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-

Zarple

I am with my good comic artist friends John Miller and Ay Ess. They have both produced wonderful (and wonderfully different) new comic strips. John is working in a strange but beautiful stripped-back pencil style, fluid and rounded. I am puzzled by how unlike his usual work it is. On the other hand Ay has produced a slick, realistic piece – I'm looking at a lovely three quarters splash (page) of a woman with such delicate linework and lovely, sympathetic feathering inks that give it/her superb shape and depth. I'm so happy, if a little jealous (and crushed) that they've both upped their respective games-

On closer inspection John's work becomes almost like a slide, an immersive, layered experience that I am almost inside, a strange, fuzzy, black and white film-esque image that gently shifts as I explore it, looking around within it with my eyes-

Velkin

I am getting into a 'black cab' taxi with a young woman. She is tall, refined, her hair cropped short to the back and sides, the fringe long and styled in a neat parting. I am quite anxious when we are seated as I obviously like her and there is a definite sense of anticipation. The reason for our journey together is something to do with seeing (about) my underground cartoonist friend John G. Miller. As it is we are not able to leave just yet for I tell her to ask the driver to wait while I go back (upstairs?) to do or sort something. This muddled process takes much longer that I expected - though I don't recall the actual task as much as the stress of searching and rushing - and by the time I return the black cab has gone. In its place the young woman is now sitting in the back seat of her parents brown hatchback car. She tells me the driver of the taxi left after growing impatient - it's been that long - and her parents are hardly exuding a sense of patience towards me. She tells me to put my stuff in the boot of the car and however many times I try - it is of an American-ish design, comprising a lower 'flap' that closes upwards to be locked in place by a 'lid' that shuts down over it, holding it in place. The components feel like they are made of cardboard and seem flimsy and insecure. It simply will not catch and each time I'm sure it has latched the lid drifts upwards and the flap flops down. After my third or fourth attempt the young woman's father unbuckles his belt and, frustrated, come out to assist me- 

We are chasing a car towards the block of flats where I used to live. The vehicle we are pursing turns into the access to the parking that divides the two buildings in the development. The vehicle is trapped as there is a car stopped ahead of it and another quickly races in to the rear, blocking any chance of escape. I get out of the car I am in - not the same as the above - and dash over. The car I believed to be trapped seems to have completely vanished, although the search for the occupants continues, with several people looking over by the River Kelvin (as the development backs on to it). Instead of the brush and bushes I expected to see beyond the chain link fence on the steep banks down to the river there is instead a (slippery looking) set of prefabricated concrete steps that descend into the murky water. I scale the chickenwire fence and negotiate the steps and here I spot the couple (presumably from the car) both doing the breaststroke, swimming and splashing in the water the man to the front, a woman trailing. They are heading upstream towards the (relative) cover of the looming, heavy stone roadbridge to my right. I clear my throat and, after some careful consideration - am I with a woman? - I spit at the man in the water. He looks very much as former Creation Records boss Alan McGee does now, the round bald head and puckered features - he's even wearing shades! The globule of spit just goes over his head, plopping into the water ahead of him (at this point he is looking towards the woman swimmer). He turns towards me and, paddling to stay afloat, exclaims something like, "spat at by an Alan McGee lookalike!"- 

A small timber room is being prepared for a wedding party. It is accessed via a short corridor formed as the gents toilet is to the left and the ladies toilet to the right, a set of double doors (open at this time) spanning the gap. I'm puzzled to see that some sort of timber construct has been built that prevents the toilets from being accessed from the room side - one has to go out the doors and round to visit the single cubicle. The room itself is small and has no furniture as yet - I can recall wondering how on earth they will host a party here (as well as noting a few decidedly lonely looking white balloons dotted about the place)- 

There is some sort of flat/communal housewarming taking place. I think this is in the same building as the wedding room, but events are jumbled. Am I desperately packing for the same wedding? I don't seem to have witnessed the actual event but (all the same) I can clearly recall that one man casually stabbed another in the side- 

It is a fresh evening and I am waiting in a hospital car park, the light from the lobby illuminating the dark parking forecourt. A woman (one of the other neighbours?) drives up in her car. Evidently it is visiting hours and she says to me, "what will we talk about?". (Thinking of the stabbing) I say, "Oh, I'm sure you've plenty of things to talk about!"- 

I am back at the flats and am strolling along the access corridor. I keep snagging the top of my head on the (surprising amount of) short plastic string clotheslines that are strung across the space (at 30-50cm intervals)-

Zzuntub

In a concrete built environment, all very solid, angular and drained of colour. I am at the head of a group, the group itself more or less being lead by my friend Ayy Jay Ess as I power out in front in an angry and unsettled strop. This is because I have taken umbrage at Ayy Jay Ess for directing the group's attention to copycat John Miller graffiti. It's obviously fake but Ayy Jay Ess still enjoys enthusing about John Miller's genius to the attentive audience while I, for some reason, (inwardly) object to this-

We reach a set of steps, cut into the harsh, solid surroundings, that lead up to a University building. I have purposely ignored some graffiti on the wall prior to this but make my way, bothered, back down the steps to inspect what all the/Ayy Jayy Ess's fuss is about, dismissing the (admittedly quite good) postering – 'WAH!' or John's cat character Zooty? - and sloganeering immediately (but staying longer to study and admire it anyway)-

I am in some enormous dimly lit lecture theatre that slopes sharply down to the stage. I am with a black guy – cropped hair, thick NHS glasses, stubble – and he and I converse as we make our way to our seating. The chairs are much older than they first appeared, and the seating is quite cramped, covered in worn fabric of faded reds and blues. There is no aisle to speak of and we simply (cautiously) step on the seats as we descend. The theatre becomes more and more visibly tatty (and steep!) as we do so – I am questioning the condition as much as the vertiginous design at this point – and yet I seem to be drifting, gently springing with minimum contact between (several) rows (at a time) as we near the stage-

Birble

Agent Johnny in full clown garb, one piece white suit complete with red bobbles up the front and a white pointy hat with a furred band. I was upset he was wearing black stockings, stitched in a ribbed pattern, and no shoes, so much so that I scolded him to the point he was quite ashamed. I broke off to cross the road to pursue a man who I knew was the greatest comic collector and knowledge in the world. I was crossing near or under a railway bridge, such as that in Partick. I approached him from the back as he paced in irregular steps, slightly hunched. His face, when I finally saw it, had an elaborately drawn Victorian-esque moustache on his cheeks and chin. This drawing, in blue ink, had been made by several children who he claimed were following and pestering him-

Next thing I was in a Housing Association office attempting to find Agent Johnny's new address as he was no longer at his old one. I had lost track of him while I encountered the famed comic collector. Despite sharing last names, as soon as the staff figured out I was not a relative they told me they could not help me. Exasperated, I left in disgust-