Wodolfwai

It seems that the musician Stuart Braithwaite has invited me to join his band Mogwai. Although the audition process (somewhat confusingly) involves wading into the water – we seem to be at some sort of coastal marina - and swimming out. I experience panic knowing I cannot touch the seabed. As we both tread water – the scene is now, oddly enough, reminiscent of the band Slint's Spiderland album cover - I am asking about what happens next. Stuart simply encourages me (between gulping for breath)-

Myself and my little brother want to go to see the film Zorro only it's half past 5 – too late! We take the car, my brother speeding as I sit, uncomfortable and worried, in an ill-fitted and decidedly shaky (and yet robustly manufactured) blue and black fabric covered baby seat. My brother pulls out of Bankhouse Avenue in Largs and on to the Irvine Road, nosing the car around a white van and trailer that is emerging from nearby John Street. At another junction he narrowly skirts around the front of a police van that is also hoping to turn-

We are walking/rushing (to the Pencil monument in Largs?) along a shore path that is elevated back and way from the sea by several metres. At a large inlet we can see an orange and black speedboat beached on the rocks (but shaking as if in open water). Dolph Lundgren and Jean Claude Van Damme, both sporting similarly orange and black swimsuits, are filming a movie. They both look old, with long, straggly hair, as I switch to the camera's POV, their lined, weary faces creased as they shout and gnash their teeth theatrically. Then, to my dismay, they spot my brother and I and start to shout and gesticulate, indignant that we are not so interested in two such "mega stars". They even, in a wide shot of this entire beach scene, fire a machine gun at us, the bullet's trajectories tracing bright streaks as they zip towards us, banging and flashing spectacularly. But we are Scottish (like Mogwai!) and we are "too metal!". Now this they understand and they leave us alone, going back to their filming-

I am now with my friend Jay Emm on the path and he finds my barking of "too metal!" really funny. He says, adopting a creaky granny's voice, "bing bong bing bong bong bong bing metal!"-

Brilluce

mytalk1071.com

I am in quite a tight (but tall) unfurnished room. The walls are smooth and painted a deep blue colour. The underground comic writer Cee Cee is present and, recognising me, he and I chat. I am then amazed to see the underground comic artist Kay Ess there and I bundle myself up under a duvet (behind some sort of basic timber stud construct?) and (sort of) surprise him when he eventually uncovers me-

There's a moment of tension when Kay Ess, standing over to the right of the room, narrowly (though he does not notice) avoids being struck by a piece of MDF structure that falls (sluggishly, silently) from the ceiling. It seems that Cee Cee (inadvertently) triggered this near accident. There are two of these drawer-like MDF pieces semi-fixed to the underside of the floor above and they form the bottom of some sort of gaming chair/install. The second piece, potentially the middle, has two short, light blue coloured furry legs that dangle down and, as I fit the fallen piece into place, I marvel at the effort that has gone into (making) it-

I am then exploring the rest of this flat, a giant room in an (almost) half teardrop shape with a high ceiling – enough space to accommodate a speedway track (in my dreamescape opinion). The walls are painted deep purple and are covered with rather primitive graffiti, mostly rendered in a silver spray paint – a lot of the art is similar to the PWEI or Jesus Jones motifs. We – there are other people present, viewing the flat – all speculate on what happened to the (previous) occupant (who I assume to be a male 'metalhead'). Has he been quite suddenly evicted, and why? Or has he passed away? Of course, my 'metalhead' theory is somewhat confounded by the elaborate centerpiece of this great room – a huge display-cum-open wardrobe. There are hundreds of neatly ironed shirts hanging in well organised rows and many pairs of shoes stored in tidy open drawers for ease of access-

I am at the home of the actor Bruce Willis, an impressive, slender sandstone building with neat white window frames and two smaller corresponding buildings, one for each of his daughters(?). Taken together the three buildings form a private inner courtyard of sorts. The building belonging to his youngest daughter (15 or so years old, the elder 21-ish) is very slim and accessed by external curved stone steps. She is some sort of sculptor/jewellery maker and Bruce is rightly proud of her talents-

I am huddled somewhat by a bunch of people, one of whom in our unavoidable proximity I recognise to be Claire (? a complete, yet familiar, creation of the dreamescape). She has pleasant, plain features with large, slightly sad eyes and sleepy, hooded lids. Her hair is cut short in a boy-ish style. (Is she like an actress from the film The Commitments?).

We are delighted to see each other and even more so when she tells me she has a baby boy. ...the only thing is her child is tiny! He's not only minute but he's (not far off from being) the exact double of the cartoon Mickey Mouse (right down to wearing the same clothes). He sits in the palm of Claire's hand and stares upward, mouthing/gesticulating happily – there is a long lingering 'shot' of him doing just this. I say that I guess he must be bottle fed as his tiny mouth would never be able to accommodate a nipple. Suddenly the wee boy/mouse is off and running and I am terrified he will be accidentally squashed in our efforts to catch him as he dashes in and about the skirting board-

Whedge

I am lying in bed. The ill-defined shape of someone sitting at the edge is facing towards me, a dull shadow, quite motionless. This, I'm sure, is the former Stone Roses guitarist John Squire. We do not speak and I think about how I considered sending him the first Telemachus album (during his non-music period) in the hope that he'd either A – like it, or B – be inspired enough to pick up the guitar again. I marvel at the way the Stone Roses song 'She's The One' (?) is composed, the recording layered up for a powerful, rousing sound. Mixmaster Morris – Kira Kira?-

The second(?) figure is, after my taking a while to work it out, the comedian Steve Coogan. He sits with his back towards me, looking at me over his shoulder. He sports a long, greying hairstyle (Bill P. Sinner?) and (as he is naked) is fumbling for his testicles. I announce, "get yer bollocks off me bed!"-

Gwamf

I am back at University (the dreamescape version, a familiar-ish environment, the sense of place strong if not exact). There is a huge statue in black cast iron with a giant, mottled foot. I walk upstairs and along the corridor by the student 'units' - teaching spaces formed by simple timber partitioning. I see a fellow female student Ell Eff (and does she look right through me, or close her eyes, ignoring me completely?). I seem to pass her twice and the second time - by now I want her to acknowledge me – she definitely completely blanks me-

I go outside and someone, a quite overwhelmed student, asks me, "are you Ratty Scallion?" It seems I am famous for evading/defeating the large black statue (which, incidentally has just come to life and is stomping around the campus). As I dodge this I am sort of interviewed by a reporter, commenting on events related to this incident(?). He is showing me CD and vinyl albums-

I am in Wales, 'looking and loading' a large bundle of vinyl records. The horizon is sandwiched between a man's hand-

I meet the Prime Minister (a male, not ill-defined). He gives me a great hand-enveloping greeting, full of enthusiasm. For sale. "You're going to be all kinds of bother"-

Bowidero

I am sitting in an office-type environment at a desk with an old fashioned, somewhat hefty, computer monitor on it. My back is to the wall and across from me sits A. N. Other (who I feel I do know, only cannot bring them into any recognisable focus). At the desk to my right sits Robert De Niro, sporting his 2020 oversized spectacles look. He talks of waiting 12 minutes to start (I wonder 'what?' and, oddly, 'when?'). He comes over to my desk and we watch some sort of vintage 80's ITV/Jim Bowen quiz show on my computer screen- 

The seconds are ticking away as we view a gloopy pint of Guinness being poured – the large foamy head is dripping like sludge into the glass – the brown liquid against an equally muddy background. De Niro is gently caressing my left hand, all the while completely absorbed and amused by the footage. (I'm a bit bemused by both his actions and the fact that it's ??:19 on my monitor clock – wasn't it 12 minutes to :40 or what?)-

Duzzkhard

https://thedukesofhazzard.fandom.com/wiki/Boss_Hogg

I am with Boss Hogg from The Dukes of Hazzard television show. (I may be the character Bo, but I'm not sure.) I seem to be in this episode as well as watching it – a glitch of the dreamescape – and it feels like I've seen, if not dreamed, all this before. We are on the shore of a beach (Largs?) with a tarmac path to our left and the beach/shallows immediately to our right. Boss Hogg is walking on the surface of the clear, still seawater, puzzled by the unusual foam-like substance that lurks just under the surface (and which is evidently substantial enough to support his portly frame). We reach the edge of this strange underwater material – and it is at this point that I'm quite sure I've seen this episode before as I know the material is oil that has solidified and can be taken up and torn with one's bare hands... and that Boss Hogg will fall through it at some point, huffing and puffing to great comedic effect-

Pwud

It is like I am watching an old fashioned television interview but my POV is the TV itself. A typical macho dude, all muscles with a slick, curled blond mullet, piercing blue blue eyes and the classic square jaw, is talking. He wears a sheepskin waistcoat (with a pink/purple hue) over his tanned and toned frame. The caption informs me he is 'Hermes as “Paint Brush”' - he has two brushes in his left hand that have been dipped in thick yellow, custardy paint). He licks these as you would and ice cream, speaking into the camera as he does so-

He quite suddenly races off down the street, disappearing into the distance, tearing past puzzled bystanders. I find myself wondering, 'what must they be thinking?'-

Lawplle

I am sitting at a circular restaurant table with (ex-Stone Rose) guitarist John Squire and two others. I am next to John but also, thanks to a fuzziness of the dreamescape, sitting opposite him/myself. This being opposite is ill-defined but I feel it is (a sort of out of my grasp version of) me. Ess EmmCeeKay, a girl from my primary school years, joins our (already overcrowded) table and sits down, forcing me to budge up to my left and thus squeeze up right next to John. She asks me, 'have you ever dealt with Ingles, Dingles and Cowpit?' - I take this to be the name of some architectural firm-

'Made of Stone' by The Stone Roses begins playing over the restaurant's PA system and I push my pasta in tomato sauce about in acute embarrassment, playing with my food listlessly as I'm aware of John bristling and seething as the staff slowly turn the volume of the song up and up-

Moolt

I am waiting at a railway station with my friend Gee Dee. I am telling him how there are three large ½ figure promotional installations of Star Wars Clone Troopers, each brandishing a laser rifle of some sort, visible from the train. (Did I see them earlier?) We don't exactly eleborate on what they are promoting, just that I have seen them. Gee goes off to make a mobile phone call (to his home to find out how his wife and baby boy(?) are getting on)-

I (re)join Kay Emm and Jay Pee-Enn and we walk together from the platform and enter the small glazed ticket office. As one the three of us shy away from/turn a blind eye to a commotion – it seems like there's an altercation taking place and we'd rather not get involved. Before I move away I sneak a glance – in looks like a rangy girl is stamping on someone lying on the ground while her boyfriend(?) watched with an air of indifference-

I am now conscious of the rangy girl, her mute boyfriend in tow, following me and trying to engage with me – for a moment (as I begin to panic) I am separated from her by a sort of tubular steel upright that supports a little (waiting) table on top. I am not fast enough however, and before I know it the girl has pounced on me and has me pinned to the ground (by somehow crossing over all my limbs and trapping me like a bug). She then accuses me of kicking out backwards at a woman – I see this innocent motion replay in my mind over and over as I puzzle towards the truth, my innocence, questioning myself, 'did I?' - and states that this sort of subtle violence towards women will not go unnoticed, will not go unpunished. With her tangle of short-cropped hair the girl has a curiously ill-defined face, her features are plain and unattractive, her skin spotted and pasty and (something which makes her accusation and aggression all the more frightening) her right eye is perceptibly over closer to her ear than to her nose, giving her lopsided face an oddly blank yet threatening expression-

Shrydauner

I am together, with Kay Emm, at the singer Shaun Ryder's house/flat. Ryder's brother (not Paul?), a gangly youth of about 18 (with a slightly rough and threatening air about him) and parents (who seem a kindly couple in their mid-to-late 40s?) are also present. (Being the dreamescape Ryder himself is easily in his 50s.)-

We are all waiting for something, something both inside (dinner?) and outside (unknown – nothing but a tense sensation). Shaun is not there that much and we spend most of the time with his younger brother (of whom I'm still somewhat wary in spite of his relaxed manner). I give the brother £30 which is to cover some favour/undertaking he/they have done for myself and Kay Emm. We talk about 'Madchester' and (either I can visualise or) Ryder has lots of photos of record shelves jammed with vinyl. Black and white individual photos of The Stone Roses and The Charlatan's frontman Tim Burgess - one where he's sticking out a huge Jagger-esque Rolling Stones tongue – as well as crude Madchester themed artwork such as lemons have been laminated and inserted as dividers. I am fascinated by this and mention that at the time you could buy Stone Roses collectible 6” figures (that I would have bought) as well as an Action Man sized Ian Brown doll. Shaun's brother did not know this-

It comes time to leave the room but there is suddenly a huge American Cadillac-style car with two people sitting in the front seats (and our luggage in the back?) blocking our exit. Ryder's brother simply manhandles the car up on its end using the rear axle/bumper and tilts/tips it out the (bedroom?) door-

We are now sitting in the front room. Ryder's father is eating a small circular dish of jelly with a Smartie set in the middle and several equally spaced around the edge. I'm sure these puddings are for the “kiddies” but still encourage (a reluctant) Kay Emm to have one for herself – to my mind they are a Polish treat-

I'm quite certain I need to split the £30 I handed over between Ryder and his brother and, by producing approx. £70 in notes from my pocket, hand him £15 (which I seem to think will then be passed to Shaun and all will be settled... Or does the brother give me the £30 back? At this point things get confusing and for the first time there is that first sense of threat and impatience in the air. Shaun, however, is not concerned – he says something about his brother giving him £1500 when offered the £15 by myself. As Shaun just woken up? Kay Emm seems to be very tired/sleeping-

I go into the first room and hunt out a small 'flip' mirror, curved at one end and in a white/ivory coloured plastic case. As I am examining this object Ryder's mother – she has a dark mop of hair, big, honest eyes and an open, jolly but weary face – enters and says something about 'Uncle Vanya' (a play?). I'm not sure what she's referring to – the mirror? - but she is so amused and laughs away. I force myself to join in-

Selce

I am looking at a UK Government form – the sort one would use to appeal against a benefit withdrawal or criminal injury compensation claim – that has been made out by one 'John Clees'. I stare at the name and make a joke – for THE John Cleese is with me – about "dropping an E". He finds this most amusing-

Kvarvt

I am with a comic book pal Eff See (and just perhaps Aye Ell and Kay Emm, among other people - there's a nagging sensation within the dreamescape that there's a group of us). Eff See bears a huge grudge for some reason or another and has taken a great dislike to an elderly-ish woman who lives on the (main) street where we are all walking. The front of her house resembles a shop more than anything, consisting of two large (display) windows set into a sturdy sandstone surround, a glazed (entrance) door set back from the street a foot or so and centred between them. On either side of the door there is a china/porcelain cat which is posed in a crouch, a Cheshire-ish grin on the rounded, golden striped head and a deep water blue-green finish to the curved, hunched body. In order to express his disdain Eff See lifts one of these ornaments and attempts to smash it. He tries this several times with no success. Having failed to achieve his goal he boots the piece and it skids out into the middle of the road at a junction. We watch a car turn and narrowly miss running over the cat - it is not until we are out of sight that we hear the satisfying (to Eff's ears at any rate) smash of the ornament being crushed-

I have taken the second cat, having spent a considerable amount of time peering in the large windows of the lady's house – they are (reassuringly) dark and, beyond the large ornaments and souvenirs that decorate the perimeter of each window, it is hard to make out anything, let alone if anyone is at home! In spite of my reluctance I eventually jam the second cat between a sturdy stone wall and a signpost, smashing it violently by stamping on it – I'm more doing it out of an anger and frustration at myself for not just doing it sooner as opposed to my half-hearted attempt to emulate Eff's hate. I instantly regret it and am caught in a quandary as to how I can possibly reimburse the woman (by post) for my unwarranted vandalism. I can see the money – to fold or not to fold it? - being slipped into an envelope-

Utridd

https://www.designmynight.com/glasgow/event-space/east-end/mecca-forge

Kay Emm and I are on some sort of coastal walk, very Scottish seaside-ish, at a resort. Somehow we become separated (or rather I seem to dream-skip, suddenly finding myself alone on the other side of a wide bay, the resort buildings, and presumably Kay Emm, just visible in the fading light across from me)-

Taking a decision I continue walking and (with the aid of another quick dream-flit) appear in the seaside town (centre) nearest to this resort-

It's getting quite dark now and I wander through a central plaza, a sad, sparse expanse of dated brown brick paving underfoot with dejected and neglected Council planters dotted at random, a queue of flat-capped people waiting at a primitive tubular steel bus stop-

I wander into a narrow, gloomy side street searching for somewhere to shelter – it has begun to rain, great, fat, sporadic drops at first – and to call Kay Emm on my mobile phone. At the (dead) end of this street is a MECCA Bingo hall, its huge signage casting a strange orange, red and yellow light on to this dingy scene. The bingo entrance on my right I turn to my left, negotiating the sturdy industrial circular tubular steel structure (much like the exposed beams at Glasgow CINEWORLD in their futile attempt at contemporary architectural style) and duck into a damp brick box that is removed from the street, sheltered as it is in the bowels of the opposite building – welcome to the delights of the commercial binstore! As I call Kay Emm, taking care underfoot as there seems to be a central trench, a workie appears and sets about the bins to my right. He's less fortunate than myself and in the dimness he accidentally takes a semi-tumble into this shallow pit, evidently hurting his leg in the progress. In spite of my offer of help, my kindly gesturing, he opts to limp on (and away)-

I tell Kay Emm I am at the bingo and we discuss how we could orientate ourselves and thereby eventually meet up. Then (thanks to yet another dream-skip) we are reunited only now sans car (or so the niggling thought suggests). This means there's further searching to undertake-

We are in some kind of hotel-esque environment and, however much we quietly protest, the sauve, suited man – who looks like the former Chelsea FC manager? - shows us into a meeting room-cum-suite and invites us to wait. Through the glazed entrance wall we watch him chat with a smartly dressed blonde woman. As soon as he returns we make a point of saying we are here by accident and that we're not his intended attendees, being lost, disorientated and really only in search of our car/each other. The chap understands completely, stating to the woman he'll help us and asking that we follow him. I pick/snatch up a crumpled bank cash machine receipt thinking that Kay Emm has maybe dropped it. At first I think the account balance is a six figure sum but closer inspection reveals it is 109.37 (or thereabouts). There's a '6' penned on the back in thick marker. I don't recognise the writing – not Kay Emm's but actually belongs to the woman?-

We are now in a garden centre-ish environment and the managerial type offers to print out a map for us (or at least have one of his secretaries – who all sport the classic 70's white blouse and oversized glasses look – do it for him/us). These ladies sit at cramped workstations in a narrow corridor off the main (manufacturing) thoroughfare. Kay Emm, meanwhile, has successfully connected into her(?) network's WiFi and checked that we ought to head to some (named) building (billboards?). As the now (reading?) spectacled manager sorts this Kay Emm and I happen to notice quite improper 'Health & Safety' signage on the wall facing the crammed in desk, all crude writing on white paper – not the bold black on yellow warnings that one would expect! Not to matter as Mr Manager has a small timber box that can by some means print out this type of stickered sign with the push of a button – all that's need is to select the appropriate phrase from the pre-saved selection on offer. He proceeds to do this, only we remark that the font, a jagged, slanted typeface, is yet entirely unsuitable, pointing out the correct means as per the ideal signage hanging just around the corner from us on the main thoroughfare wall. Of course we don't want to offend this kind gentleman (too much)-

Now we are elsewhere within the same building and I am trying to help display two 3 x Wheeler modern baby prams without toppling their considerable bulks into a crude earthen trench that has been dug (quite randomly!) into the floor. I'm not having much success-

Lartogan

The house that the magic pie was built on-

Whillid

I am on a train going to work. It is my first day. I am travelling with a man in his mid-50s. He is familiar (Gee-oh-Bee?) with glasses and close cropped hair. He's polite friendly and encouraging, going so far as urging me to accompany him. I do so-

When we arrive at -?- it is after 9am. I realise I am without my work clothes – I left them behind (at home?) - and am in a right panic as I'm wearing a tatty blue t-shirt over a white long-sleeved top. I pull at the shirt, poking my finger through the evident holes. I had hoped that Mr. Glasses could run me home in his car(?) but no, he has to go to work-

As such I'm left on the train(?) on my own and have to get all of my stuff(?) off before it leaves to make the return journey. A young, thin guy gets on and starts to help me shift my stuff. I then get off the train and on to the platform. My 'stuff' includes a guitar, an amp and a printer box(?) which is in a sort of square layout with a cordon around it-

Malvnirkdt

The (Kurt) Cobain "Kiosk". This is some sort of honourary construct to be built in his favourite park/spot in Seattle. Part of me is convinced that it used to exist and is being refurbished accordingly, but then I sort of superimpose the building onto the grassy landscape (over/next to a timber barn with a whalebone-esque profile – all very like the Hex album cover for fellow Seattle-ites Earth)-

I am looking over a simulacrum of the finished kiosk design with Emm Kay, a tall, skinny and stylish young woman formerly of my work. We are examining the outdoor seating area which makes up about one third of the kiosk's footprint, the rest given over to an internal space with perimeter seating. This will seemingly double as Nirvana's/a band's hang-out and rehearsal space. I ask Emm how tall the seats are. She bends ever so slightly and measures them against her legs and says they are about a mile. It's obviously not – it's not even a metre! - and having mulled it over and having spoken it aloud in my head a few times I eventually joke, "I know your legs are long but...!" She gets the gag and we both laugh-

Julamm

I am in some sort of Forbidden Planet-esque store(room, all black, angular metal shelving stretching from floor to ceiling. There is some deal whereby, after much investigation on my part, it seems you can get a giant plastic (Original Star Wars trilogy) Stormtrooper for £1.00 on top of a purchase (the comic 2000AD?) of £1.75. The Stormtrooper is a kit of sorts, comprised of somewhat abstract components – parts of the limbs and torso are open/hollow and the helmet has oversized, almost 'googly' round eyes-

I an then out and about somewhere, a pub/bar I suppose, and see my old school friends Gee Pee and Ess Bee sitting together at a round table with two young women. After much swithering I go over to Gee – his older brother Arr, with whom I used to be very good friends until our mid-teens, passed away a few years ago – approaching him with much trepidation. Gee, a "cheeky-faced wee boy" as my mother would say, has grown into a darkly handsome man with deep and slightly menacing eyes, just a hint of inner threat. Thankfully he's pleased to see me and hold no apparent grudge over his brother and I falling out. He thanks me for my wee Facebook tribute to Arr and he and I hang around, going back to his house later-

His home is a lovely and spacious, immaculately furnished and kept ground floor tenement-esque flat. The front door opens into a vast living room. I still feel slightly on edge and surreptitiously peek at the many picture frames dotted about the place, trying to see a picture of his parents and/or Arr. Do I leave my wallet out (steal it?), Gee finding it, remarking on the rolled up wads of cash jammed in it – "It's a night out after all", he remarks. Is it not his house after all, but some place with an unpronounceable triple-barrelled name that Gee has booked, indeed he had to book it with no option otherwise, for the night?-

Bowid

I get on a train and there, to my right, sitting ahead of me, is David Bowie. He's no thin white duke in the dreamescape, appearing quite heavy, almost jowly, about the face with short, mussed spiky hair and wearing blue/grey rumpled suit. He wears gently tinted glasses that sit slightly too large on his face (although they are not in the true 'aviator' style). He doesn't resemble any recognisable period of Bowie at all (which, I guess, is the very idea) and I judge him to be in his mid-to-late 40's. Still, I know it's him and politely ask if I can sit down, knowing he has to move his bag/satchel to allow me to do so. I notice there is someone to his right, sitting by the window. The banks of seats all face in the same direction with a row of 2 ahead and 3 behind where I am sitting-

Beyond the two seats the carriage takes on a standard layout, the rows facing in towards each other. Of a group seated there 2 girls are peeking over at David and, more or less, discussing him quite openly. We all begin to joke/chat and David, in good spirits, makes light of the situation, stating he's he's quite happy to converse when recognised although often folk don't bother, even when they know for sure it is him. This really breaks the ice and he and I have an insightful conversation that examines the height of his fame. At one point I suggest, and he quite agrees, the idea of being able to make the decision to drop off the radar for a few years after making a record. He concurs and expands a little on that, adding something about everyone always being able to look him up in the phone book – I can see the finger tracing down the listings and stopping at the name 'Dixon' (?)-

Shortly after this we are confronted by a guy who, from looking over the back of his chair from further down the l/hand side of the carriage, decides to come over. He has short cropped hair, a round face and sports mirrored/dark sunglasses. He wears a bomber jacket, the sleeves pulled up on his forearms and tight-ish denims that are similarly turned up at the ankle. He walks confidently with something of a monkey-ish gait and, when talking to David, exudes and air of quiet violence. This smooth talking culminates in the guy grabbing David's neck and pinching his throat (all the while talking calmly about ?, referring again to Dixon(?) and what he calls Bowie's "Lazerus" period). I feel compelled to intervene, stating (laughably) that, “I'm a lover not a fighter, but...” I then make some statement about being from Glasgow (as if this gives an indication of my hitherto hidden hardman skills). The guy immediately releases David and lumbers over to me, saying that he too (in spite of his reedy, Newcastle accent) is also from Scotland-

Moluvice

https://lovemusicglasgow.com

I am in the Love Music record shop in Glasgow. Of course, being the dreamescape it bears no resemblance to reality. There are no records - at least not on display - for a start! For the most part my experience focusses on the vast counter. Indeed it's hardly a counter at all, being made up of 2-3 huge and unfurnished plywood sheets that narrows only to the far side (where's there's a bar-flap style access for staff). It's doubtful you could lean across the width of these tops to shake hands with someone-

I'm sure this layout has already altered since the dream began – I had previously being conversing with Bee Jay from my co-work on the decision to buy a pair of earplugs. The plugs, truth be told, resemble hearing aids in every respect, comprising black plastic 'buds' attached to a grey plastic 'curl' that hooks over and round the ear to hold them in place. As they are only ￡2.95 I/we decide to go for it. Unfortunately when Ess, the shop owner, brings them over for us to see I discover, to my disappointment, that the black earplugs are ￡6.95 and that the ￡2.95 price tag applies to a pair of light brown plastic earplugs, shaped much like apple stalks, that (somehow) clip into the larger, more expensive black pair-

As I toil over this (in)decision I become aware of a young hipster-ish guy, all unruly curly hair with a long face and an irritating, knowing expression. He is with his girlfriend and in his attempt to purchase two drinks(?) he is intentionally – although I assume it is accidental at first – jostling me about the knees. Fed up with this ignorant behaviour I face him and challenge him on it. He denies any wrongdoing and suddenly things begin to escalate-

Madamya

I am in some sort of columned restaurant(?)/basement function area. The column nearest the entry point is silver, almost as if insulated and wrapped in tinfoil. I (somehow) discover that if you hug it, wrap your arms tightly around it, it passes a warm, soothing sensation through your body – like a rising, (not unpleasant) burning feeling from your stomach to the back of your throat. I am encouraging the other people present to try it – I am following and attempting to talk to a slender girl with a ponytail all clad in black-

Walking into the space it is a bottle shape in plan, the walls tapering in towards the entry point, columns dotted here and there, the basic tubular steel and timber furniture – akin to old school desks and chairs – arranged in between. At the far end of the room there's two flat television screens positioned in a V-shape, facing into the space. There is a Japanese animated film screening and I am very puzzled by it, taking it for My Neighbours The Yamadas but realising, due to the traditional animation style and character designs, that it is not. It appears to be something (I'm not familiar with) called It Titto Tutt(?). Thinking to check a (handy) TV Guide I find that all the text is in Japanese, being very dense with the occasional illustration. 131?161?-

I notice the warm silver clad column has changed shape, becoming thicker around the bottom half so that it too resembles a bottle shape-

Rocotcoro

In a dreamescape home environment, similar to that of my childhood, the upstairs loft conversion. I am with friends Jay Emm, Ess Ayy and 2 others. I am kind of regretting having invited them to my home – not so much due to their laddish behaviour which in itself is more a tendency towards open, amused, brashness – but simply their being at odds with my own quiet, restrained nature (and my parents obvious preference for the same). We all sit, cross-legged, and I ask if anyone wants me to put some music on - cue a close up of my shelves of CDs – in spite of my (further) concern that neither Jay or Ess will think much of my collection. After much hesitant humming and haawing I take the plunge and pick CDL/CML? (or something titled like that). I look again while it is playing – its gentle, off-kilter ambient electronica that I thought was a recently acquired album by To Rococo Rot. I ask if anyone would like pork sandwiches and all are in agreement-

Much to my dismay when I go downstairs my mum has chopped and "crackled" the pork, frying it to give it an intentionally crispy, crunchy fatty edge. She comes upstairs(?) and asks the assembled if they would like to, “join us for dinner?”. I make huge excuses for everyone (as I hark back to my 'brash' concerns, worried as I am even now about what might be said). Do I salvage the situation with pork slices in rolls? I chat with one of the two A.N.Others – tho he mentions he knows (an) Elissa(?) - about the structure of the loft/roof conversion. It seems to be slightly unusual with several loose timber facias to the inside-

Kworky

I am somewhere in America. It is a green, deeply lush environment, all grassy fields, blooming trees and bushes with a humid, drizzly air. My brother-in-law and I are driving up a gently winding road admiring this (country)side. As we motor along we are searching (through our minds) for a house we visited years earlier. There are several coming up on our left and it is with a collective sadness, with genuine heavy hearts, that we find the house of our fond memories to be derelict, the clapper board abode collapsed in on itself. In fact it takes us some time to even realise it IS this house and when the truth finally dawns we suddenly become worried about the family who used to live there, about the two sons and the (most welcome and excellent!) pizza we shared there. There is a vintage bus out the back and the winding metal stair to the upper deck seems to confirm for sure we are in the right place-

We get talking to a neighbour(?) and we are delighted when he announces that the old owners are approaching – here come the two sons looking much older, heavier, their hair greying. They look quite 'simple' but greet us with warm, broad smiles and show us their portable market stall. I am tempted to buy a small elf outfit for a baby that retails at $7.99 but (in a move that I just cannot help but regret) I don't-

Stuzdio

I am with a former Art Studios tenant Dee Zee and the actor David (Stranger Things) Harbour. There has been some sort of demonic trade. Dee has deep red skin and two v*ginas, back-to-back, that she shows us. Her an*s has consequently moved up her back to between her shoulder blades. She does a sh*t to demonstrate. David Harbour has a huge p*nis and his an*s has also relocated up his back-

I am walking with a young Latino boy of about 10 years of age. He has a bad leg and is supported by myself as we go, his little brother holding my left hand as we make tentative, unsteady progress-

Luttintie

Myself and an old primary school (female) acquaintance Jay Eff at my brother, Dee Emm's? She and I are out together but I am adamant that Kay Emm knows this, and that nothing happened – purely innocent-

The dreamescape becomes a cross-section through an organic, conger eel-esque underground train. The train is populated by a changing roster of freakish, skeletal occupants who sit and stare, piercing bright white eyes glowing from in under their dark, unsettling sockets. This section moves as I see three times-

I break the cold tap in the bathroom. It is almost like a bottle screwcap and water is spraying everywhere. I need my big brother to fix it – there's a bit of sprung wire inside I'm sure – and he uses some white, not metal(?), and drops it at one point before warning me to let it cool in his attempt to repair-

Ghillham

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0929673/

Grange Hill. Mr Griffiths the janitor. We are in an 8-sided, lantern-esque-shaped elevator with alternate black wrought metal in an ornate-plain-open configuration. The roof or covering above us has been shorn like an open tin and we hang, an ever-changing number of anxious occupants, by this dwindling metal thread-

Flobbiq

I am in a vast, cavernous vessel, acutely aware that where I am standing is under the waterline. Great tunnels (for want of a better word) intersect, the walls all finished with tiles – they are a mix of white and another primary colour to help identify the route. Suddenly water is spilling into my environment and I rush around frantically in the hope of escaping the onrushing flood. I cannot however, and I stop dead (in every sense), preparing to be sandwiched between the twin deluges-

Under the water and struggling for breath I step outside of the dreamescape and watch James Bond (as played by Daniel Craig) and Valkyrie (from Thor as played by Tessa Thompson) swim up and then away. They are naked, their bodies entwined in a curiously coy but sexual manner, attempting to shield each other's genitals and yet subtly exposing themselves at the same time-

I am then sitting at a long table immediately facing the comedian Frankie Boyle, the comic artist Frank Quitely (and a baby?). I start to tell Frankie that I had a dream about him and he seems to be quite interested. I am suddenly interrupted by a rousing chant of "Stuart! Stuart!" I'm not really clued in to what is going on and neither am I that interested, being more concerned about what the neighbours will think of all the noise and whether they'll be disturbed. I turn to see a row of giant individual eyes inset into a brown wall, with people sitting in silhouette approximately in the space between each one. Are these great eyes the so-called Stuart? Does the crying baby punch a huge eye?-

Dollund

I am with a couple of soldiers, all dressed up in the full regalia, helmet/ goggles the complete modern uniform. We are hurriedly shifting wall panels to expose the entrance to a secret passage – we are backed into a corner and some ominous force is in pursuit. (Somehow this whole dreamescape feels as if it is happening verbatim for the second time.) The narrow shaft now exposed the three of us drop down into it. What if one of us gets stuck?-

We are now hemmed in with no apparent means of escape. A long ramp – policed by a mean Dolph Lundgren wielding some sort of ill-defined long black weapon – slopes down to where myself and what seems to be young members of a kitchen staff are cowering. The space we occupy extends off to either side, offering a little cover/protection-

Dolph has thrown down several large oil drums, sending them crashing into the silver service trolleys and suchlike, creating much panic within our ranks – should he fire a flaming arrow(?) into the melee (as threatened) then we would be done for. Six jars of honey soon follow the oil drums and we all dash from side to side to avoid them, yelping and screaming in fear as we do so. I am anxious that a young woman named Lucy be spared a fiery demise – she has a round face with soft, quietly pretty features and large, dark eyes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. It seems she was very nice to me on my very first day of secondary school and I sob deep, uncontrollable tears of joy when Dolph eventually agrees to spare her-

Biride

I am throwing a huge housewarming party (for a huge dreamescape house). Andy Bell from the band RIDE is there and, at first, he seems to be floating in the air, arms and legs outstretched as he drifts gently. He is wearing an old blue 'birdmania' RIDE t-shirt and I remark that I have the purple variation/edition and that his shirt is quite different from mine, with chunks of what look like rock scattered about the logo and rendered in the same orange print. There is also an illustration of an astronaut (with no visor) with a guitar – this is rendered in a nice purple/blue pastel style – who is tumbling through space just like Andy. A closer inspection shifts this drawing to that of an Action Man (toy) and I note the joints at his wrists-

Reffro

https://www.popsugar.co.uk/Emily-Ratajkowski

Kay Emm and myself are back at the old ground floor flat we used to live in – although the dreamescape has made the interior much brighter, far fresher and the place is more open plan, the front door opening into the sunlit living room. The (new) owner is not there-

A guy who lives on the top floor, a friendly chap with a stubbly beard, is talking to us together with his mother. He is going on a trip/holiday and asks if he can leave his giant rucksack and other luggage here so that, come his pick up time at 3 or 4 in the morning, he's spared the inconvenience of having to heave the epic load all the way from the third floor. We agree that this arrangement is fine and the pair of them leave-

(Much later) I am suddenly gripped by an intense fear. What if the new owner is not in as this agreed time? How will -?- get his bags? 12:39. I have to get down there. Should I walk it? Kay Emm and I hastily get our clothes on. Between us we decide to take a taxi – which somehow turns into taking a taxi to meet a (specifically requested) even larger taxi. There is now 9 of us?! At first it seems that this group is formed of relatives but it soon transforms into a family (of Iranian/Saudi origin) that are accompanying us. It's a wonder we are all able to squeeze into the taxi and two central armrests have to be folded up to create the necessary number of (legal) seats to accommodate us-

The ride through the dark city is tense and, as we approach the block of flats from the rear, I am eagerly looking to spot any sign of life – a light in the window, say, would obviously indicate the owner is home. It's not until we draw up out front that my fears are allayed. I can see some light escaping from between the ground floor window blinds. My only task now is to head up to the top floor to explain the situation to -?- - he mustn't mention we were in the flat to the new owner-

Before it's time for him to come downstairs I creep past my old flat and head upstairs, the close/stairwell becoming increasingly narrow and tight as I ascend. At the top I am confused by the name plates on each of the (undersized) front doors, and tentatively knock on the one to my right. The door is answered by a smiling lad with curly black hair, his beaming face looming unusually large against the reduced backdrop. He explains that -?- is already downstairs(?) and I immediately race off in that direction, able to grip the handrail so firmly with one hand that I can vault each run of steps, my feet barely touching the ground the whole time of my descent-

I meet -?- on my way down. He is with the supermodel Emily Ratajkowski (or someone who looks very like her – I'm not sure) and we stop and chat. They seem a little stretched, both their two shoulders definitely narrowed and rounded (almost so they can be comfortably fitted into my point of view). While we walk and talk I cannot help but stare at Emily R., trying (in part) to work out if it is really her or not. My last(ing) impression of the dreamescape is the image of -?- and Emily disappearing into my old flat, the deception(?) complete, the merest glimpse of the new owner's legs as she shuts over the front door, the bright light from within winking out as she does so-

Xeldi

I am laboriously tying my shoelaces ahead of meeting my friend Ay Arr to go to his house. It just seems to take me forever and I am conscious that I need to catch a train. I run down to the platform, gingerly crossing the railway tracks on my way. A train is leaving the station and I stop short as it pulls away, unsure whether to take it, leaving both myself and the hunched, dejected figure of Ay(?) alone. He seems good humoured as I talk to him and-

We are on the next train. I am sitting next to Kay Emm and we are discussing some reality television show, the girl sitting behind us chipping in (or trying to) from time to time. I see another friend Jay Dee together with Ay Arr sitting away off in the distance – this dreamescape carriage is vast, wide and immensely long – and I resolve to go and join them-

I approach a neat sized two seater couch and, with scarce a backward glance, sweep all the associated electrical cabling and accessories (that belong to the geeky, bespectacled boy presently occupying it) to one side and arrogantly sit myself down. I semi-apologise only to repeat the action-

Emblimmon

The male actor Taron Egerton (from Kingsman) is starring in some (Mark Millar-esque) bad taste-ish film. He has separated from the main gaggle of actors and has seated himself about half way up a run of stone steps. At times (to my confusion) he addresses a younger version of himself – who is definitely also played by him. He is reeling off some (supposed) joke about 'dolphin balls' replete with a graphic image (that he clasps somewhat clumsily in his left hand, his four fingers clamped between the two spherical 'ball' illustrations). His expression is knowing throughout and (to my surprise) he often breaks the fourth wall to address me directly-

Nondons

A sad (childhood friend) Arr Dee is lying under an L-shaped table made of dark timber. I seem to be wiping and wiping the surface (with milk?) to clean it-

He says, "Time slips by so fast..."

"I know!", I reply, "The first Indiana Jones film since 1984 tomorrow... I know it'll be rubbish but I'll still go and see it." (Arr too, but at home?)

"Does your brother like chesty girls?"

"He married a doctor so maybe he likes chesty coughs!"

The Nest

I am after/coming back from a night out with my (on/off) friend Cee Cee. I seem to have a few sizeable objects that I am carting about with me, the most memorable of which is a metal s/steel 'clapper' stepladder, the ladder and support hinged at the top under the top plate. Am I attempting to offload and ditch this unwieldy baggage but Cee insists that I can manage okay, only offering to help me manhandle them all the way home. I am unusually resistant to this - the first of many tense, heightened responses I experience in this vast dreamescape - as I simply DO NOT want him to come to my house under any circumstances. I don't even want him to know where I live. Of course, in spite of this deep, fevered resistance I seem unable to capably or honestly express my sentiments and as such the situation becomes somewhat tense and I intentionally withdraw, my mood sullen, as we near my flat. I continue to stall and delay in the close-

Kay Emm and I seem to have moved to a modern high-rise flat. I am quite sure we are living on the 18th floor. There seem to be tall buildings surrounding us and, no matter the copious amount of glazing (edged, I notice, with neat modern metal trims with a grey finish) it is difficult to discern or even see the ground. (This is perhaps in part due to my creeping fear of heights and an unwillingness to go near the windows for fear of falling out – it often feels like there is no actual glazing at all, such is the vertiginous nature of the environment, the flat seemingly open to the elements.)-

We have neighbours below, a woman with (at least) two teenage sons. They all seem nice and even quite sophisticated, but as the jumble of events progresses she radiates hostility and the younger of the teenage sons tries at one point to beat up – more tension! - Jay Haitch, my seven year old nephew, in the stairwell, the boy's smart, lean appearance masking a hitherto hidden cold and uncaring personality-

And then there's the flat above us, known as 'The Nest', a completely debauched hang-out for youngsters, a sort of all-night party den for Trainspotting-ish indulgences? I visit this unnerving environment, shocked at the zonked out (barely in their) teens, all slumped heaps and vacant stares. In the dim, dingy light I am subjected to some sort of attempted sexual assault or drugging – more tension! - an aggressive (and amused) response to my evident disgust and unwillingness to participate. My attacker's leering face looms large as he openly mocks me, his body often formless and misshapen, his arms and torso constantly contorting and then bloating, at times reducing to grotesque muscular stumps, spotted and covered in rashes. All the while he tries to subject me to whatever sick purpose he so desires as another braying face laughs sinisterly in the background-

I am out the back of 'The Nest' in the cool night – from here it looks like any other 1950's Scottish suburban home, a muddle of extensions and exposed pipework and rainwater downpipes finished in a white render-

At one point (in the flat stairwell?) two lades with yellow high-visibility-esque jackets traipse pass. They're pleasant enough in a zoned out kind of way. It seems they run 'Sound Control' another (dub music-centric) party hub on the 11th floor. The thought of being sandwiched between two non-stop raves causes me great concern – weren't we supposed to have moved somewhere more civilized? This leads to a highly emotional scene where, completely distressed, I plead with my companions(?) as to whether we did move or not. “Where do I live?!”, I exclaim, “where?!”. Is this a dream? I want to go back (to my spacious basement apartment). Can I go back? Can we go back?!

I DO however, go back to 'The Nest'-

Back in our flat with Kay Emm (and two others?) I say that I visited the outdoor activities shop – the top floor of the green building visible to the right of our flat and up – when they were having their closing down sale. (You can see it is now sitting empty the windows dirty, a few discarded shoe boxes stacked in the corner, up against the floor to ceiling glazing.) Suddenly the entire roof lifts off the shop, caught up by the wind, tumbling through the sky to land (with a less than appropriate muted clonk) upside down on our very own. I am terrified and look to see this detached roof take off once more and fall towards the (unseen) ground. Do I even hear it land? I am now very worried about the possible damage to our roof but am unable to get any sort of vantage where I can see-

Back at 'The Nest'. This time an old professorial fellow, round specs and a mullet of wiry grey hair, seems to be setting up in order to play the cello. He is tucked away to one side on a dimly lit ad-hoc stage. A burly younger man in a baseball cap is just visible to the professor's right, twiddling knobs on some equipment that is presumably part of their musical set up. Across from them, seated around a pillar, two casually dressed – short sleeved shirts and pressed slacks – British Asian men, both with moustaches, are casually stringing (with what looks like rubbery shoelaces on top of more traditional nylon strings) two lute/guitar-esque instruments. Walking beyond them I pass a vacant youth lost in a drug-induced stupor. At the front door(?) is a girl with neat, short black hair and plenty of dark eyeshadow and makeup on her face and lashes. She also has, dotted on her chin, comic book-style dots of stubble. She is ranting in frustrated and emotionally fragile manner, recounting conversations with friends who “ought to know better” - on a Tuesday night she comes to 'The Nest' and NO exceptions!-

Back at our flat and I am standing, quite exposed, on a balcony (again finished in a grey metal). By shifting my feet it has a very unsettling tilt, just like a see-saw, out towards thin air and back. I gingerly do this a couple of times before realising this is the downstairs neighbour's flat. Her (hitherto unseen) husband is down on his knees, his upper body stretched out on the floor ahead of him as he meditates/worships. I sheepishly apologise to her – evidently a shifting surface is not the best when trying to maintain religious focus-

I am now at our flat again, sitting by a small-ish square of flat roof and holding my infant son. I drop him, quite suddenly, over the edge. I dropped him!!! However much I try I cannot bring myself, nor force the dreamescape, to alter my vantage point and as such I begin to doubt if I did drop him.... I cannot look to see and so I continue to deny the fact in my mind-