Yobwok

I am in a room and am watching four people singing acapella – I'm thinking of the band The Cowboy Junkies in terms of sound(?). The third singer from the left leaves (after an argument?) and my (dreamescape) wife Melissa, a cute faced lady with long hair and a straight fringe across her forehead, steps in admirably to sing. (Is she wearing a mask on her chin as per all the other three singers?) My wife's sister then arrives, being a considerably older woman, verging on the geriatric. She berates us both, cursing us out – is she ill, dying? In response to her nasty tone I tell her to leave, saying pointedly, “you don't exist.”-

I am at the dreamescape flat of my little brother's wife. My brother, uncharacteristically happy, leaps up to hang/swing off a timber stud lattice that is suspended across the 'living room' ceiling (of what is a tall, double height space). His weight causes a section of this lattice to splinter and collapse. There follows much consternation while we discuss if it can be fixed or not (prior to his wife returning?). In the interim – is it repaired by a joiner? - my brother moves over to my left and breaks another part of this segmented rectangular construct. While discussing this eventuality with the joiner/tradesman he points out that the small toilet wall has been sheeted with plasterboard in order to hide damp-

This small bathroom is long, narrow and tall with a simple white porcelain WC at the far end, backing on to the external wall. There is a slotted window above at height. The builder is right and suddenly all the wall surfaces transform, morphing into a substance of a light blue spongey texture, a sort of damp, fibrous material, inconsistent and pockmarked, soft but springy to the touch-

Back in the large living space, the lattice evidently repaired, I suddenly notice that the central supporting column does not look to be secure at all – the timber 'cushion' between the lower and upper sections appears to be crushed and, even more alarming, skewed to the one side. Looking again I realise the upper part of the column is formed of some sort of collapsible white PVC pipe. Immediately upon noticing this there seems to be several of these (SVPs?) drooping down from the ceiling above-

Noxas

I am travelling (at what feels like night) on a bus, sitting on an aisle seat on the left hand side, about half way up the coach. It seems we are bound for Greenock and I am worried that I will miss my stop (as I am not at all familiar with the route). Having come to a halt I am unsure if I should get off here or at the next stop (for what it transpires is a connecting ferry service). Is it too early to get off? I ask the driver at the last minute and he advises me to disembark. The man seated across from me (who just so happens to look like the actor John Saxon) on the aisle is displeased and shouts down to the driver that he's not satisfied and will be making a formal complaint-

In my dash (across a stony beach) from the bus to the waiting ferry I scrabble across the rough surface. Stopping to take stock for a moment I realise I have lost everything from my scabby, useless wallet. In a panic I scramble back towards the bus where the driver (who now also resembles the film actor John Saxon) points out that my I.D. / Season ticket are in fact scattered on the stones. I quickly gather these up, equal parts reassured/troubled that I have £15 secreted in a pocket somewhere-

I am indoors and I am hoovering. A young girl (with learning difficulties) is in charge of the vacuum's hose attachment while I monitor some sort of filter flap at the rear of the body near the floor. This filter keeps jamming and whining as there are trailing threads(?) within the hoover which keep catching. The main body of the hoover itself is a large, bulky washing machine-esque object. The actress Kristen Scott Thomas is also present and she gives occasional instructions. At first the going is quite good but becomes steadily worse and worse, the floor (that we've already hoovered) somehow again covered in straw, stones and paper clips. I ask the young girl to start picking up the larger objects as I take over the directing of the hose-

Eeoteezoop

I am with my cartoonist friend Jay Emm and a.n.other. We are indoors and are walking from one room to the next. Something is deeply troubling me as we do so, something about Jay needing to be in the company of two people because it means he's going to...

… commit murder! As the door to this shadowy room shuts behind us I have this sudden realisation... but too late! To my complete terror Jay – who is now nothing more than a blurred, lumpen silhouette – pounces on my companion and proceeds to stab him rapidly several times. I am completely petrified as he stops, turning his attention to me-

I am in a crowded club/student union watching a DJ. The place is rammed, the DJ booth just over to my left. I know that this is the support act and I am highly anticipating the headliner. It looks as if I am alone in this as the place rapidly empties as the DJs change over. What's worse is that my (old) friend Cee Cee is among the few people remaining. I really do not want to talk to him as he comes over having spotted me-

I am now out in the street, balancing up on the kerbside and trying to avoid upsetting some magic tricks as performed by a few older men-

I am on some sort of coastal road travelling at dusk, the light slowly fading. I am perched on a sort of small tubular metal crucifix finished in a while gloss paint dip. This unusual object is my means of transport – I keep catching on the ground or am unable to negotiate rough surfaces, all the time conscious of a family(?) in gentle pursuit-

Mottob

It seems I have booked in on a coach trip to see The Charlatans play a concert in Dublin (and the gig has finally been rescheduled due to the Coronavirus pandemic). As luck would have it I discover, after some initial confusion, that The Orb are playing later the very same night. So, assuming both gigs are still going ahead, I'm hoping to not only catch both concerts but also to see my old friend Dee Bee-

Unbeknownst to Dee Bee, myself and my old friend Arr are standing outside his (dreamescape bungalow) house, waiting by the hedge and peeking over into his front garden. Only Dee Bee's wife/partner and her pal are there, two chubby and jolly women discussing homemade sweets. “He'll like bonbons”, says Dee's partner, one of several remarks about the obvious delicacies she has made (for him)-

Within a flash (as per the dreamescape) the two women vanish to be replaced by Dee himself. We can just see his head and shoulders when suddenly he flops up and off his seat and waddles into full view, his formerly trim body ballooned into a wobbling, comical flabby ball shape. Although he doesn't acknowledge us he begins to act up, preforming little comedy trips and slides that would be quite amusing but for the fact he looks so ridiculous and bloated. “So not a good look”, remarks Arr-

I am watching Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson perform 'Bottom: Live', and I am both enjoying the performance and (as is my creative curse) often thinking beyond it and analysing it. At present they are being struck on the head in turn by a huge suspended wrecking ball. This happens a couple of times to each. After, as they recoil and recover, Ade/Eddie begins his next lines. It's then that blood becomes quite noticeable on Rik/Richie's right temple, a small trickle just at the hairline. The splotch gets steadily more bloody as Rik halts his performance to acknowledge it. Eddie has stopped too and the audience holds its breath. It is, of course, a cunning ruse and the pair of them turn, their faces contorted into smug, sneering 'gotchas!'. (As this has all been going on I clicked at the trick, marvelling at how Ade's behaviour must have drawn the audience attention away from Rik to allow him to place/puncture the blood bag.)-

Einaeybab

I am back in (a dreamescape approximation of) the front living room of my old Glasgow/Ferry Road flat. I am over by the bay window, finished in brown timber, a wooden dining table and (4) chairs tucked neatly into the tight space. I am attempting to prevent small Beanie Baby-alike animals from getting into the flat (although latterly I am plucking them from in amongst the legs and struts of the dining table chairs). The animals are slightly abstract in appearance but are definitely alive, walking upright, shuffling slowly (and a little mischeviously and sinisterly) in a vague, stop-motion animation manner-

As things progress my playful attempts at carelessly tossing them from the floor and up on to the window cill prove (accidentally) fatal and I kill/murder a small pig in this way, holding it regretfully in my hands as its little life winks out. Finally I seem to do the same to one (of two) little old ladies, again small and slightly abstract in appearance, watching as her inner light fades and she dies in (and by) my hands-

Purtidd

I am at (the dreamescape approximation of) my office work. My old secondary school maths teacher Mr. Marshall appears to be presiding over proceedings. I am due to take my 15 minutes morning tea break but don't leave my seat until 10:20 – I should be back by 10:30! - to run over to Missing Records. I'm cutting it fine and jog on over in the rain, hoping to grab a quick browse before heading back-

I enter the shop to find it is long and snaking (more akin to the original Glasgow Oswald Street Missing shop than anything else). Immediately on entering there is a rack with Bollywood Films ahead of me – one is titled 'Zin' – with a rack of discounted 7” singles on my right. Beyond this is the shop counter, further up on the left, and what appears to be (of most interest to me) the 'items just in' rack to the right of that. As I begin to move forward one of the (familiar) staff says, “alright?”, and ushers me over to the counter and an unfamiliar lady (who nonetheless acts very familiar). She has some promo DVDs of a Japanese Samurai movie, some obscure kung-fu slasher re-release, one of several copies the shop are handing out to loyal customers. I take it out of the paper sleeve, already thinking I'll never be able to make the time to watch it, but instead say that I will view it over the weekend and bring it back next week. The lady says it is no problem and that it is mine to keep. She labours the point and, unable to get away, I bump into Gee Bee from my work. I say to the lady I'll give the DVD to Gee Bee to watch next and this somehow seems to create a stink, the vibe between the three of us, Gee Bee and the lady especially, turning quite sour and awkward, almost insulting. We then seem to get caught up in a weird group hug (from which I'm anxious to excuse myself, mindful that I must now be quite late back for work)-

As I race across the road – it's 10:38 – a guy shouts me back. I must have dropped my rail pass and a single passport photo as I jogged to Missing Records and they've been languishing in the wet for near 10 minutes. I thank the guy profusely, thinking to myself that this is turning into a sh*t day, and stuff them back in my (unzipped) pocket. I figure I might make it to work not too late – Gee Bee is often late and no one seems to bother about that. The problem is-

I am lost! I cannot seem to find my bearings at all and am sure that in all my frantic and muddled running I have completely overshot the office building. I stop outside an old red sandstone building. It is now gently sunny. A burly Arabic man and his young son are climbing up the face of this building (in an attempt, I assume, to get their bearings too). Thinking this a a sound course of action I proceed to do the same. I climb up to what is the first floor (although it feels MUCH higher) and walk along a ledge to my right. From the vantage of where the building turns the corner I can see my (modern) office (architectural monstrosity) looming over its surroundings in the near distance-

Naturally my descent proves far harder than my ascent. For one thing the Arab and his son have vanished (around the corner?) and the face of the building has grown much more narrow – I cling desperately to each and every available handhold, gingerly probing with my feet for a steadying support to safely assist my way. Timber window frames splinter and loosen in my grip and the stonework is similarly weak, crumbling the moment after I assume a firm handhold. In this slow, and somewhat terrifying, manner I make little speedy progress. At one point, peering into a stone corner a realise that an eye, a yellowed, ancient eye, is staring back out at me. I completely fail to register it at first then, looking again, I become quite transfixed, totally hypnotized... After staring into this unblinking orb for a very long time I utter a strained, “thank you”, and continue on my way-

Back on the ground at last I am more or less immediately surrounded by a gaggle of my work colleagues, a frantic 'search party' sent out to find me after my failure to return. Arr EmmCeePee makes some remark about drugs as I gush my way through a recollection of my experience with the staring eye up on the building-

Sgrall

I am with my father back in (a dreamescape approximation of) our old Largs home. We are in the garden discussing his plans to repair the dividing wall between ours and our neighbour's property. The wall as it exists looks fairly new with the exception of the middle third which, being of traditional stone, is aged and crumbling – it is also not as tall as the sections of wall to either side which, this odd interruption aside, do seem to flow height-wise as an intended whole. My father is saying how he will remove the older wall and infill that part as well as adding a metre or so in height along its entirety – as the neighbour's home is elevated it ought not to affect their vantage-

I am in an office contemplating whether I should accept an offer to travel solo to the moon – one sits cross-legged in a small spherical craft to make the journey (only I am unsure of my ability to fly such a machine). I am being coaxed by a Lewis Hamilton-alike who is already on the moon. Eventually, following much anxiety, I accept and (after a sudden dreamjump) am there, tucked into my little sphere all ready to go. Unfortunately, as smooth and problem free as the journey was, now that I have landed on the moon there is some fault with the sphere's mechanism that ought to provide me with food-

I am overjoyed when I realise that my friend Ayy Ess has a comic strip starting in the Daily Express newspaper, some futuristic tale about a mallet-headed individual who rides atop a flying, winged double decker bus – this is part of a feature announcing that the strip is 'coming soon'. I remark to Kay Emm that he had another strip a while ago but that it fizzled out somewhat-

Suriv

I am working in a bookstore in the United States. It has either just reopened or finished reorganising after (a wave of) a deadly virus. We are restocking books on to racks – I clearly remember the spot on the floor where a sanitiser-cum-sink stood, housed in a tall, square cross-sectioned natural finish timber upstand-

One of the (two) tall windows to the front of the shop, to the right, has been replaced with an opaque red pane – apparently this has been newly installed to provide some protection from a forthcoming storm. A young Bruce Dern-alike is making a good point about how come the other window, the one that happens to overlook his section of the store floor, has not been similarly upgraded. Another member of staff quips that it is because he is expendable-

I then make the mistake of pumping a hand sanitiser, the long tube/spout of which seems to stretch over the top of the till/computer station. There is an immediate fuss and we all cluster around the screen to the front – I pumped from the back – to see if it is still working. It is! Then it isn't... the screen striped with white vertical lines before suddenly cutting out. I then attempt to fill the till, which has a tiny cash drawer (full of paperclips and wire ties). What I assume to be money is much the same, packs of paperclips and fat wire ties about an inch long. I suggest, given the risk of spreading the virus, we only accept 'contactless' payments and the inter-staff debate that ensues means that my “can I help you” towards a waiting female customer, who has been roundly ignored, is too late. I then turn to my right and ask the same of a young mother with a pram-

Roferrady

I am back at my old Ferry Road flat in Glasgow – in a sense it's a more spacious, unfamiliar dreamescape version. My little brother is also present and we are both horrified as the walls are all damp and bubbled - “Dad destroyed the flat”, he says. The place is unfurnished. I think the concern is it was cleared for sale and it is now ruined. It seems our father applied something to the surface of the walls that has soaked up all the moisture and then, the internal insulation totally saturated, poured it out again. I duck away from the corner in the hall, a fly/wasp buzzing at a particularly gnarly looking corner of balled damp by the ceiling-

I enter (an approximation of) my old back bedroom and notice the window is open, that the window has been left open and it is seemingly impossible to lock it partially open-

Whitrge

I am with my work colleague Gee Bee and (also present, in part) is the actress Francis Conroy (Mrs. Fisher from the HBO television series Six Feet Under)-

To begin with a large group of children, around 8-10 years old, has gathered outside the (vague) two storey house we occupy – it is not entirely memorable and is sparsely furnished like an aged storeroom – and Gee says they are clustering there as a mother has posted on Facebook about the (mass) bullying and harassment of her son, “not a wise idea”, according to Gee Bee. It seems the mother, a sturdy looking woman, is patrolling/corralling the mob of kids and Gee and I (outside suddenly) are ducking down to avoid her (although I have no idea in what capacity we're actually involved)-

Inside the house I open a small timber bedside cabinet/cupboard and therein is the head of a Great White shark. I squirt some sort of cream (as I've been taught to do?) into the shark's mouth, aiming in and around its teeth. The persistent rhythmic gnawing ensures that this magical cream spreads over the roof of the Great White's mouth, giving a smooth pink finish that now covers the top set of teeth entirely. I then slam the timber cupboard door shut. This is not enough to stop the huge fish and the shark thumps open the flimsy door, wriggling and twitching its huge bulk into the centre of the room – the cabinet is in the far left hand corner. I beat a hasty retreat to the door (guiding Mrs. Fisher to safety at the same time?) and head upstairs to Gee Bee, who sits in a back room with a large window that overlooks the ground/garden. Now that the shark is out in the open(?) I am desperate that it should be rescued and returned to the wild. I ask Gee Bee to Google “Great White stranded rescue” and such variations, suddenly concerned that it will return stories of rescues and not someone who who will or how to rescue. To my frustration the results show up on Gee's long white t-shirt and as I scroll down (towards the groin!) I make some joke about conducting a “safe search”-

As two or three huge, cartoon-ish sea monsters surface in the garden - “this is getting a bit out of hand” - Gee Bee's next search is something like "toxic India”, returning a bunch of related news stories. I then, observing the sea monsters dipping up and down below the surface of the garden, decide to drop down and check on the Great White. There's a small boy who sports thick NHS spectacles (playing a video game) and not only am I surprised that he is safe but also that the Great White shark has vanished-

Churgg

I am meeting/recognise my old school friend Gee Emm. He seems (in the dreamescape) to be working what is best described as a 'blue collar' job, some sort of (manly) manual work and I encounter him sitting, his back to a wall, legs outstretched, clad in his dusty blue overalls. He is on some sort of break/downtime between shifts and is surrounded by a line of his resting fellow workers. We get talking and he looks happy but unsettled. He comes over to join me and a look of concern crosses his face as he tells me there is an outbreak of AIDS among the workers. I gather it is only one or two (clusters?) and he doesn't seem highly concerned (although I sense he is rambling his way around to addressing a more serious point). He then, quite strained, says, “you know how it is... he said, 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'...”-

(there's an abrupt dreamjump here almost as if I exit the scene to process what Gee has told me – that he has in fact been raped and contracted AIDS)

Gee and I, still chatting, are making our way up a very tight staircase, fashioned from white painted gloss timber, that twists and turns (on it's way to his 'digs'?). At one point Gee seems to lean back and stretch up to a (hidden) shelf, switching off a video camera recorder (that I can only assume he is using as a means of evidence/protection). Further up he does the same with a similarly secreted camera, setting off the shutter/flash as he does so. I vaguely hear him explaining something away - “aw, it's alright, it's just...” - to someone on the stairs behind us, the tight and steep environment making it impossible to see just who-

On reaching the top Gee finally breaks down in a distraught confession and is only stayed in his teary rambling by the appearance of his wife (at which point he quite capably pulls himself together). She is slim and blonde and somewhat arch. She is framed not by some cramped, basic accommodation, but instead emerges from an open double doorway into a vast church-like room, the back wall of which has some sort of quasi-religious display of candles, illuminated and actually quite transcendent. I marvel at this – it it near Christmas? Gee's wife sits herself on a bench in this epic ante-room and begins, to my surprise, to quiz him (on more innocent matters) with more than just a hint of disdain and, given his very real situation, a total lack of sympathy or understanding-

Orzzle

My friends Ayy and Gee Ess are having a joint (and impressive) art/architecture exhibition. The abstract designs and concepts are almost like feathery coloured pencil drawings blown up impossibly large, gently sweeping and curved linework quite unlike anything I expected to or have seen either of them do prior-

Korygman

Ryan Kogman

Wyttef

Somehow my young son (20 months old) has managed to get uncooked rice grains in his right eye. They are trapped, jammed up under his top and bottom lid as well as clustered around his tear duct/puncta. He is quite (understandably) distressed as I struggle (to keep calm) to wash out/remove the rice-

Batokemr

I am in a dimly lit (living?) space with (Tom Baker's fourth) Doctor Who (and possibly his assistant Sarah Jane Smith). The curtains are drawn and we take delivery of three Amazon parcels. I assume the contents of these are to help with whatever it is The Doctor is holed up here to muse over but... the first box, that has sort of opening flaps, contains three pint glasses, each of which is set into a frozen circular base. Tom/The Doctor proceeds to pour us a cider each before adding (different) ice. This, he states, ought to help us all think-

Austoucup

www.freeworldmaps.net

Australia Touch Cup-

Patrac

Tracy Crost's black Heroin diary-

Patricia Crost's black Heroin diary-

Tlipt

I am at an Orb concert. It seems they have not turned up or have cancelled at the last minute. Instead we listen to the full 39:09 of their 'Blue Room' single (which admittedly makes for a satisfying enough gig)-

Afterwards and I am racing to catch a bus that will take me to a/the railway station. I just make it and am the last person on board. As I catch my breath I realise the tubular metal handhold I'm gripping just might have a tiny smear of dogsh*t on it (and so therefore might my hand). The two lads who caught the bus only moments before me take an interest and, on closer inspection, they look to have sh*t on their trousers too-

It transpires the bus is going to Beith railway station – I try to work out if that's any good a destination for me – and it arrives in good time-

Unfortunately the driver, a goofy, shuffling, grinning 'dude', has used the Satnav on his phone to take us to OLD Beith railway Station. It is an impressive, imposing Grecian-style ruin, the ancient tracks still visible amidst the great crumbling construct-

The two lads from the bus and I approach a bunch of bored teenagers, all affected attitude and Goth stylings, to ask the route to the new station – it sems the driver('s phone) has failed us and we're on our own. One girl with frizzy blonde hair is willing enough to break the solemn mould to chat while another simply sneers that the station for the “stay-at-homes” is simply over there-

The Orb - Blue Room

Snoobab

https://www.livescience.com/

Kay Emm and I are staying at her sister's family house (in America). The (dreamescape) house has a very cheap and flimsy feel about it – the construction seems to be quite piecemeal and the finish throughout is faded magnolia gloss, almost being used as an extra adhesive, on top of the thin timber chipboard that seems to have been employed everywhere-

We are sleeping in the upstairs bed(room) and I awaken and, getting up, I notice a keen-eyed baboon sitting on the small felted flat roof outside our window. The internal/external wall beneath the window seems to be insubstantial/almost opaque and as much as I try to duck out of sight I cannot avoid being caught in the baboon's blue piercing glare. I get a shock as the window switches from a brown, near opaque, surface to clear glass in an instant, revealing two more baboons are sitting on the small cill (several more visible beyond them, descending the surrounding garden walls – they are amassing!)-

The second of the two baboons has a (Planet of the Apes' Koba-like) scar/disfigurement to one eye which gives him an evil, malicious look, his mouth seemingly twisted into a permanent aggressive snarl as a result-

Some of the baboons have invaded the house and we quickly head down the cramped internal staircase as they crawl down the wall in pursuit and dash into the family kitchen where everyone is having breakfast-

I explain the situation to Bee Haitch, my brother-in-law, and he and I venture out into the garden. (I think) Bee has some sort of metal tube for protection and I grab up (from somewhere inside) a sawn-off broom handle and another, longer piece of timber. I rejoin Bee outside where, as the (lead) baboon stalks him, he laments having locked the back door – it might have been to safeguard his (young) family – but we realise we're trapped on the wrong side. I (too easily) flick approaching baboons aside with my hooked(?) timber as Bee thumps on the door with the ball of his fist – we want in now!-

Gillcleedle

I am with Gee Bee from my work and we are making our way across a somewhat barren landscape – we seem to be on a gentle gravel incline, sloping down from a road/motorway at our backs. To get to our intended (but unknown) destination we then have to cross a vast landscape formed of giant books that are lying with their spines facing upward. It is starting to rain and I am concerned as to how the falling moisture will affect the books. The books seem to momentarily return to normal size and I race through a collapsed heap of them, noting an (auto)biography of the (BBC production of 'House of Cards') actor Ian Richardson. On the cover is a contrasted black and white image of the actor sporting a Georgian wig which has been printed on faded blue/grey paper-

I am now browsing a rack of (plastic covered, ex-library?) hardback books that all seem to be by members of Monty Python's Flying Circus (or at least Monty Python related or themed). The title lettering on each book is rendered in Terry Gilliam's stylised 'Holy Grail' lettering. As I spin this rack I pass books by Tim Piggott (a collaborator?) and Eric Idle, the latter being dismissed somewhat by Terry Gilliam (who now stands beside me). Most fascinating of all is a book tucked away to the back of the (seemingly never-ending) rack. At first I assume it to be a "novel” by both John Cleese and Emily Gilliam (Terry's dreamescape daughter). I take the book out – it has a simple line drawing of the classic desert island humped beach with a solitary palm tree on the cover – and then realise it is by John and Terry Gilliam. I am totally enthused – why have a never heard of this?! I pass it over to Terry and he seems as unaware of its existence as I am. Flicking through it he remarks that the cover was done with a crayon on a roll of paper. Quick as a flash I joke, “the whole book!”. He finds this very funny(?). I continue to joke (in the hope he'll give treasured text back to me) that, given the size of the print, it won't take me long to read it, 2-5 days, a week at most... I suggest Terry takes the book away and reads it, passing it on to me only if he deems it to be not too terrible. Gilliam giggles manically at all of this. His (dreamescape) daughter has materialised and wants him to take it (as I suspect she thinks the book is total rubbish)-

Donbortruson

I am out with my family. We are in (a dreamescape) Glasgow formed of wide, piecemeal tarmacked streets and sturdy red brick constructs – very industrial workers' town. There is no one about and no traffic/parked cars which only adds to the desolate, post-industrial vibe. I am clutching a William Boyd black and red paperback book, a bookmark to the outside. We go into a discount (book) shop and through the back they are just putting out a selection of new hardbacks. Lying on the table I spot Jodi Picoult's new novel – her second, the dreamescape believing her to have written a single, weighty debut. The book has a black dust jacket crammed with complimentary(-ish) quotes printed in a variety of colourful texts and fonts.

Music | Capitol K (bandcamp.com)

Piled near this is a book by/about the underground musician Capitol K. it has a muddy, somewhat confusing cover (and a distinctly off-putting £30 price tag!) with a quote that compares him to Star Trek(?) at the foot-

We go back outside where it is beginning to rain. I stuff my Boyd book up inside my jacket to stop it getting wet. We come to a wide undulating bridge with towering red brick walls to either side. It seems to have four 'lanes' (for traffic) although only one of these is open. I feel safe enough to ignore my Mother's warning to watch for traffic. On the other side of the dividing water lies a large rotting object. As we get closer I realise it is a duplicate of the Statue of Liberty, rusting away-

We now 'dreamjump' to the actual Statue of Liberty where the media is watching Donald Trump (who actually looks more like Boris Johnson) inspect a repair job on a similarly rusted and weathered surface. To the surprise of the assembled journalists Trump/Boris leaps nimbly from his inspection route for an impromptu run about the surface of the statue – how he does not plunge to his death is a mystery! There is also a “lucky escape” for a buxom woman who emerges from a doorway and launches herself off a platform and simply (and fortunately) 'flomps!' onto a surface not too far below. I seem to see this incident replay just as per the news coverage. Initially the (curly haired) woman is totally nude, protecting her 'modesties' with her forearm and hand. In subsequent replays, taken from a different camera angle, she can be heard referring to the television network as a “terrorist organisation” - she is partially clad in a wedding dress with her handsome bosom exposed. At one point I even think she looks pregnant-

Kwrearfkt

I am at a busy and bustling railway station and have taken it upon myself to guide a kindly old couple through the ticket gates to the platform. Both the elderly man and woman have very similar features – a jolly demeanour, round spectacles and wispy blond curls of hair. They each peer keenly into my face as I try to fathom their quite unusual looking tickets, oversized bits of paper, one travelling from Bradford to Faziwah(?)/Krawlik(?)/Prague(?). (Are they going to see the group Kraftwerk and I am in fact going to Bradford?) I can't really help them after all but attempt to show them how to put their odd tickets through the barrier machine. Is there a language difficulty too? Unfortunately the machine is out of order and my limited abilities mean I cannot even communicate this to them-

Zikum

I am looking through a(n old) Muzik magazine and am shocked when I come to a 2 page spread, the beginning of their in-magazine comic strip section (that I know usually spoofs the more mindless aspects of the clubbing scene). The strip is rendered in a flat style, making use of several grey tones (and black and white contrasts) and is essentially a series of highly contrasted photos which are then treated digitally to achieve this effect-

The first panel shows a location in some on-street beer garden, the usual, recognisable tubular metal chairs and surrounding, separating banner upstands resplendent with promotional advertising. In the centre there is no mistaking that it is me (in spite of the face having been reduced down to a white nothing, only the eyebrows retained)-

On the facing page things are even more obvious as it is a photo of me that has been treated/toned to some respect to make up the panel. The speech bubble sees me spouting some nonsense about, “we'll go on 'trans' then after one how about over to 'trans' for another then maybe 'trans'...”, presumably intended to mock the pre-club routine. It is the next panel that causes me much consternation – my face is again a flat white nothing, only crude skull features have been superimposed on top while I drone on about getting, “drugged up and f**ked up...”-

Rostosene

I am climbing up and over a huge organic sort of statue that has grown amidst a mighty sandstone columned construct. The statue's original form is a seated human body with a dog-like shaped head. Scaling this giant beast takes much time and care as it has grown (out from the original form?) a series of small branches and twigs, budding, yet to blossom. My timeous route takes me up and over by the head-

I am now at a The Stone Roses concert. I am in a small backstage-ish area formed of what seems to be an L-shaped tent. Ian Brown is puzzling patiently over a sort of squeeze-sack instrument that is lying on the ground. I understand it its melancholy sighing wheeze is crucial to the outro to a (presumably reworked version of the song) Fools Gold. The fact that Ian is unable to get much (amplified) noise from this bizarre instrument – it seems there's a tube out one end that you can put in your mouth – is quite apparent when I duck outside. Whatever crowd, sitting around in small groups on gentle, grassy hills, bathed in sunlight, there was is beginning to drift off, taking the lack of (audible) music as a sign the gig is over. However, back in the tent – which actually seems to be the stage? - Mani and Reni have taken to grooving out 'Rock The Casbah' by The Clash. They are both cavorting, posing with their guitars(?) in a circle, somehow playing immaculately while pulling off these exaggerated rockstar-pose theatrics-

Kinpum

I am with a young black and white cat and a humanoid with a pumpkin head, no skin, just the perfectly smooth flesh, the classic skeletal features gently carved into it. (Is my old University friend Gee Gee also there, for her aura and presence fades in and out of the surrounding dreamescape). Whatever adventures we've been through – there's every suggestion the pumpkinhead and myself are somewhat at odds to one another – we currently seem united(-ish) in the face of some crippling lethargy that has gripped us. I am desperately encouraging the cat to eat a (perfectly peeled) apple that it is chewing sluggishly, spitting out the globs of mashed pulp as it goes. The pumpkinhead fares even worse, his (normally orange) flesh drained of all colour so that it matches the washed-out apple.

Kcud

 Duck | Definition, Types, & Facts | Britannica

“Duck integration.”

Phoenfll

 

The first hen fell to the powershop-

Oentaec

The band Acetone are on Swedish or Norwegian television. We're late. I'm sitting with the three members. Ritchie Lee, with close cropped hair, sits opposite me with drummer Steve Hadley to my left and guitarist Mark Lightcap to my right. The two of them stare directly into my face, looming large and framing the face of the silent Ritchie. They offer me a bong and ask, "are you with us or not?" It is clearly three against one so I partake, sucking on the bong as Steve and Mark blow rings of dope smoke towards me. Ritchie does not take part so I remember thinking, it's three against one in that sense too-

The BBC are are showing an alt-country television special shot in a tiny studio. They screen some very short footage of Acetone (but then, thankfully!) follow it with an epic show, two sets of material from the York Blvd. album that I luckily managed to scramble and tape/record off the tv. They play 'Things Are Gonna Be Alright' and it is chaotic - Steve plays a l/handed guitar(?) while Mark plays piano (or drums?). The pair of them stand very close together, joshing one another, their two arms interlocked, the song/riff collapsing in a (dopey) cacophony. They stop and do a cover version-

Acetone - Things Are Gonna Be Alright (Demo)

Rashngr

Slash from Guns 'n' Roses steps up to do a (bad, mumbled) impersonation of Geoffrey from the children's television show Rainbow over a picked guitar backing-

Caampetraiicna

The Hollywood actor Chris Evans is dressed as Captain America (the stubbly non-helmet wearing version). We are in my house together with my parents and older brother. For some reason things are taking far too long so my brother, myself and our son(?) don't have time to go and visit our gran. We eat a meal of frustratingly bony fish-

Chris is going to play golf (“incognito!?” I jest). He and I stand face-to-face. He doesn't seem that tall, being about my height, but he is super fit, build almost like a slender action figure with obligatory exaggerated (but somehow still proportional) musculature. I ask him if he is still undertaking a training program – indeed, the whole dreamescape is almost like an interview in a sense. I think, but don't actually ask, about the complex technical versus physical process of actually making a MARVEL movie-

On a train we consider Skyping my gran only she has no internet-

I am now driving a car and we pass my friend Jay Dee. He is casually reclining against the wall of a takeaway while his partner wheels their baby daughter in a pram. Jay looks slick, styled and goes into the takeaway as we pass-

Tapo

In a similarly sparse environment that formed my last dreamescape, a sort of airless browny/green coloured shopping centre, wide but with low ceilings to the corridors/circulation. It's all very muted and there are no other people around. I am with my mother-in-law and one other person (my brother?). On our right we pass a shop of sorts, the door also to the right, a long, plain window stretching off to our left. The window is full of 60s & 70s styled artwork, not quite as artistic as psychedelic era gig posters, but very bold, often in black and white, with a single, quite striking central image. Many of them make use of (intriguing) science fiction imagery and I am drawn to several of these A4-ish flyers that shamelessly crib from the (original) The Planet of the Apes. One in particular is a black and white image of a soldier ape's head with some brisk and bold lettering above-

I linger outside this shop, admiring the artwork. I go to venture inside but am told (by one for my companions?) that it is in fact a hairdressing salon and that to do so would be a waste of (everyone's) time. In addition it seems that they only do 70s style haircuts and, as if to prove a point, a tall (Japanese anime-esque) woman emerges and immediately engages with me. She sports a huge silvery afro with pieces of 'L' shaped decorative metallic jewellery stuck to her cheek. She is wearing a green bodysuit with a blue bubbled waistcoat-cum-bodywarmer arrangement on top. She has other sci-fi stylings, including knee pads and high, silver boots. A striking black woman, also with a great afro, follows her before another woman (almost identical to the first) exits too-

Fofp

www.fopp.com

I have an exceptionally itchy anus and cannot stop rubbing and scratching at it through my clothes. I am then alarmed to find that the back of my stripey t-shirt is covered in many spots of excrement, from my bottom right on up to shoulders(!) - somehow any attempt to wash these out (by hand) proves fruitless as they sort of disappear beforehand – did I imagine them? - then reappear-

FOPP records is closing and somehow my own DVD collection has been mixed in with their stock. What can I do as one of the (male) staff sweeps great swathes of DVDs off the shelves and into a shopping basket. My only hope lies in the fact that my DVDs are not shrink-wrapped, making their identification somewhat easier. The immediate environment is huge, akin to a dated cinema foyer, small steps here and there in the flooring and a red patterned carpet with black plastic trimmings. Someone says it's such a shame (the imminent closure) as they were so close to a(n underground comic/zine) Khaki Shorts (themed) carpet – indeed, the FOPP DVDs are bound for the (carpet) supplier's company-

Kashmatora

'Loon Fung', an English psychedelic CD I forgot I had. Three of the five members are still alive. 'Kashmatora Mushrooms' CD. It has an orange/white print/logo 'on body' in a white paper slipcase. I am talking to my brother about them-

Fruntallan

Concrete structure with narrow supporting uprights – no windows so instead open from about 1m to 2.5m in height, running in a continuous strip. In the basement of this structure is Missing Records and one of the staff, to my surprise, is launching his band's new CD. I explore the shop's racks and congratulate him (on the CD) on my way out. On going back up and outside it seems to me that the structure is covered in much more graffiti than I recall – a phrase 'NO - -' is daubed on the floor. I go around to my right and walk a bit then take another right and I end up in a basic bar/cafe, all tubular steel tables and colourful, but basic, chairs. I meet my late friend Jay Emm and as we are chatting I am troubled as to whether I should tell him that I know he's going to pass away soon-

Jostom

www.tripadvisor.co.uk

I am buying a (Glasgow) city centre flat with my ex-work colleague Jay Tee. It is a top floor property located in a tenement block in Buchanan Street. (Stuff, water tank on roof will collapse on to us? Fear.) We eventually buy near St Enoch's Square instead. This is in a large complex with an internal atrium. It is very loud and you can constantly hear folk chatting away as well as the crash of empty bottles as the ground floor pub empties their recycling bins. The flat has a balcony and I am terrified – I am crawling in terror along the floor acutely aware of the relaxed social environment around me. The flat has three rooms that all face on to this balcony, their ceilings sloping downward towards a low glass upstand (that evidently serves as the railing)-

Does my little brother buy a flat too, only he purchases one in Buchanan Street? What about his cat?

Liyannip

I am with Ian Brown and John Squire of The Stone Roses. We are wandering in the shallows on a beach. We retreat closer to the shore as some vague snub-nosed fish – not a shark, I'm quite sure – is menacing us as we paddle-

Zeekle

 

John Cleese. "If you jump on my laptop I'll break your f*cking neck!"

"What a waste of three f*cking months!"

Orvanp

I am with my old childhood school friend Arr Pee and his little brother Gee Pee. Arr has a neat 'helmet' haircut (as opposed to his long, unruly hair of reality). I need to be home for 1pm as my parents are having 'guests' for lunch. I text my mother (and she replies, like a screengrab?) that I will leave at 12:56. 12:06? I have half an hour-

I am reassured that Arr and Gee still have a box of toys which I handle (kinda wishing I still had them too). I changed my shoes and am all ready to leave. I cannot locate my Doctor Martins shoes. I hunt for them, panicking, aware that time is slowly ticking away-

Fat fingered f*nny.

Car thing.

Skinny fingered f*nny.

Look at the size of that (portable) potty! (is that what it is?)

2 x 100 x 50cm packs under each arm as to put both under one arm would be very awkward to carry. I need to take a taxi to get home-

Arr and Gee's house is huge, scabby and chaotic, tubs of clothes everywhere, the paintwork flaking off. Again I am reassured by this somehow-

I leave urgently to avoid meeting their parents and just make it by the skin of my teeth – his father returns from walking their dog, their mother trailing some distance behind. From my high vantage point I watch them enter the house, Arr's mother (in shades) looking up and at me as she disappears inside. I think I am sufficiently hidden from view, but cannot help wonder if she saw me-

Talk about the state of the house. ￡110,000 spent on the rear stairwell so actually not bad (as opposed to my opinion)-

Alec Guinness is to be the 'guest' for lunch. He's a very old man. I laugh to myself and consider saying, 'hello there' in my best Star Wars Obi Wan Kenobi homage when I meet him. Will he think it's funny?-

Four of us are walking past Arr's house. Who here's got a wife? I am surprised when my old school friend Ess Bee says that he does. Do I?-

I am walking alone, shifting the packs of portable pottys(?) from arm to arm as they are uncomfortable, being tucked up tight under my armpit causing me to strain my arm to hold them. I wait at a set of traffic lights. Should I take a taxi or not? I am trying to orientate myself for home – I'm not sure but I seem to be slowly getting more and more lost. Did I in fact head off in the wrong direction after leaving Arr's? Lots of small classic cars are now being driven towards me to my annoyance as I stumble along a narrow (but familiar) cobble stone lane. Am I on the right route at last? I duck through the middle of some sort of stacking crates construct where I have an encounter with a jolly/annoying fat fingered f*nny who is out to slap/hinder me-

Figgett

I am in a spacious, dimly lit corridor facing a set of large, industrial-looking elevator doors. The doors are thrumming, emitting steam/smoke and radiating an intense heat. I suspect there is a fire (somehow) and approach a group of hardhatted workers on the floor above, alerting them to my concerns. One of the workers checks out the elevator and more or less confirms my suspicions. Suddenly the lower third of the doors buckles outward in some sort of rapid release. Next I look the doors have simply vanished and, as well as the previously mentioned worker, another, a black gut with a bald head appears – he seems to be emerging from within the lift shaft-

I am then making my way outside, the immediate environment all twisting out of shape around me. Outside and to my right stands my former work colleague Dee Cee. She is standing on a kind of artificial ridge and talks to a worker who is over on my left. Beyond that is another former work colleague, Jay Tee. He is talking to a group of workers who seem to be (in charge of) operating a crane/lifting mechanism. There are several large industrial containers outside too. These begin to buckle and collapse from their elevated positions, It's time to make a(nother) run for it-

I am then (in all likelihood) on the other side of the ridge and about half way down a steep slope that curves down towards a rocky shore populated by several groups of (normal) people. I watch, not hugely afraid, as three large containers, one after another, tip over the ridge and slip and slide, skidding dangerously past me on their way. I am aware they are quite Doctor Who-ish, being modern CGI effects – that are not wholly realistic or all that effective. Even the perspective of these yellow containers, that seem to intentionally jerk and rotate to miss me, looks to be a bit 'off'. I do hear someone nearer the shore say, "f**king hell!" and wonder how they'll let that pass on a kids' television show. (I am now certain I am in an episode of Doctor Who.) Next to me is an older woman with two young children, a boy and a girl. She is casually discussing some mundane personal matter, quite unaffected by the ongoing drama-

Ecliood

I am on a train and (an as old as he is now) Clint Eastwood is there (to be interviewed). He sits semi-side on with his back to me, partially reclined, his legs up and bent. It seems as if random people on the train are asking him random questions. It can't be very interesting for him as Clint falls asleep! The trains stops and several passengers, including Clint, shuffle off into the night time snow to go to the toilet, the scene framed by the open carriage doors. Clint, a tall, identifiable figure in the distance, starts to run back towards the (leaving) train. I remark that, 'it'd be just the thing if he falls', and splat! He tumbles flat onto his face. He stands up and while he makes the rest of his run he makes up a snowball that he throws at me. I manage to elicit a rare, deadpan smile from Clint by commenting that, 'not many people can say they've been hit by a snowball by Clint Eastwood.'-

There is now just a handful of us waiting to change trains on what seems to be a low-level/underground platform. (Also a sense we are wandering a dark-ish main street in some town, looking for a Heston Blumenthal restaurant.) I meet my friend Ay Arr on the steps up from the platform and stress to him how surprised he'll be when he meets... Clint! - who stands a full head taller than Arr. I then meet and bring down my father, again emphasising the surprise. My father approaches Clint from behind and, realising who he is, shakes him warmly by the hand. Clint, however, suddenly arches backwards, a cut (from the fall? now) clearly visible on his right temple. As he falls to the ground he says, 'I don't feel so good.' A crowd starts to gather and I am desperate for someone to dial 999 for an ambulance. I run upstairs to the girl in the ticket booth and ask her if she knows First Aid. She does not but instead directs me to the woman in the William Hill betting shop across the road-

I dash across but it seems to simply be the back rooms of a Chinese restaurant. Until, that is, a kindly old chef, mighty cleaver in hand, tells me, 'downstairs'. The William Hill is painted white throughout with a low ceiling and a thick carpet on the floor. A few men lounge in Jabba's Palace-esque booths of sorts – the place feels more like a private sex club. Indeed, the guy I ask about the WPC(?) seems to have on stockings below the waist. He directs me to the WPC but she is not there, just a bunch of random photos/flyers with a face on them that I leaf through in vain. One seems to have the slogan 'no line' and another reads 'sticky marshmallow end'-