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-