Nortle

I am holding the (Braw Books - Sketch Sunday) baby, a hand under each armpit. It is covered in a myriad of tiny tattoos and has a crescent moon-shaped scar, yet to fully heal, on each bare buttock (as if it has been deliberately sat in broken glass... by me?)-

I am in a sort of cafe/restaurant, all rustic and rickety, bright and airy. A lady, Kay Cee, from my work keeps making jokes about bl*wjobs and is eventually asked outside to explain her rude conduct. It is 3:30 and we are already packing up (our work?) to finish at 4pm. I make a joke about our (architectural?) project, saying we should have put an "egg shop" in the rear courtyard (of our housing project) instead. Everyone, including Kay Emm, finds this hilarious, even when I repeat it a second time-

I am with another work colleague Ay Dubya and we are pleading with a (Sun newspaper) photographer not to publish photos of us trying to fix her computer (on company time... with the Taxpayer's money!). But, then again, aren't we doing it during our lunch hours?-

tardis.fandom.com/wiki/

I am chasing the actor Paul McGann's brother – who IS Paul McGann! - down the street. He's surrounded by a gaggle of teenage girl fans and I can do nothing but hang back and wait my turn-

Broeht

I am outdoors in a (Glasgow?) park and am about to attend a concert by The Orb. There is no one there due to the Covid-19 pandemic and the simple box stage, which looks distinctly amateurish, is empty. I walk down a gently grassy slope and I see a second stage where Alex Paterson, replete with bucket hat, stands behind a set of record decks. He is to my left hand side and to his right there's a woman – his dreamescape wife? - with thick rimmed NHS glasses and frizzy strawberry blonde hair. She is at a set of records decks of her own.-

Paterson spins records by The Orb while a (Black Lives Matter?) protest march is dispersing. Paterson peeks behind the stage (at what looks to me like nothing more than a bunch of town market stalls being dismantled) and, somewhat disgruntled in spite of his chilled demeanour, says, “the young people of today...” I suddenly realise now that Alex has emerged from behind his set of decks that he is not wearing any trousers or pants – his thick, stubby, rope-like p*nis points straight down, firmly sandwiched between his thighs. He has no pubic hair. He is puzzling to himself as some young white males, who exude the classic 'matey-with-underlying-threat' vibe pass by, Paterson evidently at something of a loss as to what he should play next-

Mitnoj

I am on a blustery beach and I am both talking to, as well as watching, The Charlatans singer Tim Burgess.

Their late drummer Jon Brookes, if not exactly present, is certainly swirling about in the fabric of the dreamescape. Tim is talking about the drug Meribone/Meridone(?) and how it makes him float above the waves – it does! He then proceeds to talk about standing on the shore and taking a piss, conscious of the early evening tide coming in at his back-

Yobwok

I am in a room and am watching four people singing acapella – I'm thinking of the band The Cowboy Junkies in terms of sound(?). The third singer from the left leaves (after an argument?) and my (dreamescape) wife Melissa, a cute faced lady with long hair and a straight fringe across her forehead, steps in admirably to sing. (Is she wearing a mask on her chin as per all the other three singers?) My wife's sister then arrives, being a considerably older woman, verging on the geriatric. She berates us both, cursing us out – is she ill, dying? In response to her nasty tone I tell her to leave, saying pointedly, “you don't exist.”-

I am at the dreamescape flat of my little brother's wife. My brother, uncharacteristically happy, leaps up to hang/swing off a timber stud lattice that is suspended across the 'living room' ceiling (of what is a tall, double height space). His weight causes a section of this lattice to splinter and collapse. There follows much consternation while we discuss if it can be fixed or not (prior to his wife returning?). In the interim – is it repaired by a joiner? - my brother moves over to my left and breaks another part of this segmented rectangular construct. While discussing this eventuality with the joiner/tradesman he points out that the small toilet wall has been sheeted with plasterboard in order to hide damp-

This small bathroom is long, narrow and tall with a simple white porcelain WC at the far end, backing on to the external wall. There is a slotted window above at height. The builder is right and suddenly all the wall surfaces transform, morphing into a substance of a light blue spongey texture, a sort of damp, fibrous material, inconsistent and pockmarked, soft but springy to the touch-

Back in the large living space, the lattice evidently repaired, I suddenly notice that the central supporting column does not look to be secure at all – the timber 'cushion' between the lower and upper sections appears to be crushed and, even more alarming, skewed to the one side. Looking again I realise the upper part of the column is formed of some sort of collapsible white PVC pipe. Immediately upon noticing this there seems to be several of these (SVPs?) drooping down from the ceiling above-

Noxas

I am travelling (at what feels like night) on a bus, sitting on an aisle seat on the left hand side, about half way up the coach. It seems we are bound for Greenock and I am worried that I will miss my stop (as I am not at all familiar with the route). Having come to a halt I am unsure if I should get off here or at the next stop (for what it transpires is a connecting ferry service). Is it too early to get off? I ask the driver at the last minute and he advises me to disembark. The man seated across from me (who just so happens to look like the actor John Saxon) on the aisle is displeased and shouts down to the driver that he's not satisfied and will be making a formal complaint-

In my dash (across a stony beach) from the bus to the waiting ferry I scrabble across the rough surface. Stopping to take stock for a moment I realise I have lost everything from my scabby, useless wallet. In a panic I scramble back towards the bus where the driver (who now also resembles the film actor John Saxon) points out that my I.D. / Season ticket are in fact scattered on the stones. I quickly gather these up, equal parts reassured/troubled that I have £15 secreted in a pocket somewhere-

I am indoors and I am hoovering. A young girl (with learning difficulties) is in charge of the vacuum's hose attachment while I monitor some sort of filter flap at the rear of the body near the floor. This filter keeps jamming and whining as there are trailing threads(?) within the hoover which keep catching. The main body of the hoover itself is a large, bulky washing machine-esque object. The actress Kristen Scott Thomas is also present and she gives occasional instructions. At first the going is quite good but becomes steadily worse and worse, the floor (that we've already hoovered) somehow again covered in straw, stones and paper clips. I ask the young girl to start picking up the larger objects as I take over the directing of the hose-

Eeoteezoop

I am with my cartoonist friend Jay Emm and a.n.other. We are indoors and are walking from one room to the next. Something is deeply troubling me as we do so, something about Jay needing to be in the company of two people because it means he's going to...

… commit murder! As the door to this shadowy room shuts behind us I have this sudden realisation... but too late! To my complete terror Jay – who is now nothing more than a blurred, lumpen silhouette – pounces on my companion and proceeds to stab him rapidly several times. I am completely petrified as he stops, turning his attention to me-

I am in a crowded club/student union watching a DJ. The place is rammed, the DJ booth just over to my left. I know that this is the support act and I am highly anticipating the headliner. It looks as if I am alone in this as the place rapidly empties as the DJs change over. What's worse is that my (old) friend Cee Cee is among the few people remaining. I really do not want to talk to him as he comes over having spotted me-

I am now out in the street, balancing up on the kerbside and trying to avoid upsetting some magic tricks as performed by a few older men-

I am on some sort of coastal road travelling at dusk, the light slowly fading. I am perched on a sort of small tubular metal crucifix finished in a while gloss paint dip. This unusual object is my means of transport – I keep catching on the ground or am unable to negotiate rough surfaces, all the time conscious of a family(?) in gentle pursuit-

Mottob

It seems I have booked in on a coach trip to see The Charlatans play a concert in Dublin (and the gig has finally been rescheduled due to the Coronavirus pandemic). As luck would have it I discover, after some initial confusion, that The Orb are playing later the very same night. So, assuming both gigs are still going ahead, I'm hoping to not only catch both concerts but also to see my old friend Dee Bee-

Unbeknownst to Dee Bee, myself and my old friend Arr are standing outside his (dreamescape bungalow) house, waiting by the hedge and peeking over into his front garden. Only Dee Bee's wife/partner and her pal are there, two chubby and jolly women discussing homemade sweets. “He'll like bonbons”, says Dee's partner, one of several remarks about the obvious delicacies she has made (for him)-

Within a flash (as per the dreamescape) the two women vanish to be replaced by Dee himself. We can just see his head and shoulders when suddenly he flops up and off his seat and waddles into full view, his formerly trim body ballooned into a wobbling, comical flabby ball shape. Although he doesn't acknowledge us he begins to act up, preforming little comedy trips and slides that would be quite amusing but for the fact he looks so ridiculous and bloated. “So not a good look”, remarks Arr-

I am watching Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson perform 'Bottom: Live', and I am both enjoying the performance and (as is my creative curse) often thinking beyond it and analysing it. At present they are being struck on the head in turn by a huge suspended wrecking ball. This happens a couple of times to each. After, as they recoil and recover, Ade/Eddie begins his next lines. It's then that blood becomes quite noticeable on Rik/Richie's right temple, a small trickle just at the hairline. The splotch gets steadily more bloody as Rik halts his performance to acknowledge it. Eddie has stopped too and the audience holds its breath. It is, of course, a cunning ruse and the pair of them turn, their faces contorted into smug, sneering 'gotchas!'. (As this has all been going on I clicked at the trick, marvelling at how Ade's behaviour must have drawn the audience attention away from Rik to allow him to place/puncture the blood bag.)-