Spinvad

I am at a woman's house, sitting at a wooden table in her kitchen. She is dressed quite formally and sits up straight, her fine (if a little strained) features framed by a short, curly 1930s-ish hairstyle. I seem to be keen on knowing the time, thinking that after a certain hour (10 or 11pm) I must contact Kay Emm to inform her of my whereabouts/safety. Unfortunately my (smart) phone seems to have been hacked/encrypted by some form of (Japanese) virus. Whenever I attempt to access it to send a message the screen adopts a fuzzy tv-esque pixellated picture, a classic arcade machine 'Space Invader' graphic in purple on an off-white background. I try several times to send a message and eventually give up in frustration-

Someone is packing (my belongings?) into a case on the table, carelessly jamming them in. I am aware, though not exactly how, that I have spilled my great oversized mug of tea – it seems to simply slide and fall perfectly from the table, the contents splashing on the floor and wall. I feel I am making a point about slavery (although the woman considers it a mockery) as myself and two jazz-suited older black men – complete with pencil moustaches and pork pie hats – wipe the slop of my tea, which now somehow has a brown and white mixed colour and the consistency of melting, gooey ice cream, from the skirting. Does the supposed offence relate to the death of one of the black men's fathers (or Malcolm X)?-

Twudikk

Intuition tells me I am at my old childhood home, although much of the environment is altered. I am inspecting the floor by the fire, looking at it in great detail. The fire is an old fashioned electric effort with moulded, coloured logs and mounted in a plain rectangular timber frame. The tiling to the front of the fire unit is lumpen and misshapen as if forced up and displaced from below. This seems to worsen as I look at it, the subfloor now seemingly stretched and exposed, the tiles further buckled and broken. The damage is not limited to the tiling and I notice, to my absolute dismay, that one of our front windows is cracked in by the frame. My mother and I, both deeply upset, hug each other, lamenting the costs of this unforeseen damage- 

I deduce that this ongoing damage has been caused by something acting from the outside of the house. My two brothers and I go out into the (dark) street to investigate. To our left, a few houses down from us, a 'gas' van is parked, visible in the orange glow of the streetlights. The van's back door (to access the trade materials) is sitting open. A heavy-ish guy in his mid-50s – he has tousled hair and sports thick NHS-style glasses and wears sturdy, reflective clothing – wanders over to it and my brothers and I take turns to remonstrate with him. It transpires he has been doing some “essential” gas supply upgrade in the area, drilling and adding extra pipework, and we are outraged that he is doing so without (at least) notifying the homeowners. I call the guy “a f**king moron!” to his face – of course, I instantly regret it, knowing that by insulting him I have weakened our case against him. He just takes of his glasses and smirks. This attittude of quiet amusement further fires the flames of my wrath and I bristle with intense frustration-

Kruzzle

I have just moved into my new home (alone, it would seem, although a young woman with long blonde hair seems to be on the peripheral of the dreamescape and a few times I seek her out to ask her some quick-answer questions about the place, though she makes little further impression on me). There is a large sloping Velux window (that feels like it should be a roof/attic access but it looks to be just above ground level). Also located in its vicinity is a a perspex dome – instinct tells me the previous owner installed this. Two soft toys, one of which is the cartoon character Krtek (Mole) are perched on the rim of the supporting structural framework within which the dome is fitted- 

The basement is a vast, dark cavern and twice, when looking towards the stair/entrance, I can almost discern a menacing monster taking shape to the right. It seems to merge and emerge from its surroundings – part of my fear stems from my inability to asses its shape, to judge the actual threat – and is slow and ill-defined, its mouth yawning like some great, warped Jim Henson creation (complete with closed glove puppet throat). Both times I escape just as the creature begins to consolidate in form and activity- 

From the Velux window I watch several (what are best described as) futuristic dropships – white, compact jets with stubby engines that rotate as required for flight and landings – fly in over the house and and touch down in a nearby yard. (It's as if the Velux window moves around with me to follow the flow of the action, as I always sense that I am looking through it as events unfold. Similarly, I often talk to someone unseen in order to voice my thoughts/concerns, the dreamescape by turns crowded and solitary.) At this point I remark to someone that something big is going down as, duh!, look at all the activity. Shortly, looking away from this landing site, with its blunt, functional military-esque buildings, it's as if I suddenly realise a section of a great towering building is crashing to the ground. I commentate on the scene as it unfolds and as my minds puts it into focus – or is it in fact one of the dropships taking an unexpected tumble? I rush and open the front door(?) of the house and am confronted by a scene of apocalyptic devastation – shell-shocked civilians stumbling aimlessly amidst ruins and debris, the air thick with dust, draining the scene of colour, giving the entire scene a grey, washed-out look. I stand and gesticulate, keen that the dazed survivors come indoors to (relative) safety. I distinctly recall a young-ish woman with long curly ginger hair ambling by blankly, her eyes wide and uncomprehending- 

The sloping Velux window (now) has a brown sheet over the bottom half, pinned (by the previous owner) in place at each corner. I try to take the sheet down, quite a tricky operation that puts me at an awkward stretch as I reach out for it. The sheet is almost like parchment paper and comes away easily in my hand, perishing as it does so- 

I am gripped and hugged suddenly, the dreamescape now populated by jolly couples congratulating me, talking of how they popped by for a surprise (to me!) housewarming party. One chap in particular, a smiling, heavy-set fellow with curly hair and a pencil moustache, lingers in the mind, having hugged me (too) enthusiastically. I am uncomfortable with this large uninvited throng and hope to usher them out the door- 

Again I experience the same tense event twice. It seems everyone is crowding onto the stairs (down, near the Velux?) and tempers are slowly fraying. At the furthest point from me – I am looking down onto the scene, the stairs going away from me down to a landing then turning and continuing down – on the far corner of the landing an argument or fight seems to be breaking out. A sharp featured youth, freckled with blond curls, is lashing out at a young girl who is squashed in near to him. The whole group react to this outbreak, by turns protesting and squealing- 

(In the midst of this) a young, thin British Asian guy, with a long, finely featured face and a shock of inky dark curly hair is working on the house electrics. There are miscellaneous wires hanging from the wall at about head height and he is turning a screw to adjust something (held in place by pieces of yellow plastic). Have I (also) witnessed this before or am I watching closely to learn how to do these repairs myself? He remarks on the quality of the electrical install – we both agree it is poor- 

To access the house there is a long cobble lane – about 3 metres wide – with tall grey painted hoardings on each side. The cobbles are damp and wet, and the scene disappears in a straight line into the misty distance. As I am walking up the lane an Indian woman in her mid 50's, wearing a colourful sari/trouser outfit, is coming towards me. She is the tarot/fortune teller who works/lives here – there are two gates in the hoarding to my right which have some such worded signage on them (as well as the word 'GOD' spray painted in red). As she sashays towards me she says, in passing, “God” and I reply something about not saying that as I've had a weird weekend and it freaks me out. She is quite amused by this proclamation and continues her leisurely, and slightly sensual, stroll- 

I am talking to a man who has approached me in the lane and am angered when he asks me if I would allow for it to be narrowed. He owns a glass company and it would be to his benefit as it would make his storage yard, currently jam packed with great slabs of glass, stored upright in protective timber frames, much larger. I take umbrage at this suggestion as I feel the only reason he is being polite to me is because of this very reason, and I make sure that he registers my annoyance/disappointment-

Nyoodit

I am in some sort of office environment. Without any overarching visual evidence (aside from a lack of any windows) I have a sense that it is a basement. I am immediately confronted by my old schoolfriend Eee Eff talking to a colleague. He is saying something about, “...if the cap fits...” with reference to someone (who I half suspect to be our mutual schoolfriend Enn Ess) having taken a photo (“...as soon as he got out...”) on his phone of a black and white historic photo, depicting a mining community – though I also, given the coming context, calculate it to actually/also be lawn bowls – that is framed on the office wall. I feel the bowling would seem to tie in with the suggestion that Eee is stressing the fact that Enn Ess, as much as he might deny it, was into gambling and that , having “got out” (from wherever that may be) he took the picture from habit, thereby confirming his underlying addiction- 

I continue to walk through the office. It is very tired, with faded green carpeting and timber fittings to the walls and doors. I pass a few offices that are in darkness, illuminated only by the light from the corridor, a lonely chair propped against the wall – I think to myself, wondering if I could afford to rent one of these spare rooms to work in? The rooms that are occupied are just as sparse, with great solid timber desks, that are decidedly old fashioned in build, alone in the centre of the room. I walk out into a foyer area – there's an L-shaped timber counter with a break for access to my right. A young smartly dressed man, tall, with a long face and blonde tousled hair on top is there looking at his phone (which I can see from the white lead is plugged in and charging). The minute he spots me he checks himself, wiping the cheeky grin from his face and adopting a more serious expression. As I walk past I think to myself that he was probably looking at pornography until I caught him- 

My friend Gee EmmCeeEll and (formerly a Studio colleague) Cee Bee. They are dating. It seems Cee has put a value on their relationship, and in a series of columns, which I see clearly before me, has added it up to the sum of 1,370 kroner. On the other side of this page is some figure of Gee's that is closer to 120 kroner-

Velkin

I am getting into a 'black cab' taxi with a young woman. She is tall, refined, her hair cropped short to the back and sides, the fringe long and styled in a neat parting. I am quite anxious when we are seated as I obviously like her and there is a definite sense of anticipation. The reason for our journey together is something to do with seeing (about) my underground cartoonist friend John G. Miller. As it is we are not able to leave just yet for I tell her to ask the driver to wait while I go back (upstairs?) to do or sort something. This muddled process takes much longer that I expected - though I don't recall the actual task as much as the stress of searching and rushing - and by the time I return the black cab has gone. In its place the young woman is now sitting in the back seat of her parents brown hatchback car. She tells me the driver of the taxi left after growing impatient - it's been that long - and her parents are hardly exuding a sense of patience towards me. She tells me to put my stuff in the boot of the car and however many times I try - it is of an American-ish design, comprising a lower 'flap' that closes upwards to be locked in place by a 'lid' that shuts down over it, holding it in place. The components feel like they are made of cardboard and seem flimsy and insecure. It simply will not catch and each time I'm sure it has latched the lid drifts upwards and the flap flops down. After my third or fourth attempt the young woman's father unbuckles his belt and, frustrated, come out to assist me- 

We are chasing a car towards the block of flats where I used to live. The vehicle we are pursing turns into the access to the parking that divides the two buildings in the development. The vehicle is trapped as there is a car stopped ahead of it and another quickly races in to the rear, blocking any chance of escape. I get out of the car I am in - not the same as the above - and dash over. The car I believed to be trapped seems to have completely vanished, although the search for the occupants continues, with several people looking over by the River Kelvin (as the development backs on to it). Instead of the brush and bushes I expected to see beyond the chain link fence on the steep banks down to the river there is instead a (slippery looking) set of prefabricated concrete steps that descend into the murky water. I scale the chickenwire fence and negotiate the steps and here I spot the couple (presumably from the car) both doing the breaststroke, swimming and splashing in the water the man to the front, a woman trailing. They are heading upstream towards the (relative) cover of the looming, heavy stone roadbridge to my right. I clear my throat and, after some careful consideration - am I with a woman? - I spit at the man in the water. He looks very much as former Creation Records boss Alan McGee does now, the round bald head and puckered features - he's even wearing shades! The globule of spit just goes over his head, plopping into the water ahead of him (at this point he is looking towards the woman swimmer). He turns towards me and, paddling to stay afloat, exclaims something like, "spat at by an Alan McGee lookalike!"- 

A small timber room is being prepared for a wedding party. It is accessed via a short corridor formed as the gents toilet is to the left and the ladies toilet to the right, a set of double doors (open at this time) spanning the gap. I'm puzzled to see that some sort of timber construct has been built that prevents the toilets from being accessed from the room side - one has to go out the doors and round to visit the single cubicle. The room itself is small and has no furniture as yet - I can recall wondering how on earth they will host a party here (as well as noting a few decidedly lonely looking white balloons dotted about the place)- 

There is some sort of flat/communal housewarming taking place. I think this is in the same building as the wedding room, but events are jumbled. Am I desperately packing for the same wedding? I don't seem to have witnessed the actual event but (all the same) I can clearly recall that one man casually stabbed another in the side- 

It is a fresh evening and I am waiting in a hospital car park, the light from the lobby illuminating the dark parking forecourt. A woman (one of the other neighbours?) drives up in her car. Evidently it is visiting hours and she says to me, "what will we talk about?". (Thinking of the stabbing) I say, "Oh, I'm sure you've plenty of things to talk about!"- 

I am back at the flats and am strolling along the access corridor. I keep snagging the top of my head on the (surprising amount of) short plastic string clotheslines that are strung across the space (at 30-50cm intervals)-

Filzocosie

I am watching an episode of the American sit-com Seinfeld. The character George Costanza, in a light shirt and braces, is sitting at a table/desk facing the 'camera'. To his left sits (someone who I instinctively know is the actress) Elizabeth Perkins, the back of her curly haired head about 2/3 in shot and in slightly soft focus, being near to the lens-

I am joining the action mid-sentence - something of a hangover from the previous (lost) dream about my little brother staying in my old flat? - and George exclaims, "-and I'm going to f*cking lose my first f*cking job!". Elizabeth scolds him for swearing like this. There is a strange, barely detectable jump cut here, and I seem aware that I am now looking at the back of Jerry Seinfeld's head. There seems to be another jump cut, close in - Seinfeld is now weeping and clutches at (what I eventually realise is) George's exposed left breast-

George is now topless, with fabric epaulette's on his shoulders, and Jerry, thoroughly milking the comic moment, proceeds to pull on his breast like a towel, stretching out lengths of it as he dries his eyes/comforts himself. (I realise the epaulettes are likely present to allow for the FX of drawing out this long, fake breast.) At one point a length of the rubbery flesh appears spattered with tomato sauce and cheese, the audience groaning in mock disgust. (I am quite sure as this scene unfolds that it is to infer that George has stored a slice of pizza under there, also acknowledging that it's the wrong side up for that too, but...) Then a further jump cut as Seinfeld is concerned with the right epaulette which, fixed at the side of George's neck seems to be scratching at his skin on the right, arching back and forth as it does so, some small black tab scraping at the skin and threatening to infect him with-

Gipone

I am lying on a bed cover and swiping at very small, sleek flies, such as have their wings tucked tight into their backs, trying to swat them against the fabric. There is a pigeon, its feathers the same dark grey as the cover and it seems I am trying to now swat the flies against its back. There's a sliding window just a foot or so from the edge of the bed and the pigeon hops to the cill then to the floor. It hobbles in its own peculiar pigeon fashion down this narrow passage and in the centre of the floor it has suddenly become a black labrador dog that falls back on its bottom before lying on it's side, raising its right front foot in friendly submission, pawing gently at the air-

Liccono

I am with (the late) The Charlatans keyboard player Rob Collins. He's casually dressed, as per their Weirdo promo photos, with denims, a t-shirt and a bomber jacket on top. His hair is long-ish, cut in around his neck. We are talking about him being the 'Hammond King' and somehow we make a jump to/joke of the 'Hammond Queen'. He quips that whichever of these it is that it's always “cold wars” (and I remember thinking is that because the organ keys are cold to the touch?). We are walking near a bungalow, similar to the one I grew up in, and I can just make out huge The Charlatans posters on the internal walls - I can see them through the blinds over the large front windows - and I'm sure I heard something about an exhibition- 

I am with my big brother and Noel Gallagher. I am slagging Noel a little about Oasis as he starts to take off - we are in a sort of airlock/plane environment and he and my brother are securely belted in, Noel over to the left, my brother to the right, nearer myself. I am frightened as Noel (who seems to be in complete control without there being any evidence of actual, physical controls) really begins to tilt the plane(?), intentionally climbing to a high altitude. I am desperately grasping for supporting handles over by my brother, hanging on with one hand for dear life, terrified that Noel will opt to open the door to the plane and that I will be sucked out. I somehow manage to reach right across the compartment, my body at full stretch, to grip the support handle on Noel's side too, somewhat easing my fear of being ejected- 

We are now walking with Noel in Glasgow. I am mocking his brother Liam's new singing style, singing unintelligible lyrics down through my nose, breathing and rushing as he does these days. I try this again, with actual lyrics, with considerably less (amusing) success. I talk to Noel about Mogwai, saying that 2(?) of the members own a pub in Berlin, one owns a vegan cafe in the Southside of Glasgow and that their guitarist Stuart Braithwaite does a lot of community work there too. Noel seems non-committal as to whether he has met or even likes them-

Our route takes us to some historic buildings of considerable architectural beauty, great ornate structures with exceptional decorative stonework, street archways and features. There are several of these constructs and we walk between them in quiet wonder. Noel approaches a very fancy set of double doors, doors finished in a swirling timber veneer with wrought metal handles. I make a joke about him probably being important enough to get them to open and indeed he is. He reappears with a bundle of mail which, as it happens, seems to be addressed to the art Studio where I used to work. Noel sifts through the mail, passing me several envelopes (addressed to Brian Miller?) that he quickly dismisses as 'gas bills'. The envelopes, evidently regarding some business, are so aged they have almost become opaque, the slip of paper visible within. There is also a letter for Kay Emm in the pile-

Moorlin

"Which one is served as the lady in the bong?" 

Giggles consume the operating theatre as the staff try to work out which of the shifting, shapeless bumps under the sheets is the woman and which is the monkey- 

I am with Alan Moore, trailing him as he guides me through some back streets, exploring small, fusty shops. We finish in a tiny comic shop - though it looks more like a bedroom, complete with bed! - with stacks of vintage comics everywhere. The owner is a young guy with glasses and swept back ginger hair - though I remember trying to work out if Alan lived (or at least slept) here. There's a strange comic with a Jim Starlin cover, an alien in blue outline, suspended above a desert surface. The cover is split, with 2 images? I think Moebius has contributed to it too-

Slouse

I am in a large butchers-cum-slaughterhouse. I am standing in the butcher's section, the counter to my right, and am facing the corridor that leads through into the freezer storage / slaughterhouse. The whole place is very angular, finished in square, gently blue hued tiles on the wall and floor. I think I am here for a job interview and recall a tension as I talk to people around a table. I am then being asked if I could sit in on and ask questions at another interview with a disfigured person - they are sitting just along from me, their face hidden by the lady sitting next to myself. It's as if I can see them - it's a male with short blond hair - but peering round the woman the face is blank, beyond my visual reach-

Zatzyl

I am with my friend Aye Dubya. The environment is unclear, but it is bright and fresh, I guess a family living room - I am conscious of his father sitting in a comfy armchair to our left - but no other details spring to mind, the dream being quite focussed. Aye's mother, looking as she did many years ago, comes to join us. She is dressed in a red billowy top, tied at the waist, that hangs down to above her knees. She wears light grey, slightly loose trousers under this. She sits cross-legged on the floor directly in front of Aye's father. She is chatty and amused, wondering how we missed the news, brandishing her phone to show us something- 

It is Denzl Washington. He is standing with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, wearing nothing but tight Speedos, his hair long-ish and unkempt, a great wild bushy beard sprouting from his chin. He seems to be quite stoned, unaware of his (domestic) surroundings, gently ambling on the spot, his mind evidently otherwise occupied. There seems to be someone lying on the floor of the room he's in. Aye's mother mentions Prins (?), a female who is also part of this (sexual) scandal. It seems two other people were also involved. Aye and myself (to our own amusement), practically as one voice comment on how Denzl seems to be going through the motions, that he has no idea what's going on and that he just happens to be there. There's an additional flash of the Denzl scene, one where there are several more musicians sporting guitars gathered in the same room- 

There follows a very brief clip of the cartoon character Taz who seems to be restrained in a chair in a large laboratory. Suddenly a large, suggestive sausage shape bulges out from under his chin, curving down over his belly. That is all there is of the clip and Aye Dubya and I discuss how and why it was banned. Taz then, as we are treated to the whole scene, seems to shit a large acorn, beginning with the cupule - which is a gentle, Starburst purple colour - followed by the shell (and plenty of cartoony splashes and drips) which matches the colour of his creamy shirtfront- 

The main boy from 13 Reasons Why is living in a top floor space, accessed via a steep staircase. He is wearing glasses and seems to be knocking people senseless and killing them. The atmosphere is very tense and I seem frightened into silence by events, struggling to articulate. 4 guys turn up with polythene bags of photos, and they seem to be discussing how they had a deal that he'd make some books up from these as agreed- 

https://www.orbmag.com

I am talking to someone - who admittedly looks a little like Thomas Fehlmann - as we listen to The Orb's 'No Sounds Are Out Of Bounds' album. He wonders who the music is by, remarking that it really is very good. I am particularly enthused, and begin praising the final 3 tracks, noting how they almost form a piece, both of us agreeing how they seem to recall a particular period/style of Berlin techno-

Beelltee

I am at the flat of my friends Bee Tee and Ell Tee. It feels very claustrophobic, almost as if we are underground – though it's certainly ground floor in my mind - and there's no sense of any natural light being allowed to penetrate. The walls are grey and drab, the hall a long, confusing corridor or sorts with plenty of doors opening to rooms off. I take a hurried shower in one of these rooms, aware that someone could walk in at any moment. The shower room, which is sparsely furnished – I don't even recall a basic shower mechanism, just the sensation of water and steam – is not even tiled or anything (and I get to thinking Bee will presumably tackle that job in future). There is even a strange horizontal rectangular opening, with timber trims, through into the hall at about head height- 

Going into the hallway I notice a seriously burnt, almost to the point of being completely carbonated, short French stick travelling along the carpet towards me. It takes me some time to realise that it is being carried by a troop of large ants. I stand back, somewhat in shock, standing on a giant shiny ant by mistake, popping it under the weight of my foot. There are even more aggressive red ants too – the same deep red colouring as poison dart frogs – and I urge Bee Tee to watch, marvelling at the speed with which these frightening insects can munch down and consume a whole leaf-

Zzuntub

In a concrete built environment, all very solid, angular and drained of colour. I am at the head of a group, the group itself more or less being lead by my friend Ayy Jay Ess as I power out in front in an angry and unsettled strop. This is because I have taken umbrage at Ayy Jay Ess for directing the group's attention to copycat John Miller graffiti. It's obviously fake but Ayy Jay Ess still enjoys enthusing about John Miller's genius to the attentive audience while I, for some reason, (inwardly) object to this-

We reach a set of steps, cut into the harsh, solid surroundings, that lead up to a University building. I have purposely ignored some graffiti on the wall prior to this but make my way, bothered, back down the steps to inspect what all the/Ayy Jayy Ess's fuss is about, dismissing the (admittedly quite good) postering – 'WAH!' or John's cat character Zooty? - and sloganeering immediately (but staying longer to study and admire it anyway)-

I am in some enormous dimly lit lecture theatre that slopes sharply down to the stage. I am with a black guy – cropped hair, thick NHS glasses, stubble – and he and I converse as we make our way to our seating. The chairs are much older than they first appeared, and the seating is quite cramped, covered in worn fabric of faded reds and blues. There is no aisle to speak of and we simply (cautiously) step on the seats as we descend. The theatre becomes more and more visibly tatty (and steep!) as we do so – I am questioning the condition as much as the vertiginous design at this point – and yet I seem to be drifting, gently springing with minimum contact between (several) rows (at a time) as we near the stage-

Xovvit

“Boris Johnson sacks Australian CEO on his couch.”

“WW2 fillings responsible for second fire.”

I am looking at the back page of a newspaper. There is a two-thirds photo of a Formula One racing driver, Rema(?), dressed in the standard red jumpsuit. He has short curly hair, matted to his head, a dark complexion, large, slightly bulging eyes, his mouth set in a pained, gap-toothed semi-smile. The headline, to his bottom right, concerns his “feral grandmother”. There is a picture (there?) to accompany this. She stands, her arms aloft in a triumphant pose, her feet planted firmly apart. Her skin is dark and leathery, a huge diamond of black pubic hair growing up from her crotch, peaking below her saggy, wrinkled breasts. Her head is tilted back, her toothy mouth open to the sky as if uttering a mighty roar- 

I am watching football on a big screen in a pub. I am directly in front of the screen, resting my bottom on a timber table to my back. The table is covered in piled newspapers and I am conscious that I am crumpling them at the edge and continually shift my weight accordingly. I am not sure whether I am watching (The Stone Roses) singer Ian Brown as a player or in fact “Ian Brown” the team playing. He wears an all white strip and looks to be of an age comparable to his early solo artist years. His team are playing, and losing to, Cameroon. I turn to the guy on my left and we have a short discussion about Ian failing to capitalise on The Stone Roses reunion, about how he should be playing in the World Cup- 

I am sitting at a table sorting through box after box, searching for a (particular) pair of socks. We are planning to go the opening of an art exhibition by Cee Cee. My friend Vee Dee is there, urging me to hurry up and make my selection. I expect I am partly stalling as I do not want to go – I do not like, nor respect, Cee Cee. We are drinking too. Eventually Vee Dee (and the others decide to) leave me to attend the opening. I am still puzzling through boxes, taking out pairs of socks and examining them. One pair especially I try and wrestle on to my feet, giving up as they are simply too tight. Do I suddenly come to? All the boxes are gone. The artist Pee Kay passes by, commanding two flatbed railway trucks, trundling by of their own accord. The side facing myself has a white sheet that rises about 2 metres into the air, and adjacent to that each end is partly covered in a surrounding sheet too. I am convinced he has taken my boxes and follow him to a large warehouse that houses even more flatbed trucks, each covered in similar white sheeting-

Weleest

I am with my brother-in-law, Dubya Haitch, and another man and we are drinking shots of some sort of strong misty grey alcohol from a pouring jug. We are sitting outside in a large l-shaped garden. The square timber house that occupies the rest of the plot is split between (I think) myself and another family. Dubya Haitch and the other man leave. I pour a huge glass of the alcohol and then, thinking better of it, pour it back from my tumbler into the jug. I'm worried about getting (more) drunk- 

I am round the other side of the garden, that which could be considered as belonging to my house neighbours. Around the perimeter of the house there are 2 or 3 steps down from a surrounding porch to the garden. My neighbours, an older man and women dressed in a kind of Star Wars shanty style, have opened up the wall of their house, shifting large timber panels here and there, forming a sort of stall that looks onto the garden. 2 border collie dogs run from within and lark around. A child – there are several bustling about – has shaped the words “poor person's doorbell” from curved wood shavings. It takes me a little time to puzzle this out, and there are perhaps more words to the left, but I cannot understand them, and assume it's spare shavings- 

I am sitting with the comedian Stewart Lee in this side of the garden and he is (much to my surprise) capably strumming a rather nice looping refrain on an acoustic guitar. He seems to be singing the lyrics “it rains” and we chat for a bit. I am happy that my joke, referencing “poor person's doorbell”, of “on a rich man's porch” makes him laugh. He walks over to the other side of the garden, joining the rest of the gathered family and, in spite of my concern that he'll be too oblique and alternative for them, seems to fit in perfectly, introducing himself and continuing his strummed song, singing “Oh, it rains!” to a delighted baby. He keeps sweetly singing this tune as a young boy and myself puzzle over how ripe the apples on our tree are. It seems as if one side is ready to eat, the apples fat and red, whereas on the other side they are smaller, grey and faded (yet somehow more natural looking). Kay Emm is there as we eat apples. I wish that Dubya Haitch had not left-

Barcoh

The comedian Sacha Baron Cohen lies on his back on table, a sheet draped over him. His hair is short and flecked with grey and he has greying stubble on his chin and cheeks. (There is something Freddie Mercury-ish about him.) I seem to be standing on the left, inhabiting that body and experience, and yet I sense another version of me also stands to my right. It's as if, knowing his comedic background, I am intentionally trolling him with my hands, and I keep placing them in near-inappropriate places to gauge his (often amused) reaction - as he himself (knowingly) knows what I am up to. I place my left hand tenderly on his (stubbly) upper neck. Next I lift the sheet and press the palm of my hand to the side of his stomach, checking on his response- 

I am at my old architectural work. It's lunchtime and a few of us, including Gee Dee are standing outside in a gently sloping alley of sorts, one with occasional stepped sections to help maintain the gentle incline. The surface is a rough concrete and there's another alley that goes off to our left. The sides of this environment are finished in pale, smooth render and it feels like we are having a drink, perhaps a pint of beer. I ask Gee Dee where the firm's other office is, hoping to go there and finish some necessary detailing that afternoon. He says he'll show me and we walk for only a few minutes before we come to it. It has very tall windows to the street, finished with a metal trim several inches above the ground, and there's a bank of several computers within, their screens facing and clearly visible to us. Though the screens are all switched on no one looks to be working there. We try to get in and are admitted by a smartly dressed young-ish British Asian man. He has a round head, his hair sparse on top and his skin is smooth, shiny and youthful. We go into the abandoned computer room – do I fleetingly pass Jay Cee, another former work colleague in the tightly angled corridor? - and discuss what I am hoping to do. This sees me taken through the back to another room where we stop in front of a single monitor. Seeing the complex display I explain that it's not set up for what I want to do, that the programme here is of no use, and that I'd rather use one of the earlier machines. Time is disappearing and I know it is already 4:15. People are talking back and forth, Kay Emm talking to Enn Arr. I am scrabbling in at the side of the metal trim, jamming books into my bag, worried about how I will complete my work-

Ostosero

I am at the Flea Festival in Fleagh(?). The reformed Stone Roses – although they seem to be in their '95 era, Ian Brown wearing his shades and a loose white shirt – are stuck there (having played a single set?). Or are they refusing to play (again)?- 

Myself and 3 others, one of whom is my old schoolfriend Enn Eye, are sitting relaxing outside in an approximate square, a chair at each corner. I have 4 cans of beer (to myself) and am drinking them, worrying about getting or appearing too drunk. I am having a discussion with one of the others, an earnest tall guy, about whether I saw The Stone Roses the first time around. I say that I did not but that I am not interested in the reunion and its nostalgic overtones. I have about half of my last beer left, swirling it, weighing it in the can. I feel drunk, having reached my limit, and want to try and secretly pour the beer away without insulting the others by means of my hoarding and wasting-

Guffit

The Beta Band and they are involved in some sort of comedy skit, talking in exaggerated English tones. A news announcer then states that Steve Mason and Alan Lamb(?) of the band will both climb Mount Everest. The skit, which is in black and white, then changes to colour and is overlayed first by a caption saying "Belgium" then by another that says "Colourized, 30 seconds later.". (I'm amused by the Monty Python-esque comic touch they display here.)-

We're on a gentle hillside looking up to the four members of band, with long grass and a pleasing, warm autumnal quality to the early evening light. Close up it looks like Mark Gatiss of The League of Gentlemen is now playing the role of John Maclean. He starts talking to a figure who appears from further up the hill. This character is also played by Mark Gatiss. I am quite sure their confused exchange is along the lines of, “Are you queer?”, with “Are you queer?” in response. As more men appear from uphill, one of whom is a comically trussed up Reece Shearsmith, everyone proceeds to ask over and over, “What am I doing here?”-

Behtro

I am with Alex Paterson and Kris Weston of The Orb. Weston is in charge of a revolving black drum, approx. 3 inches in diameter and 2 feet tall, that he is asking Alex to hit on the beat. He is doing this with a plastic shark fin (though it is more like a reverse tail, resembling a fleshy arrow point). This is for the track 'Assassin'. I cannot tell if Kris is doing this knowingly, the joke being on Paterson (as well as the pressure to keep in time). Kris has unusually short hair, the longest plastered across the top of his head. Paterson seems to be regressing as we go, getting younger, his hair lengthening and grin broadening until he resembles an overexposed 70's polaroid. I turn around and to my surprise there are several people sitting cross legged on the floor watching the proceedings. One of these is a girl from my primary/secondary school, Eee Gee. She seems to say something about everyone always doing, or being asked to do, what is expected of them - in her case that seems to be to provide tissues to-

Wohrd

I am on a strange adventure for which William Hartnell (the first Doctor Who) has been momentarily revived from his death (at which point he seems to be bent over, folded at the waist in some sort of ongoing stasis). He's dressed very much like his incarnation of Doctor Who, with a (furry?) fez, a black jacket and checked trousers. Physically he sports a white goatee beard, his hair longer and more lank than on television while facially he more resembles the actor John Hurt. However, in spite of all this Doctor Who-ish imagery it is William Hartnell – as at one point I try to impress him by mentioning an obscure film, 'The Cursed Devil', even though I am thinking of 'Shout At The Devil', wanting to ask about his experience of working with Lee Marvin*. His assistant for this “adventure” is the head of a young woman (no body or anything), her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her face full and friendly. I converse with this head much more – at times she is perched atop a book and, towards the end, I am even aware in the slight change in the flecked grey carpet flooring of Hartnell's flat/TARDIS, assuming it allows the body of the actress to be hidden to allow her to perform her role. The exact nature of our adventure is unclear, though I do recall a sadness as Hartnell, his assistant sat on the carpet being cheerily practical as always, returns to his flat/TARDIS and thus prepares for his renewed death/stasis- 

*[In waking reality Hartnell had passed away prior to the filming of 'Shout At The Devil', nor was he ever in any way associated with a role in it.] 

Thereafter, myself and my former top floor neighbour, Cee, and another young woman – almost the assistant as a full person? - seem tasked with repairing a boiler condenser, first in Cee's flat and then in my own property (which I have very recently sold). This strange process seems to involve me weaving my way through a network of tight pipework and then – as the scene changes to a close diagrammatic cutaway through the mechanics of the repair, the joining of a pipe from the boiler to the condensing pipe – lying on my back and screwing on the necessary fitting. I do/have done this already in Cee's flat, reliving the moment in preparation for tackling my own place? I am quite confident about undertaking this task in my own flat – the three of us are crossing the street towards it – although somewhat wary of there being any potential leakage/damage when working above the ceiling (where the fault is located) prior to the handover. (Are we?) coming downstairs from Cee's flat and there is a blue liquid spilled in the stairwell. As we are walking across the street to my flat not only am I hit by a sudden weary melancholy, but also a stark realisation of that sensation as such. It is at this point that the other young woman asks me about my keys. As it's the day before the new owner takes possession I say it's fine as I popped them all through the letterbox.... I am gripped by a sudden fear – how do I get in? Didn't I drop a set to the building's Factor?, asks the young woman. I am confused. Should I see my old neighbour from across the hall (who now seems to be living above me)? I am troubled by visions of having to kick down the front door, of having to pay for the repair just as the new owner – distraught at the damage – is on the verge of moving in-

Hebrot

I am with Alex Paterson (of The Orb) and we are in a casually adorned room, lounging on sofas (and working on a track together?). At this time, however, we are listening to The Orb album 'The Dream' (or rather, I am, wondering what DRAP makes of this particular album, and whether he minds hearing it). I suppose, as it's not that highly regarded, he must be pleased to know that someone rates and enjoys it. I leave as he sits quietly listening to the track 'Duja Ve', with it's soaring and upbeat vocals-

I am now standing in a garden of stepped grass, several levels rising to the back of a 50's bungalow. I am talking to a tall, lanky guy. He has a slightly abrasive and threatening manner, an intensity to him that slightly concerns me. Somehow I can't shake the feeling that he is more intelligent than he makes out, urging myself to put aside my reservations and fully engage in the conversation with him. He has exaggerated, rubbery features - a flat, squashed nose, sunken eyes and a thick lower lip that hangs above the jut of his lower jaw. (He reminds me of a drug addict who lives in Yorkhill, which likely explains my hesitation.) I also feel anxious to return inside and to continue working with DRAP - in the back of my mind it is Friday and I am sure he will knock off work at 4pm. I wonder where I am. The guy I am talking to offers me a brandy and I hunt through a box (from?) and take out two sturdy crystal glasses (that I think belong to him too). When I take them to him there's some amusement about my footwear - I have always sensed there was another person present and he seems most manifest at this very moment of ridicule. I have on brown leather slippers and I quickly go one the defensive (knowing I should have put on some other boots?)-

I am in a top floor/attic flat with sloped celings and Velux rooflights. On a table therein are several pencil line drawings (in a nice comic art style) of smiling faces. They are quite good and all are signed in the bottom left hand corner by K. Penman. There is a leak from the ceiling directly onto the red bed covers below. I panic. There is a damp cigarette packet on the bed. My wedding ring-

Ogegor

Visiting Gee, my old upstairs (and across the hall) neighbour, (un)conscious that here in the dreamscape he is living two floors directly above my flat. His apartment is dark and dingy with a low ceiling, poorly lit by two conjoined high level windows that seem to be the only (limited) source of natural light. We are standing in the hall and to my right I can see into the living room. It is quite compact, with brown carpet on the floor, walls and ceiling. There is an old tube television, with a timber veneer finish and standing on four tapering wooden legs, in the corner. It is a surprising sight – I expected his place to be both modern and clean. We are talking in the hallway, beneath the window, and (to my inner alarm) water begins to to pour through the carpet-covered ceiling, soaking into the floor below. The damp, black wound from which it trickles would suggest to me this is not a new occurrence – I am worried about my flat. Then, as the flat walls begin to warp and bend – why did I not notice they were leaning before? - adding to my concern a strange pipe construct (that almost but not quite meets in the middle) appears to (nearly) span the space. Water seems to flood from the upper pipework and, whilst it does not quite successfully join with the lower section, some of it is caught and drained away. I struggle to see if I can get the two separate ends to meet to reduce this needless and damaging spillage-

Dream Grabzzz....

I am talking to the guitarist John Squire and he categorically states that there will be no new Stone Roses material-

I have taken it upon myself to join my friend Haitch EmKay on his holiday in Croatia – seems it's a very last minute decision on my part. We are outside the hotel, on a large external balcony (that ought to be) in the sunshine. Except it is snowing. I can see the snow gathering on a large glass canopy that slopes from the building's edge to the ground. I remark to Haitch that he'll not be putting photographs of this on Facebook-

I am on a bus, travelling with my old friend Cee Cee. He's seated somewhere up the from and is behaving in a very (typical) boorish manner, and keeps pointing me out to the other passengers. I have pulled the hood of my jacket up and over the back of my head to hide my face. An Irish girl, talking loudly, walks down the aisle, mentioning me-

I am on the floor of a room, jostling with a huge spider which dodges me at the other side of some kitchen table furniture-

I am with my friends Dee Bee and Dee Arr. There is a powder in a plastic tub with a small flip-top lid inset into the surface. This contains “suicide powder” (that I cannot help but think of as “suicide paste”-

Critic (Dee Pee of The List magazine?) who is able, by using a system of concise and pointed trolling to then reduce the (dreamescape) gone-to-seed comedian Alan Davies – who here has lanky, greasy hair and is considerably overweight – to near tears by gently accosting him backstage(?) and uttering a single, hushed word-

Edir

I am with RIDE and we are playing a gig. Mark Gardener is not present and so, with Steve Queralt opting for (replacement) rhythm/second guitar, I have gamely stepped forward (or convinced them I'm capable enough) to fill his boots and am a good fit for bass. The opening track is 'Seagull' and, of course, at that exact moment I have no idea how to play the bassline (which technically kicks off the song). I run my fingers gently over the strings, softly fretting them here and there on the neck in an embarrassed attempt to quietly figure out the riff. With the song having subsequently fizzled out – to the obvious impatience of the band and audience – we try another, one beginning with a simple picked guitar refrain. I quickly (and luckily) happen to chance upon two notes that sit nicely enough (even if they unimaginatively adopt a steady back and forth timing) under this. Again I get lost at the chorus and only really establish the correct key/notes as we jump back into the verse, leaving my playing trailing once more-

Beffit

I am with another guy, a man, who I am pretty sure is the rapper Kanye West (at least by name and in my mind, if not actually looking very much like him). We both have a small bag – like a Greggs the Bakery bag, plastic film to the top, a white paper portion forming the bottom/underside and back – that contains a representation of us, a sense of our essence. I am disgruntled as Kanye's bag contains a miniature reproduction of a complete tiger's head whereas my bag holds the nose/snout of a lion - I don't see this, I just know it somehow. This disparity causes me great concern and I argue my case with Kanye accordingly-

Fluttur

www.nts.org.uk

I am in a gift shop – something tells me it is Culzean Castle? - and am looking at what is on offer. All I can picture are black ink line drawings of faces and they each, as per my own drawings, have eyes that are blank. I'm not wholly convinced of the quality of the actual drawing – some of the features are a bit squint and not in line - and mention this to my mother, saying that I could easily do it (better). As we walk outside she scoffs at this statement and is obviously not convinced. “Oh well, if you think so...”-

I am talking to Cee Oh'Bee (owner of City Centre Comics) and we get on to the topic of not filling in the eyes of a drawing and he informs me that this approach means that you can use anyone's likeness and it will never be subject to contention or copyright and thus can endlessly be used for promotion and profit. I then make (for him) a full size line drawing of Sir Sean Connery's face to be used as a mask, the blank eyes cut out and the nose partially cut to allow your own to pop through the cardboard backing. However, I end up wearing the mask and as Cee and I walk together. Cee is talking and I realise how did I think his strong Glaswegian accent could never be contorted into the smooth tones of Sir Sean and so I attempt a 'shhh shhh' style imitation of Sir Sean's voice. This vocalising is hilariously bad, but I continue to persevere with it as we encounter some company. I go up to our friend Jay EmmCeeEss and try my terrible accent, thinking I'm being funny (and realising as I do so that he is engrossed in conversation over a book with a woman of some importance)-

Maggrip

I am at home(?) or my mental comfort zone suggests as much. By my Father's chair, to my right, in the corner of the (living?) room I notice what I think is a spillage on the glossy laminate floor. Tackling it with kitchen towel I realise that the (ceramic?) hot water bottle lying on the floor nearby is, when I lift it, cracked and broken and a gloopy, red wine-ish coloured liquid – a surprising amount as I cradle the seal in my hand – is pouring from the neck. My Mother is cross – I'm assuming she's assuming my father (who is not present) has stood on the hot water bottle by accident. My little brother and I are on mopping up duties, trying to stem the tide/damage of the liquid with kitchen towel. I notice, after some frantic rubbing, that the glossy surface of the laminate flooring is slowly peeling away to reveal the pale, untreated timber surface below. This is worrying, the gloss coming away in large flakes. Suddenly it's as if the flooring has turned into strange, elongated (representations) of classic funk and soul lps – the covers themselves are in bold reds and blues, the band names set in artistic fonts, the groups lounge, stylishly dressed in the inset photographs – and there's now a team of us who have been commandeered by a Sly Stone-esque figure to marshal us, to organise us so that we might click this failing (record) floor back into place. It seems to be two panels of flooring exactly side by side, then a single offset panel, then an other two aligned and so on. Someone (me?) shouts, “the funk of America is moving!” and immediately after I question whether this exclamation could be deemed to be a little offensive, if not racist (though Sly does not visibly react, suggesting it is not). The floor appears to move in coordinated waves and someone (who is definitely not me) drawls that it (or is it Sly's instructions?), “rolls over you like a carpet”, a stoned and puzzling observation if I ever heard one-

Nuje

I am at my friend Ess EmmSeeKay's house, late of a (Friday?) night. It's around 11pm and we are deciding what to watch on television. I manage to persuade him to put on (my DVD copy of) Fearless Vampire Killers. He's not that fussed and we watch the first few minutes together - quite different in terms of content (similar-ish) and picture quality (poor) to what I remember - before he says he's taking his dog for a walk. I realise it's pointless to sit and view my DVD alone at his house, and ask if he's at all bothered if I take it way to watch at home, thinking I could just set off with him on his walk. He says that's fine and I vividly recall being impressed that his DVD player ejects the disc in the standard flat tray only to angle it up to the left side, exposing the edge and making it very easy to lift out. There's some confusion, to Ess's amusement, as I clumsily negotiate my way around the ground floor of his huge house - the rooms seem to interconnect for ease of circulation - and I accidentally disturb his son, Dee, in his room- 

I am in a shared office/Studio space with several other people. The desk layout seems uncomfortably crammed and just a little jumbled, as if they've been shuffled around or deliberately reconfigured to maximise inconvenience and unsettle us. It feels like I'm supposed to sit somewhere over to the left, but I decide to take a rather awkward spot on the right of the space. I recall the sense that some object (the edge of a drawing board, perhaps?) is uncomfortably close to my head when I am sitting, hovering in my field of sensation. Still, the reason I chose to sit here is quite clear as there's some guy - more or less heard and not seen, vague like everyone else present - who is kicking up a considerable fuss about the layout. An older lady, similarly less defined, is sitting there absorbing (and presumably exhausted by) his ire- 

Next I am sitting with a work colleague - it feels almost like a variation of the office space, right down to the simple crisp white desks, etc. - but we're talking about grabbing a quick pint. It's 4:00pm and I seem in a rush to head off. I change my mind as Kevin Costner comes over to join us. I recall he started work recently. (Could I manage just the one beer by 4:30?) We ask him what he thinks the fussy guy's problem is. Kevin says it's (something along the lines of), "my life is shit so I'm gonna make your day as shit as mine." We're both impressed/amused at this concise assessment and my colleague offers him a drink too. With a knowing wink in my direction Kevin cooly says he'll get them and stands up. All I can think is how my time will pass and how I will pace my drinks-

Juntorp

I am in a huge arena witnessing a Kickboxer-esque (is it a sequel?) event. Jean Claude Van Damme is there. He is visible only from a great distance and never facially recognisable - I simply know it is him participating. He wears black combat pants and nothing else, his body toned and in suitably '80's shape. His opponent is a great hulk of a man - 3-4 times a normal person's size?! - with long straggly hair and a black wrestler-type spandex suit. Again, I never see his face, my view restricted (mostly) to shots of JVCD misjudging brutal two-footed kicks and slithering harmlessly across the broad, rough skin of his monstrous opponent's back. At certain moments it looks to me as if this giant is carrying the prone body of a woman, clutching her in his right hand, securing her torso under his arm. Is JVCD trying to rescue her? In the middle of the arena there stands a 2-3 level tall scaffold structure, presumably to add more excitement to the contest, that has several access ladders up to and between the timber platforms. At one point JVCD takes on two other (normal sized) combatants, knocking one (and himself) to the floor. Both lie there, huffing and puffing, regaining their senses after the blow. Finally he is challenged by two men wearing Imperial Stormtrooper suits (but no helmets)-

Nomorekkid

https://www.timeout.com

Record Store Day (or a few days after, as I'm hoping to snap up leftovers?). I am at Monorail Records – at least I am served by the staff member Dee from there – and I go up to the counter, intent on asking about whatever titles they have remaining. Dee immediately goes to a drawer/storage unit at his back and asks me if I want the Big Brother & The Holding Company, producing a shrink wrapped, slender card packed CD. I say, 'yep!' and in a flash I am parting with 15 pounds – it has a bold £15 (HMV-style) sticker price tag in the top right corner of the cover, which itself is an orange and jet black, vague swirl, likely a photo of the band that has been pushed to maximum contrast. I am instantly annoyed at both Dee and myself, reckoning that he just wanted rid of overstock, targeting my good nature, and at my own amiable manner, my too-eager-to-please purchase. I leave and I am still annoyed. Did I even get a receipt? 

I am wandering about forlornly, roughly trying to calculate the time elapsed since my purchase. It is about half an hour later, I guess, and I am still fretting about the receipt (or lack of) and planning to take the CD back, thinking about how I will phrase/open the conversation. (Do I reach Mono?)* 

I am somewhere and go to the bathroom, walking through a very long room with expertly crafted porcelain sinks and fittings all topped with a neat timber trimming, framing and finish. I turn a corner and come to the end of this (somewhat bemusing) toilet area. Beyond some inset sinks there is a final urinal “hole” set into the floor, a companion shower/washing tray next to it, on the right. Looking into this hole in the floor I can see that beyond it, where you pee, the water is sky blue, so fresh looking and swirling (a little on the mesmerising side). I feel I have no choice but to hunker down to urinate. I do so, worried that this is the ladies bathroom. A guy steps into the area on my left – I am partly screened by a timber upright between us – startling me. I turn and ask him if this young, besuited gent knows if this is the ladies. He says that no, he doesn't think so and I finish peeing. When I stand up I notice that the shock of his arrival distracted me so much, meaning that I have a great, damp streak of piss from my inside left trouser knee that fans out down to my ankle, soaking the strange black and silvery woven fabric of my trousers. On the right leg, at the trousers over my ankle bone, it is much the same, only less sodden and more sporadic. I worry about how visible – very! - this will be- 

I am walking with my friend Vee Dee and two other people. In fact, I seem to be lagging behind them, distracted by my returning the CD, and they are constantly a corner's turn ahead of me. At one point I lose them, the shadows cast by their legs the only clue as to the direction they've taken. It sounds like they are discussing the selection process of some architects? I am worried that the packaging of the CD will get damaged in my shoulder bag, the cover marked or creased by other items. I search for it, panicking. The price tag – now appearing as a long, descriptive sticker strip – flashes through my mind, easing my concerns. The CD is not there! No, I remind myself it is in a green plastic shopping basket(?) I am carrying in my left hand. It sits safely on the bottom, packed under some neatly folded clothes- 

I finally catch up on Vee Dee. He is now only 'plus one', the man that was with them having gone off. The woman who he is with is, to my disappointment, not the broad Caribbean lady with a shock of afro hair I thought her to be. Approaching from the back she appears to be a slightly sullen, overweight white woman with too much makeup and a limp bob for a haircut- 

http://mansun.co.uk

*(At this point?) I am in a cafe of sorts, seated with two(?) other people. I am constantly singing (in a low voice) the final refrain from (ex-Mansun singer) Paul Draper's solo song 'Friends Make The Worst Enemies', the “close... keep your enemies in close... 'cos your friends can hurt you most” lyric. I have in front of me a sheet of paper, perhaps it's an envelope(?) that has a black and white photograph of a microphone stand printed on it. I have a thick black pen and I am drawing, quite accurately, a young Paul Draper singing into this mic. I start by sketching the mouth and head and my mind sort of better composes the two to match, an auto-correction of sorts, and I continue drawing him from there-