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-

Wodolfwai

It seems that the musician Stuart Braithwaite has invited me to join his band Mogwai. Although the audition process (somewhat confusingly) involves wading into the water – we seem to be at some sort of coastal marina - and swimming out. I experience panic knowing I cannot touch the seabed. As we both tread water – the scene is now, oddly enough, reminiscent of the band Slint's Spiderland album cover - I am asking about what happens next. Stuart simply encourages me (between gulping for breath)-

Myself and my little brother want to go to see the film Zorro only it's half past 5 – too late! We take the car, my brother speeding as I sit, uncomfortable and worried, in an ill-fitted and decidedly shaky (and yet robustly manufactured) blue and black fabric covered baby seat. My brother pulls out of Bankhouse Avenue in Largs and on to the Irvine Road, nosing the car around a white van and trailer that is emerging from nearby John Street. At another junction he narrowly skirts around the front of a police van that is also hoping to turn-

We are walking/rushing (to the Pencil monument in Largs?) along a shore path that is elevated back and way from the sea by several metres. At a large inlet we can see an orange and black speedboat beached on the rocks (but shaking as if in open water). Dolph Lundgren and Jean Claude Van Damme, both sporting similarly orange and black swimsuits, are filming a movie. They both look old, with long, straggly hair, as I switch to the camera's POV, their lined, weary faces creased as they shout and gnash their teeth theatrically. Then, to my dismay, they spot my brother and I and start to shout and gesticulate, indignant that we are not so interested in two such "mega stars". They even, in a wide shot of this entire beach scene, fire a machine gun at us, the bullet's trajectories tracing bright streaks as they zip towards us, banging and flashing spectacularly. But we are Scottish (like Mogwai!) and we are "too metal!". Now this they understand and they leave us alone, going back to their filming-

I am now with my friend Jay Emm on the path and he finds my barking of "too metal!" really funny. He says, adopting a creaky granny's voice, "bing bong bing bong bong bong bing metal!"-

Brilluce

mytalk1071.com

I am in quite a tight (but tall) unfurnished room. The walls are smooth and painted a deep blue colour. The underground comic writer Cee Cee is present and, recognising me, he and I chat. I am then amazed to see the underground comic artist Kay Ess there and I bundle myself up under a duvet (behind some sort of basic timber stud construct?) and (sort of) surprise him when he eventually uncovers me-

There's a moment of tension when Kay Ess, standing over to the right of the room, narrowly (though he does not notice) avoids being struck by a piece of MDF structure that falls (sluggishly, silently) from the ceiling. It seems that Cee Cee (inadvertently) triggered this near accident. There are two of these drawer-like MDF pieces semi-fixed to the underside of the floor above and they form the bottom of some sort of gaming chair/install. The second piece, potentially the middle, has two short, light blue coloured furry legs that dangle down and, as I fit the fallen piece into place, I marvel at the effort that has gone into (making) it-

I am then exploring the rest of this flat, a giant room in an (almost) half teardrop shape with a high ceiling – enough space to accommodate a speedway track (in my dreamescape opinion). The walls are painted deep purple and are covered with rather primitive graffiti, mostly rendered in a silver spray paint – a lot of the art is similar to the PWEI or Jesus Jones motifs. We – there are other people present, viewing the flat – all speculate on what happened to the (previous) occupant (who I assume to be a male 'metalhead'). Has he been quite suddenly evicted, and why? Or has he passed away? Of course, my 'metalhead' theory is somewhat confounded by the elaborate centerpiece of this great room – a huge display-cum-open wardrobe. There are hundreds of neatly ironed shirts hanging in well organised rows and many pairs of shoes stored in tidy open drawers for ease of access-

I am at the home of the actor Bruce Willis, an impressive, slender sandstone building with neat white window frames and two smaller corresponding buildings, one for each of his daughters(?). Taken together the three buildings form a private inner courtyard of sorts. The building belonging to his youngest daughter (15 or so years old, the elder 21-ish) is very slim and accessed by external curved stone steps. She is some sort of sculptor/jewellery maker and Bruce is rightly proud of her talents-

I am huddled somewhat by a bunch of people, one of whom in our unavoidable proximity I recognise to be Claire (? a complete, yet familiar, creation of the dreamescape). She has pleasant, plain features with large, slightly sad eyes and sleepy, hooded lids. Her hair is cut short in a boy-ish style. (Is she like an actress from the film The Commitments?).

We are delighted to see each other and even more so when she tells me she has a baby boy. ...the only thing is her child is tiny! He's not only minute but he's (not far off from being) the exact double of the cartoon Mickey Mouse (right down to wearing the same clothes). He sits in the palm of Claire's hand and stares upward, mouthing/gesticulating happily – there is a long lingering 'shot' of him doing just this. I say that I guess he must be bottle fed as his tiny mouth would never be able to accommodate a nipple. Suddenly the wee boy/mouse is off and running and I am terrified he will be accidentally squashed in our efforts to catch him as he dashes in and about the skirting board-

Whedge

I am lying in bed. The ill-defined shape of someone sitting at the edge is facing towards me, a dull shadow, quite motionless. This, I'm sure, is the former Stone Roses guitarist John Squire. We do not speak and I think about how I considered sending him the first Telemachus album (during his non-music period) in the hope that he'd either A – like it, or B – be inspired enough to pick up the guitar again. I marvel at the way the Stone Roses song 'She's The One' (?) is composed, the recording layered up for a powerful, rousing sound. Mixmaster Morris – Kira Kira?-

The second(?) figure is, after my taking a while to work it out, the comedian Steve Coogan. He sits with his back towards me, looking at me over his shoulder. He sports a long, greying hairstyle (Bill P. Sinner?) and (as he is naked) is fumbling for his testicles. I announce, "get yer bollocks off me bed!"-

Gwamf

I am back at University (the dreamescape version, a familiar-ish environment, the sense of place strong if not exact). There is a huge statue in black cast iron with a giant, mottled foot. I walk upstairs and along the corridor by the student 'units' - teaching spaces formed by simple timber partitioning. I see a fellow female student Ell Eff (and does she look right through me, or close her eyes, ignoring me completely?). I seem to pass her twice and the second time - by now I want her to acknowledge me – she definitely completely blanks me-

I go outside and someone, a quite overwhelmed student, asks me, "are you Ratty Scallion?" It seems I am famous for evading/defeating the large black statue (which, incidentally has just come to life and is stomping around the campus). As I dodge this I am sort of interviewed by a reporter, commenting on events related to this incident(?). He is showing me CD and vinyl albums-

I am in Wales, 'looking and loading' a large bundle of vinyl records. The horizon is sandwiched between a man's hand-

I meet the Prime Minister (a male, not ill-defined). He gives me a great hand-enveloping greeting, full of enthusiasm. For sale. "You're going to be all kinds of bother"-