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'-

Ruzwa

https://culturedvultures.com/

In New York City? I am in a large, sparsely furnished apartment. It is bright and airy with a rustic timber floor. The Wu Tang Clan – in name only at this point, none of the members being familiar – are present. They inhabit a large IKEA square shelving-esque white unit. Each member is in his own individual square shelf, and any vacant ones contain a variety of lurid green snakes with white bellies and sneaky bulbous eyes. I am scared of these creatures, as I am supposed to be, as I approach the large unit. One snake eyes me suspiciously, gently shifting it's many coils. Are there dogs too?-

I am then confronting the whole Wu Tang group. They are massed in an intimidating throng in front of me, filling my entire field of vision, as I chuck them out of the/my(?) apartment. I keep wanting to berate them - the word 'belligerent' constantly in my mind (and on the tip of my tongue) – but refrain from doing so (out of 'respect'). We finish up outside where the unpleasant staring match finally dissipates and they head off in taxi cabs, leaving me alone (as requested) with the (actual) RZA-

He and I sit on some 'brownstone' front steps and attempt to trade mobile numbers. My phone, somehow reduced to a tiny, slender piece of fold-out kit, will not, to my absolute frustration, behave. I cannot even recall my own number nor seem capable of using the miniature keypad. I key in 07455 but want 07457 and cannot go back. To add to my annoyance some fans have begun congregating around RZA and I lash out, grabbing a Chinese fan and dragging him right up close to me-

I am now in a (Central?) park lined with green railings. I am being attacked by kung-fu experts. Suddenly the dreamescape pulls back, whizzing through the grass overlooking this scene to where Woody Harrelson is dispatching more henchmen in my direction-

Flizzm

I am examining ceiling tiles in some (office-esque) environment that I know is both owned and under construction by the Disney Corporation. The tiles are quite unusual and seem to consist of three tiles fixed together to form one element – this 'sandwich' effect is visible when one looks at the edge. I look at the black trim/supporting framework and am left with no doubt as it says 'manufactured by Disney' in imprinted letters-

I am then in some sort of wider lobby area (with Kay Emm?). Whoever it is accompanying me is looking at a colourful abstract painting on the wall – a 'Van Doonan'(?) no less! - and, in spite of my spotting his signature, she/they nearly tip it up and off the wall in trying to turn it around to verify. Only my quick reactions save the painting (and day)-

Ghallee

A couch that seems to be, somewhat puzzlingly, saturated with water. I am taking out the sodden seat cushions – they have a curious black fabric lattice make-up that I try to suss out. Alan McGee (of Creation Records fame) is there too. There is a square nub that fits in under the seat back of the couch, presumably the cushions fit back to this and are held in place-