Tabro

I am part watching/part immersed in a screening of the film Borat (only the experience is quite unlike the actual version, this being the 'dreamescape' take). Borat himself is singing a terrible, insulting rendition of a national anthem, offending a huge (Iranian/Afghani?) crowd as he does so. Cue countless angered and disgusted reaction shots, people scoffing and rolling their eyes. One particular shot of a judge (Judy-esque woman) shows her mouthing at a(nother) court official, who mouths, “I only deal with wh*res” by way of a (helpless) reply. Immersed as I am in all this chaos I cannot think anything other than that Bruno was the better film-

I am in a coffee shop that is comprised of two square-ish rooms, one of which can only be entered via the other. I am in the first (main) room and a young lad leaves our table to go through the (open) doorway into the second room. (Is there supposed to be some open mic/entertainment there later?) A girl sitting to my left – I am sitting with my back to the window – says something about the recently departed lad being quite funny. Someone then makes a remark that I look like a comedian. I respond by saying that I used to be a comedian! Cue surprised gasps and exclamations-

https://swg3.tv

Now walking along a stony shoreline path-cum-track with my friend Jay Emm. The sea is to our left and (just) visible in the misty distance is a building, the shoreline curving round to it. I am annoyed as the building is the Glasgow music/arts venue SWG3 and I spit, “Shhh*teWG3!” and thereafter continue to lambast it as an awful concert venue. Jay Emm and I then talk about the excellent(?) Low gig(?) that we saw there-

A flesh organise a-nother-

Blonkyl

https://www.1env.com

A Flesh Organise A-nother-

A Crane fly/daddy-longlegs has landed on my wrist and I experience a piercing pain as it sticks its long proboscis deep into my arm. It's painful enough that I yelp. Shortly by gripping my arm and squeezing down hard on my wrist, pushing up towards the puncture wound with my thumb, I begin to expel tiny tick-like translucent bugs – they emerge in a steady stream. Finally, the supply of small bugs exhausted a large Crane fly emerges from the wound-

Loloppine

I am with a young man. He has blonde unruly hair and has a distinctly 'fresh' look and demeanour about him. We are in a long room-cum-living space. The end wall facing us is fully glazed and on either side there is a moveable ladder, the top of which is mounted on high rails running lengthwise, to allow for access to the shelves of books at this height. My acquaintance seems to be itching to buy this place for himself. I gently advise him on how he could utilise the space to his best advantage-

We have a floorplan of the room and I am saying how we can simply blank out the existing interior drawing with fresh paper, thereby letting us easily brainstorm and sketch out a layout ourselves. We tape, using 'magic' tape, a blank piece of paper on top of the existing drawing – I note that our paper overlaps and covers the linework of the wall's internal leaf, leaving only the external showing. Hardly ideal for our purposes. In trying to tape down the edges more carefully we tape over the spaces between the (four!) toes on a baby's foot-

Bwiquillet

www.urbanrealm.com

I am back at University – the feeling is of the place although the environment is a pure invention by the dreamescape on top. So, while we have plaster and polished concrete walls and high ceilings (often all in a white paint finish), the overall building shapes and structure are quite different, being much more expressive. My old work boss, Gee Haitch, is leading some sort of triumphant toast my honour and presently makes a speech referring to an incident in the past whereupon I (am supposed to have) made a faux pas when conversing with Pee Kay, an old tutor of mine. I try and deny this claim but it transpires Gee has (somehow!) a recording of the exchange. (However) It is played back – I recall thinking they really should have used the building's PA system – it is mostly drowned out by the excited babble of those gathered. Searching (desperately!) back in my mind I try and recall the conversation with Pee Kay. I have a sense that I accidentally (and unwittingly) compared his architecture style to rice cakes(?). As the assembled throng begins to disperse I want to state that the recording was lost much in the same manner as when The Stone Roses played Glastonbury – no! The Isle of Wight, because the wind blew the sound all over the place. (I am reaching, of course, for Spike Island)-

I am dismayed that my own (comic?) books have been relegated to the bottom of a revolving wire display rack (especially as there's a few empty rows between them and those placed further up towards the top). I enter into a library, noticing a sign stating that it is the '- -? Building Reading Room' and pass on through to access another floor up. There I gaze up at the high vaulted ceiling (of yet another library). This space seems to be for children's books and there's a(nother) rack of familiar comics ('Kimble' by the writer/artist 'Jason'?) that have been scaled and modified for printing as small, 3x3” sturdy card books-

Kwininj

I am on a small roll-on-roll-off ferry boat. I am talking, with a somewhat forlorn sensation, to a tall women. I can recall nothing else about her aside from the sad, yearning quality I have towards this ill-defined individual. I mention something about “Manhattan” (is that where we are?) but I realise I am being deceived/confused by the upward jutting shapes of the length of the ferry, cast as it is in shadow by the gleaming bright water beyond. I leave the woman on the 'off' ramp– she just stands there, a strong figure, her hand perched on her hip – and again I experience this intense sadness at our separation, and my longing, welling up inside of me-

I am now with a much older man (he looks familiar-ish, like an actor I cannot place). He has long-ish white hair swept back from his face, which is by turns warm and friendly yet stern. Visibly distressed he asks me to dial '999'. His breathing is irregular and shallow so I do so (despite my sudden concerns that he is a gangster of sorts). It proves to be a very frustrating (and just a little tense) exchange as the older man, listening in, keeps asking me to correct my version of events (so as to avoid the topic of himself and thereby arousing any suspicion). He constantly butts in and when not pressing me he gurns and tuts at my clumsy handling of the call-