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-