aware of a driver) and my old primary school acquaintance/crush Jay Eff (plus others?) sits in the back. Giant multi-armed monkey/chimp holograms loom overhead reaching in between the buildings as if to pluck cars from the passing traffic. Both these huge apparitions sport opaque aviator shades-cum-goggles. This strange scene seems to occur twice, as if seeing and experiencing a second time is believing, but still manages to chill and confuse – are these massive apes actually real?-

The taxi is now driving along right at the edge of some docklands, the water some 2-3 metres below. The taxi drops neatly – I see this from above – into the water, landing with a neat splash, drifting on the surface, yet to sink as if deciding what to do. I look across at my (now realised) passenger, a young black man in a trendy porkpie-esque hat. He seems relaxed, unconcerned, but his eyes betray him, widening with fear. Clambering out through the window of the cab I make my way on to a sort of concrete support, a massive buttress that seems to have slid out from under the pier to save us from sinking/drowning. I am happy to see that Jay Eff has already escaped, spotting her in the dimness climbing nimbly from support to structure-

Suddenly it is as if we are making a playlist of obscure Beck tracks and (re)mixes – the names float up into view, settling themselves, superimposing their basic graphics over a safety ladder that drops down to the water's edge from above. Beck himself(?) is impressed with the selection but not so taken with the graffiti tag that one of us has created to go along with it. He makes his own version over to the left, a sort of (amateurish and unimpressive) polythene circle/target pinned back to a support in the centre-

Three big b*llocks-

Gwozzt

Myself and Kay Emm are talking to a stern old lady with grey hair cut in a sharp 'bob' style. She is pressing us to return to a house/flat to complete some checks on an architectural survey we have done (even though the two properties are identical?)... It seems this will problematic due to the presence of a 12 year old girl(?), but the old lady stands firm-

The flat is on the top floor of a tenement-esque block and Kay Emm and I approach it from the left. The property has what looks like a large dormer construct that protrudes from both the front and back of the roof's peak, effectively forming a grand rectangular room. However the space has no roof of itself and is entirely open to the elements-

Kay Emm and I are now on the roof – in spite of my fear of heights passers-by seem to saunter along at (a reassuring) eye-level – and we look down into this (traditionally furnished) kitchen area. A man and (as predicted) his (innocuous) young daughter are there-

To the rear of the property, some distance away, an imposing (concrete) block of flats rises some ten storeys into the air. In the flash of a (silent) explosion and a puff of dust the building is quickly demolished, sending a sudden rush of crisp autumn leaves scudding in our direction. This is followed by a wave broken branches that fly dangerously past our rooftop vantage point. I manage to catch one of these pieces of timber debris and use it to successfully bat away any further bits that are flying toward our exposed position-

Arbrab

Red leather pepper lung-

A young, naked Barbra Streisand huddled under the bedsheets. “I can make you pick.”-

Tutbic

I am changing into swimming shorts behind a sort of timber canvas upright structure. There's some anxiety that the nearby waitresses(?) can see my p*nis (they can't) and I fret about my (not actually naked) nudity-

I am walking along a slender concrete lip at the seawater's edge. To my left the lip slopes sharply upwards to the pier/promenade about 2 metres above. I entertain myself by singing (with a sort of applied tuneful echo) my perceived lyrics to King Biscuit Time's “I walk the earth, get stuck in the middle, can't see your love, can't feel your love” refrain over and over, imagining I am thrilling the old couples who are passing by overhead-

I encounter a very old man a couple of times. He has a drawn, lined face with a porkpie hat jammed low on his head, hooding his aged eyes. His bronzed body is sagging and weathered and he wears a baggy pair of canvas swimming shorts – one of the elderly swimmers in JAWS comes to mind. What's most striking and fascinating about this character is that on each forearm he has a large basketball sized (or bigger) sack of skin that has a surface mottled like that of a giant orange-

King Biscuit Time - I Walk The Earth

Deetlo

ArchDaily | Broadcasting Architecture Worldwide

I am at (another dreamescape approximation of) my old Ferry Road flat.... only it's a sturdy angular house with Art Deco stylings set in a large overgrown plot. The windows are absolutely shot, the rubber seals are limp and hanging off and when you close them over you can shift the pane in its hinges so much so you can see outside around the edges. A (shifty) builder type reassures me he can repair all this for free (as he's doing decoration works for £500)-

The Lawrence Hall of Science – The public science center of the University of California, Berkeley.

I am trying to scoop a beetle up from the (rough, woodland) internal floor and out one of the failing windows. I see a much larger armoured beetle part buried in the soil and nudge it with my shoe to see if it is alive. It certainly is and it vibrates and shifts angrily. I beat a retreat and on my way back(?) to the house I see a tiny badger, the first I've ever seen in my life. I then see a huge shaggy golden bear standing up on its hind legs. Aware of two other (vague) predators converging on me I race away from the house, dodging between the animals and heading for a forest. I race towards a fence but doubt I can scale it. Off to my left there seems to be some sort of elevated concrete stairway (to a car park?) and I implore my old Secondary school friend Pee Dee to help me up through the yellow tubular metal railings. He does(n't) succeed and I am aware of a huge, roaring pressure on the sides of my head – his grip or the bear's?-

I am talking to a girl from my old Kelburn Primary School (Ell Ay Dee?) and it seems she and three others, including my early crush Jay Eff, all died in a hovercraft accident. We guess this means I am dead too. With nothing else for it I pair off with Jay, commencing my stilted chat up – I am now outside the scene watching the both of us – with, "it's very cold isn't it....”-

Nonnel

I am in some dreamescape underground walkway/tunnel. I am semi-stuck behind a delicate young woman who is dressed very chic with tremendously long streaky blonde hair. As she is on her phone (seemingly taking pointless selfies) she is meandering all over, making it awkward for me to squeeze past. When I see her – is she talking about 'some c*nt' - having finally passed I realise she is very pretty, with strong sharp features and the most beautiful eyes-

I am now in an underground chamber watching some show about (motion) comics on a widescreen television. It is presented by a comedian called Sean (who I do not normally like). He has curly hair, ruddy cheeks and circular John Lennon glasses and I am affected when he gets quite emotional with a James Cosmo-alike comic book artist. The James fellow, with a great bushy beard, beams a wide smile into the camera, his eyes filled with tears. (I imagine my artist friend Jay Dee is watching and similarly moved.) The end titles feature Batman (as drawn by the artist Scott Snyder) battling with a hoodlum in the back seat of a car-

https://alchetron.com

I go the wrong way along a tunnel, diverted by some maintenance works – do I see the comedian Frankie Boyle working away at a typewriter in an underground office, or do I just know that he does? I remember thinking I really should give him some Braw Books. I don't want to make two trips but have no books on me-

There is a weird elevated entrance down to some further network of tunnels. For some (unknown) reason I clamber up towards the ceiling, in part tangling and part suspending myself between service pipes and a chunky utility box. I am certainly on CCTV-

I am now outside at some sort of red metal dispenser box, scrolling slowly through the menu of items. There are four French teens, two boys and two girls, hovering impatiently at my back. One youth (who looks like Lazzaro) jumps ahead on the menu and selects a box of matches, also my choice. I call him "you French b*stard!" and clock him on the nose, knocking him on to the seat of his pants. I break into the dispenser box, quite sure a single box of matches remains. There's a bag inside the box and tearing it open I see that inside that looks to be a box of matches (only it is all covered in splashes of pure orange juice). It isn't matches after all but some long clear plastic box for lighting timbers(?). I then attempt to repair the box, trying to fit a new bag of items in beside a burst old rucksack-

Kilnk

Myself and Kay Emm. We are walking together in Glasgow, near the rear of the Kelvin Hall (in a dreamescape approximation) and she leaves me/vanishes to play the first level of a (Nintendo) Link-esque console game – she knows it well and will breeze through it, after which I'll take a turn. I can monitor her progress (on a wristwatch?) by means of a sun icon that sort of bleeds into a melted sunset as she plays through-

I get in a taxi with four heavy Glasgow guys and we drive off (in the wrong direction?). It's like a bus in that you press a 'stop' button to get out (and, of course, I am anxious to time it right, especially given I'm already conscious we're travelling in the opposite direction). I also have no money! Maybe I can get £10 from a cash machine? I stop the taxi and everyone gets out. I keep meaning to mention my financial situation/intentions but am too scared to do so. As it is the four guys turn off to the left and I walk on, no one acknowledging this at all. I wonder how I will ever catch/meet up with Kay Emm again if I don't know the game that well.... I notice my left foot – my slippers are, I'm sure, waiting for me somewhere on the way along Argyll Street – is quite fat and bloated, my third and fourth toes blending (for an instant) into one. I need to get to the doctor and so continue walking, the loose skin now sagging off the bottom of my foot as I 'schlep' along with each awkward step-

Arz

I am in an environment half way between the familiar feeling of my (bungalow loft converted, dormer window) childhood/teenage bedroom and a vast spacious NY loft apartment, large windows and cold natural light with minimal finish and furnishings. The Wu Tang Clan's RZA is there too. There are loads of stoner hangers-on lounging around, always ready to offer up a half-smoked fat blunt should I begin to object to their presence. Eventually I just snap and begin shouting my head off – this isn't cool by anyone's standards! I then drag RZA into my efforts to expose all the overloaded electrical sockets, shifting my bed and raging about the extension cables plugged into extension cables-

A man, his wife – who I definitely fancy – and her mother are paying me £50 to enter their house at 5am to wipe the condensation from the windows (even though, as I can see from outside, they are already up and awake). I have a female friend helping me, so that's a £25 split each-

Yefrr

World Animal Foundation - Helping Animals Across The Globe

I am in a dreamescape approximation of Ferry Road, in my old upstairs neighbour Jay's flat. We are in the front living room. He and I are seated side by side in armchairs on the left hand side, a door further along that wall. Opposite us - the dreamescape POV is looking along the room – there are two more armchairs in the middle of the (window) wall in which two women sit. Jay is mingling around restlessly as a blue seal cavorts around the room attempting to climb the walls. The seal continually crashes down onto the furniture prompting sympathetic 'oohs' and 'ahhs' as we look on – it often cracks its spine painfully on an armrest or somesuch. Latterly I notice it has a small embossed Union Jack emblem on one of its haunches-

The room is now filling with water and a plumber, who is using some sort of large spatula tool with the 'fb' (Facebook?) logo on on one side, is attempting to halt the flood. He needs to do this as the water level is now so high it threatens to flood up and over the kitchen electric hob – it is lapping dangerously close. I remark (to my parents) that, “I don't know what's going on at Ferry Road...”-

Gnilbis

I am at the flat of my work colleague Arr EmCeePee and his mother and I am with local cartoonists Kay Ess and Tee Cee. I've always known Tee Cee had some sort of serious eye condition and here it is quite evident, tears continually streaming from each eye and, oddly enough, exceptionally damp hands-

Dinner is a steak, although it looks uncooked, being pale and slick, less a slice of meat and more like an internal organ (but knowing Arr's a committed foodie I'm not too concerned). It's not very well cooked however, and the meat is raw and bloody when I cut into it-

Arr shows us three pieces of his art and I have to say I am very impressed – the principal larger work is of delicate winged male sprites/faeries, rendered in acrylic paints with washes of watercolour and very fine ink linework on top for definition-

Arr has left. The TV is on. Unfortunately Tee drips some tears onto this amazing art and leaves sweaty indents on the back with his fingers. I try to dry the piece from the back and accidentally tear it too. Tee and Kay head off to get Tee's repair kit(?), leaving me alone (but safe in the knowledge Tee's exceptionally skilled with his hands and art and ought to be able to repair it as good as new).-

A BT repair man arrives – at least it's not Arr! - and helps Arr's mother. On their return Tee (and Kay) proceed to fold the paper along my tear, smoothing it down (very) flat with a steel rule. Arr now returns and is not in the least concerned about the accidental damage!?-

Ssikwonk

It is grey and wet and (to the soundtrack of Acetone's 'Every Kiss') the guitarist Mike Lightcap and myself and my old school friend Ay EmCeeEll are riding dirt bikes along excavated roadworks. We are then biking on the sidewalk, driving over fallen protective plastic barriers and jumping over the gaps-

Acetone - Every Kiss

Then (to the sound of Acetone's 'All you know') I am playing football (but with a baseball) with 3/7(?) others in a sunken square pitch. The game seems a bit hard to follow – I am not really sure what's going on – but it's certainly very competitive. Michael(?) from work is there, as droll and serious as ever-

Acetone - All You Know

Remut

I am sitting in an ill-defined (dreamescape) cafeteria space with the lady Cee Cee from my work (and 2 to 3 a.n.others). We seem to be discussing cheesecake – has someone brought one in to work? - and it looks like Cee Cee has missed the opportunity to grab a slice. It just so happens I have a triangular slice of my own which, as it happens, is both homemade and half-eaten. I offer the remaining half to Cee Cee. She really doesn't know what to say. I mention that it was made by my mother-in-law and that, “I'm pretty sure I don't have Coronavirus.” (Is my little brother there, disapproving?) Besides all this I am somewhat concerned as I have a small kitchen knife with me, a 3 inch sharp blade into a rubbery burgandy handle. It is wrapped loosely in a crumb filled paper napkin-

I am preparing to do the washing up and I lift a mug from the basin to turn it the correct way up. It spills a mix of granola cereal and cooked rice with turmeric onto the (white) worktop – I curse myself for not attending to it earlier. Is my brother again present, scoffing at me? I hurry to scoop up the rice from the worktop (which has a sort of odd, inset plughole too) and notice that it is already leaving spotted yellow stains-