Hyikt

“The City of the Killer Wasp” An animation made I quite a hectic style. It takes me a while to work out the title as I am baffled by the Megaman/Astroboy hybrid of the titular character (and further confused by the rapid and blurry cutting-

It seems the titular Killer Wasp is vanquishing some (Despicable Me-esque) baddie from his domain – a sort of mountainous city HQ – by sticking him in a barrel and sending him tumbling down the cityside. The barrel, upon reaching a sort of docks/waterside area splits apart and dumps this unfortunate villain in the water. The Killer Wasp converses with his sidekick – and I am sort of involved – as it seems the baddie has suddenly vanished. Did they successfully get him or not?-

Fallad

I am with my shopkeeper friend Gee Ayy and it seems his mother has passed away and I'm helping him out. We could be at the old Studios in Hope Street, Glasgow – prior to this I vaguely recall trying to sweep and tidy a debris and sawdust strewn floor with a woefully inadequate fanned brush – and we could be alone with a.n.others fading in and out of the dreamescape. There is some upset/consternation over a single biscuit, wrapped in an individual wrapper (like a seeded oatcake) that appears to be essential for the funeral/occasion. (Does it have his mother's face on it?) It transpires I've put it up in a cupboard stacked, just like in my own home, with boxes of crackers and biscuits, and I sort of know exactly where it is. I fetch it for Gee but he's not interested and scoffs silently, dismissing the offering in an offhand manner. My other friend Ay Ess (who has appeared) suggests that he'll take it for his mum – who, I think to myself, died years ago – but I quietly, by means of a pained expression, manage to get my point across that this, with a nod to Gee, is neither the time nor place for such an insensitive act-

Now there's a sizeable gathering in the room, folk seated and standing in a cluster to my right by the door, Gee sitting on his own, cutting a morose, dejected figure, to my left. A woman, seated to the front of the group on my right, manages to pull her emotions together enough to sing a song – it should be Deacon Blue but it's a bit more 'Zombie' by Cranberries - “and we drink and we f**cked” which surprises me. She finishes by (unwisely) gulping down (from a broken glass!) red wine, shards and all, fighting all the time to swallow-

Imperf

I have been at an Oasis gig (though being the dreamescape everything seems to overlap, the account of the experience almost in real time as I tell it). I am now in some tall ceilinged tenement-esque office. My old work colleague Gee Ess and his wife Emm are seated in a back room. The space is bright and airy, the desks facing each other as they work away. I am talking to them about the concert. I am raving a bit, saying it was 'f**king sh*te!'. Gee has a small bird cage next to his desk (which is by a large window). At first there is no bird then a yellow budgie sort of materialises, slowly taking shape – I coo enthusiastically-

Am I out front of the office, or is this the gig, the band spread out, each member atop their own circular podium? Folk chatting/overhearing as I still seem to be raging about how terrible Oasis were/are. I'm not concerned if I offend anyone-

I am now out in the street talking to my oldest friend Aye Dubya and his pal (early 50's, long-ish 'James May' hair and a wide, friendly face). Aye is there, but somehow not. I talk about leaving the Oasis concert early, how I stayed for 'Shakermaker' (my favourite.... in the dreamescape) and that the rest was sh*t. I mention that the performance of 'Hindu Times', this being the particular look that Liam Gallagher is/was sporting, was actually okay too. I say that the three(?) guitars all at once does nothing for me. I wonder what Dylan Carson (of the Seattle band Earth and who lives, in the dreamescape, in Edinburgh) is up to tonight. I can't recall the venue, some mid-size...? I ask Aye and his pal to check on their phones – mad in head yes! Bar!-

Car boot golf clubs. A second car rolls and crashes into a wall. We talk more, turning away and it rolls down the hill more. It's going to squash some children. Scary!-

Sootawf

I am in a sort of kebab house formed of several interconnected spaces, all somewhat plain and drab, simple painted concrete wall finish everywhere and double door sized openings in between. I immediately discount one outlet as being 'Polish crap' before moving on through to another space. (Is the shop called 'Mason Cross' or 'MA' for short?)-

The floor here, a rubbery black vinyl, is covered in patches/splotches of 'surface matter' that could be excrement but could just as well be mistaken for kebab meat – I say as much to my black companion and he laughs. Less amused is the wild, skinny Thai fellow (with a shock of jet black shaggy hair, his neat features clustered into a small but expressive face centred in his overlarge head). He threatens me with a tiny scalpel blade that he has pinched between thumb and forefinger. He orders me to leave the ante-room now! He's replaced by a much heavier looking fellow who sports rubbery, Grecian features. He too threatens me with a scalpel before, in a lightning fast movement, he launches a machete at me that he had concealed in his belt. The blade misses me and lodges in the wall. Looking at the sturdy fellow again it seems he was too fast for his own good – he has (somehow managed to) cleanly cut his right arm off just above the elbow in his act of throwing. The dreamescape cuts to a close-up of his face as my (admittedly quite small) fists clatter off it in slow motion, first from one side then the other-

Sinnet

I am attending some sort of celebrity/ex-pro tennis match being held in a large, multi-floor venue (which at times feels like a construct of stacked scaffold structures, somewhat insubstantial, wrapped in blue tarpaulin material. The stairwell, by contrast, feels like part of a solid old building being finished in cold concrete with flaking paintwork – almost like some derelict 1970's housing block-

The event is organised by my old architecture employers and at times I see one of the directors Gee Haitch – he is wearing an unusual white suit with splashes of coloured pattern and eyes me through the attending crowds. I am accompanied by an ill-defined friend/partner and am there to (reluctantly) perform some sort of task, the pair of us making our way (as instructed?) from the top(?) of the arena down through the uncomfortable throngs of people, carefully negotiating the distinctly insecure stair passages. As we near the bottom things are descending into chaos. Punk-ish schoolboys – for something now suggests it is more that sort of mob – begin, at first playfully, to spit, scramble and (play) fight in the (now) building-esque stairwell, and I am lucky enough to skip through a closing door just as the young bodies really let rip, forking into a gleeful mass of violence-

As I scramble round the door I see what I am convinced is a photo of Ewan McGregor as a grinning young boy, replete with a mop of 'helmet hair'. The photo, taped to the (glass of the) access door, is torn across the top left hand corner. This seems a particular shame to me as I'm thinking about how few photos there are of him when he was younger-

By the next (and final?) drop to the ground level the genial party mood, in spite of my misgivings, has returned – things feel sprightly and youthful (in a young women mixed with cocktails kind of way). Unfortunately the route to the main arena is actually some sort of flume/water slide affair into which I accidentally tumble and fall – it's an opening in the floor – and before I realise my mistake I am trapped, crushed from above by some sort of black inflatable object, the force of several eager, boisterous people behind it. Needless to say that all my shouting and scrambling, all my efforts to climb back up and out, go unheeded-

At the very bottom the mood has changed again (and abruptly). It is now raining and the scene has a distinctly washed out feel. The centre court, partly obscured by tarpaulin uprights, is deserted, the few people lingering nearby are morose and depressed. My companion immediately collapses onto a sun lounger to our right (exactly where I had expected our tennis stars of yesteryear to be) and sprawls (asleep?) in the fine rain. I would do the same only the lounger to my left, located towards the opposing side of the court, is already similarly occupied. Do I sense Gee Haitch expects me to step out into the drab, foreboding centre court and entertain everyone? I certainly seem to be waiting in the wings – thinking maybe my older friend from the comic scene Jay EmmCeeEss will step up to the plate? - and kick at the black rubber matting underfoot as I contemplate my next move-