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-