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 -

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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 -