Flavviw

I am on the fourth floor of some building searching for a vacant bathroom to change my clothes – I think I am looking to swap my pyjamas(?)for a vest top and light trouser bottoms that I clutch in my right hand. The clothes are made of fine brown paper (bag material) -

I decide to go down to the third floor and I enter a strange, cramped stairwell (that my mind tells me is half-way between floors). There's barely a landing – it's more of a slight concrete shelf – and down to my right an anxious man, all matted hair and nervous grin, is crouching down. He says something to me (I cannot recall), chuckling to himself as he does so -

The dreamescape reconfigures itself somewhat so that this small space now has a metal grill, finished in brown gloss paint, that divides the area. On the other side from myself and the crouching man are piles and piles of VHS video tapes and DVDs and stacked (by some means) against the surface of the grill (which I can see has quite large rectangular spacing) are countless ZX Spectrum games – I just know this for a fact! I decide, against the advice of my nervy companion, to squeeze under the grill to get to the other side. I am just thin enough and, after a slight scare when I looked to be stuck, I am now through -

Now Frank Skinner (thought it's actually Matt Lucas) begins a comedy stand-up show. Lucas' face is distorted and distended and he keeps wrapping a fabric chord around his (considerable) nose or chin -

Lisab

Fawlty Towers on television. Basil Fawlty plus Jesse/Hanna/Manna, the man/boy from the television show Breaking Bad. We are outside in some vast sunlit garden (after a 'too spicy' Gourmet Night episode-alike altercation inside?). A smartly dressed black man and his (pregnant?) wife arrive to tend the plants. How much are they paid, I think, $10 and hour, and why?-

As she goes off to buy some odd (nutty?) food she's craving at the end, after Basil has paid everyone - somehow keeping most of the money for himself (with no protest from Manna or the couple) – we see from behind Manna the focus of the dreamescape switch to the rooftop in the background. Here, following an earlier argument, a young man and woman emerge and shoot Manna (dead?). I have to write this down, I say, as the titles, in purple hue/Spanish on black, roll – no credit for John Cleese? - as I cannot believe what I just watched-

Nonnel

I am in some dreamescape underground walkway/tunnel. I am semi-stuck behind a delicate young woman who is dressed very chic with tremendously long streaky blonde hair. As she is on her phone (seemingly taking pointless selfies) she is meandering all over, making it awkward for me to squeeze past. When I see her – is she talking about 'some c*nt' - having finally passed I realise she is very pretty, with strong sharp features and the most beautiful eyes-

I am now in an underground chamber watching some show about (motion) comics on a widescreen television. It is presented by a comedian called Sean (who I do not normally like). He has curly hair, ruddy cheeks and circular John Lennon glasses and I am affected when he gets quite emotional with a James Cosmo-alike comic book artist. The James fellow, with a great bushy beard, beams a wide smile into the camera, his eyes filled with tears. (I imagine my artist friend Jay Dee is watching and similarly moved.) The end titles feature Batman (as drawn by the artist Scott Snyder) battling with a hoodlum in the back seat of a car-

https://alchetron.com

I go the wrong way along a tunnel, diverted by some maintenance works – do I see the comedian Frankie Boyle working away at a typewriter in an underground office, or do I just know that he does? I remember thinking I really should give him some Braw Books. I don't want to make two trips but have no books on me-

There is a weird elevated entrance down to some further network of tunnels. For some (unknown) reason I clamber up towards the ceiling, in part tangling and part suspending myself between service pipes and a chunky utility box. I am certainly on CCTV-

I am now outside at some sort of red metal dispenser box, scrolling slowly through the menu of items. There are four French teens, two boys and two girls, hovering impatiently at my back. One youth (who looks like Lazzaro) jumps ahead on the menu and selects a box of matches, also my choice. I call him "you French b*stard!" and clock him on the nose, knocking him on to the seat of his pants. I break into the dispenser box, quite sure a single box of matches remains. There's a bag inside the box and tearing it open I see that inside that looks to be a box of matches (only it is all covered in splashes of pure orange juice). It isn't matches after all but some long clear plastic box for lighting timbers(?). I then attempt to repair the box, trying to fit a new bag of items in beside a burst old rucksack-

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.)-

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)-

Zeekle

 

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

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

Whedge

I am lying in bed. The ill-defined shape of someone sitting at the edge is facing towards me, a dull shadow, quite motionless. This, I'm sure, is the former Stone Roses guitarist John Squire. We do not speak and I think about how I considered sending him the first Telemachus album (during his non-music period) in the hope that he'd either A – like it, or B – be inspired enough to pick up the guitar again. I marvel at the way the Stone Roses song 'She's The One' (?) is composed, the recording layered up for a powerful, rousing sound. Mixmaster Morris – Kira Kira?-

The second(?) figure is, after my taking a while to work it out, the comedian Steve Coogan. He sits with his back towards me, looking at me over his shoulder. He sports a long, greying hairstyle (Bill P. Sinner?) and (as he is naked) is fumbling for his testicles. I announce, "get yer bollocks off me bed!"-

Selce

I am looking at a UK Government form – the sort one would use to appeal against a benefit withdrawal or criminal injury compensation claim – that has been made out by one 'John Clees'. I stare at the name and make a joke – for THE John Cleese is with me – about "dropping an E". He finds this most amusing-

Flobbiq

I am in a vast, cavernous vessel, acutely aware that where I am standing is under the waterline. Great tunnels (for want of a better word) intersect, the walls all finished with tiles – they are a mix of white and another primary colour to help identify the route. Suddenly water is spilling into my environment and I rush around frantically in the hope of escaping the onrushing flood. I cannot however, and I stop dead (in every sense), preparing to be sandwiched between the twin deluges-

Under the water and struggling for breath I step outside of the dreamescape and watch James Bond (as played by Daniel Craig) and Valkyrie (from Thor as played by Tessa Thompson) swim up and then away. They are naked, their bodies entwined in a curiously coy but sexual manner, attempting to shield each other's genitals and yet subtly exposing themselves at the same time-

I am then sitting at a long table immediately facing the comedian Frankie Boyle, the comic artist Frank Quitely (and a baby?). I start to tell Frankie that I had a dream about him and he seems to be quite interested. I am suddenly interrupted by a rousing chant of "Stuart! Stuart!" I'm not really clued in to what is going on and neither am I that interested, being more concerned about what the neighbours will think of all the noise and whether they'll be disturbed. I turn to see a row of giant individual eyes inset into a brown wall, with people sitting in silhouette approximately in the space between each one. Are these great eyes the so-called Stuart? Does the crying baby punch a huge eye?-

Embtolm

https://bookpalace.com/acatalog/Illustrators-Quarterly.html

I am at an exhibition. A small, neat man with glasses travels from left to right, crossing the room, passing several freestanding square display cases. He looks at me over the top of his glasses and remarks, “Ron Embleton, oh yes!” I am thinking Ron is 84(?) and that I have just cut his pages from my 1954 BEANO annual (with Dennis and Gnasher on the cover)-

aquariva.co.uk/

I am with my friend Tee Cee, two young British Asian boys (aged 8-ish) and two teenage boys (who I know are drummers). We are taking a Virgin branded helicopter down to Birmingham, a 2 hour trip, to visit Ron Embleton. The helicopter takes off along the street. I am belted in as it is my first time ever riding in a helicopter. The POV is from behind the pilot looking straight ahead. I am surprised how low we are flying, that the rotor blades are not clipping the trees to the side or snagging telephone wires and so on. It makes for a tense journey. The helicopter is very spacious inside and there is a polite hostess, who is very much like Kenny Everett's sidekick Cleo Rocos. It's very much like an old fashioned, classic hotel with ornately (and somewhat garish) carpets and stylish timber furniture. Is fellow cartoonist Kay Ess here too? The hostess lies (clothed!) on a large bed. All of us sit around and chat-

We arrive and land in Birmingham and walk to Ron's house. The two drummers, after some deliberation, decide to come along as there's enough time before their rehearsal/gig. (The dreamescape) Ron is old and balding (and quite stoned!). He takes something of a shine to me and often addresses me direct (with something of a knowing tone). At one point he says to me, in mock confidentiality, that Tee has never met a drug addict before... before quickly quipping that it's just the neighbours-

https://www.garnelenhaus.com

Everything Ron says is quite funny and good-natured but also something of an in-joke with his (present) daughter. At one point he tumbles about on the couch, rolling onto the floor, having bags of fun. Kay Ess starts to doze and – oh no! - there's a giant Allan Key suspended above his head! The living room we are in ajoins the kitchen and the rest of Ron's family, who all seem to be sleepy blondes with dazed, slightly amused expressions sit there. Wife? My phone clock displays '13:30' but it's actually '16:30'... but it's actually '18:00' on the dot! Time to go home. Ron gives Tee Cee a painting before we leave-

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-

Tonstlipp

I take a single, small headphone speaker and put it in my mouth and, in spite of the expectation of crunching on lots of electronic components, I find eating it to be much the same as munching on a Skittle-

I am rehearsing (out loud) Monty Python's 'Dead Parrot Sketch', lingering over the opening lines, a variation (incorrect, of course) on John Cleese beginning with “Good afternoon” and Michael Palin countering with an amiable “Good morning”, the comedy (somehow) taking off from there. I have a landscape format poster showing a black ink reproduction of a photograph on a deep blue background, the names “Cleese” and “Palin” in the top corners, left and right respectively, a thick black band running across the bottom. I am practically rehearsing into this artifact. I seem to be in a sort of glazed shopfront and I watch a lady walk past on the other side of the road quickly followed by a young Michael Palin who scuttles after her (his wife?) in the semi-darkness. I am disappointed to see him pass by as I continue with my theatrical run-through, wishing he had noticed/heard me. I am delighted when he does indeed come over only a few moments later, adopting an impoverished pose outside the shop, the poster propped at his back. He is soon joined by Eric Idle – does the poster change to “Cleese” and “Idle”? - and the pair of them sit dejected, hunched there on the pavement. I make some joke about “will perform the Parrot Sketch for food” which we all find very amusing-

I have decided I must take a photo of the poster (complete with an overlay of white writing) to send to my friend Ayy Ess – I have to attest to the fact that I am with Palin and Idle. Unfortunately I cannot get sufficient light to do this and I adopt a strange, knock-kneed, zombie-esque shamble as I walk over to the tall rear window. I manage to avoid the numerous empty plastic bottles, each with a baby bottle (sterilising?) inside, but cannot help but bump into two tall, hollow, metal canisters, sending them clattering to the floor. Michael Palin suddenly beats me to the far wall and draws up the roller blind at the large window, flooding the space with light-

Turvat

I have been out working (outside?) with Daniel (from the cult Icelandic situation comedy Naeturvaktin) and a crew of people. I feel suspicious of them, and am somewhat paranoid that they are out to get me and am thus wary of the following day - Daniel has stated it will be long and that I should bring "two beers" with me. As such I find myself in a supermarket (with fellow sitcom character Olafur?) and we are wandering around the tightly packed shelves looking for specific stuff. I am quite keen that I do not bump into anyone from the work crew, my sense of paranoia (of them making fun of me or disliking me) at an extreme. I am looking for a 4-pack of Milky Bar yoghurt desserts. I think I have found some - I am being directed in my hunt by what seems a mash of Olafur and Kay Haitch, my young nephew - but these are in fact individual pots. I am inspecting what certainly seems to be some variant of a Milky Bar product when I realise that I am in amongst the 'Stock Pots' section, and that all the surrounding items contain a thick brown liquid and these are evidently for stewing-

Filzocosie

I am watching an episode of the American sit-com Seinfeld. The character George Costanza, in a light shirt and braces, is sitting at a table/desk facing the 'camera'. To his left sits (someone who I instinctively know is the actress) Elizabeth Perkins, the back of her curly haired head about 2/3 in shot and in slightly soft focus, being near to the lens-

I am joining the action mid-sentence - something of a hangover from the previous (lost) dream about my little brother staying in my old flat? - and George exclaims, "-and I'm going to f*cking lose my first f*cking job!". Elizabeth scolds him for swearing like this. There is a strange, barely detectable jump cut here, and I seem aware that I am now looking at the back of Jerry Seinfeld's head. There seems to be another jump cut, close in - Seinfeld is now weeping and clutches at (what I eventually realise is) George's exposed left breast-

George is now topless, with fabric epaulette's on his shoulders, and Jerry, thoroughly milking the comic moment, proceeds to pull on his breast like a towel, stretching out lengths of it as he dries his eyes/comforts himself. (I realise the epaulettes are likely present to allow for the FX of drawing out this long, fake breast.) At one point a length of the rubbery flesh appears spattered with tomato sauce and cheese, the audience groaning in mock disgust. (I am quite sure as this scene unfolds that it is to infer that George has stored a slice of pizza under there, also acknowledging that it's the wrong side up for that too, but...) Then a further jump cut as Seinfeld is concerned with the right epaulette which, fixed at the side of George's neck seems to be scratching at his skin on the right, arching back and forth as it does so, some small black tab scraping at the skin and threatening to infect him with-

Weleest

I am with my brother-in-law, Dubya Haitch, and another man and we are drinking shots of some sort of strong misty grey alcohol from a pouring jug. We are sitting outside in a large l-shaped garden. The square timber house that occupies the rest of the plot is split between (I think) myself and another family. Dubya Haitch and the other man leave. I pour a huge glass of the alcohol and then, thinking better of it, pour it back from my tumbler into the jug. I'm worried about getting (more) drunk- 

I am round the other side of the garden, that which could be considered as belonging to my house neighbours. Around the perimeter of the house there are 2 or 3 steps down from a surrounding porch to the garden. My neighbours, an older man and women dressed in a kind of Star Wars shanty style, have opened up the wall of their house, shifting large timber panels here and there, forming a sort of stall that looks onto the garden. 2 border collie dogs run from within and lark around. A child – there are several bustling about – has shaped the words “poor person's doorbell” from curved wood shavings. It takes me a little time to puzzle this out, and there are perhaps more words to the left, but I cannot understand them, and assume it's spare shavings- 

I am sitting with the comedian Stewart Lee in this side of the garden and he is (much to my surprise) capably strumming a rather nice looping refrain on an acoustic guitar. He seems to be singing the lyrics “it rains” and we chat for a bit. I am happy that my joke, referencing “poor person's doorbell”, of “on a rich man's porch” makes him laugh. He walks over to the other side of the garden, joining the rest of the gathered family and, in spite of my concern that he'll be too oblique and alternative for them, seems to fit in perfectly, introducing himself and continuing his strummed song, singing “Oh, it rains!” to a delighted baby. He keeps sweetly singing this tune as a young boy and myself puzzle over how ripe the apples on our tree are. It seems as if one side is ready to eat, the apples fat and red, whereas on the other side they are smaller, grey and faded (yet somehow more natural looking). Kay Emm is there as we eat apples. I wish that Dubya Haitch had not left-

Barcoh

The comedian Sacha Baron Cohen lies on his back on table, a sheet draped over him. His hair is short and flecked with grey and he has greying stubble on his chin and cheeks. (There is something Freddie Mercury-ish about him.) I seem to be standing on the left, inhabiting that body and experience, and yet I sense another version of me also stands to my right. It's as if, knowing his comedic background, I am intentionally trolling him with my hands, and I keep placing them in near-inappropriate places to gauge his (often amused) reaction - as he himself (knowingly) knows what I am up to. I place my left hand tenderly on his (stubbly) upper neck. Next I lift the sheet and press the palm of my hand to the side of his stomach, checking on his response- 

I am at my old architectural work. It's lunchtime and a few of us, including Gee Dee are standing outside in a gently sloping alley of sorts, one with occasional stepped sections to help maintain the gentle incline. The surface is a rough concrete and there's another alley that goes off to our left. The sides of this environment are finished in pale, smooth render and it feels like we are having a drink, perhaps a pint of beer. I ask Gee Dee where the firm's other office is, hoping to go there and finish some necessary detailing that afternoon. He says he'll show me and we walk for only a few minutes before we come to it. It has very tall windows to the street, finished with a metal trim several inches above the ground, and there's a bank of several computers within, their screens facing and clearly visible to us. Though the screens are all switched on no one looks to be working there. We try to get in and are admitted by a smartly dressed young-ish British Asian man. He has a round head, his hair sparse on top and his skin is smooth, shiny and youthful. We go into the abandoned computer room – do I fleetingly pass Jay Cee, another former work colleague in the tightly angled corridor? - and discuss what I am hoping to do. This sees me taken through the back to another room where we stop in front of a single monitor. Seeing the complex display I explain that it's not set up for what I want to do, that the programme here is of no use, and that I'd rather use one of the earlier machines. Time is disappearing and I know it is already 4:15. People are talking back and forth, Kay Emm talking to Enn Arr. I am scrabbling in at the side of the metal trim, jamming books into my bag, worried about how I will complete my work-

Guffit

The Beta Band and they are involved in some sort of comedy skit, talking in exaggerated English tones. A news announcer then states that Steve Mason and Alan Lamb(?) of the band will both climb Mount Everest. The skit, which is in black and white, then changes to colour and is overlayed first by a caption saying "Belgium" then by another that says "Colourized, 30 seconds later.". (I'm amused by the Monty Python-esque comic touch they display here.)-

We're on a gentle hillside looking up to the four members of band, with long grass and a pleasing, warm autumnal quality to the early evening light. Close up it looks like Mark Gatiss of The League of Gentlemen is now playing the role of John Maclean. He starts talking to a figure who appears from further up the hill. This character is also played by Mark Gatiss. I am quite sure their confused exchange is along the lines of, “Are you queer?”, with “Are you queer?” in response. As more men appear from uphill, one of whom is a comically trussed up Reece Shearsmith, everyone proceeds to ask over and over, “What am I doing here?”-

Dream Grabzzz....

I am talking to the guitarist John Squire and he categorically states that there will be no new Stone Roses material-

I have taken it upon myself to join my friend Haitch EmKay on his holiday in Croatia – seems it's a very last minute decision on my part. We are outside the hotel, on a large external balcony (that ought to be) in the sunshine. Except it is snowing. I can see the snow gathering on a large glass canopy that slopes from the building's edge to the ground. I remark to Haitch that he'll not be putting photographs of this on Facebook-

I am on a bus, travelling with my old friend Cee Cee. He's seated somewhere up the from and is behaving in a very (typical) boorish manner, and keeps pointing me out to the other passengers. I have pulled the hood of my jacket up and over the back of my head to hide my face. An Irish girl, talking loudly, walks down the aisle, mentioning me-

I am on the floor of a room, jostling with a huge spider which dodges me at the other side of some kitchen table furniture-

I am with my friends Dee Bee and Dee Arr. There is a powder in a plastic tub with a small flip-top lid inset into the surface. This contains “suicide powder” (that I cannot help but think of as “suicide paste”-

Critic (Dee Pee of The List magazine?) who is able, by using a system of concise and pointed trolling to then reduce the (dreamescape) gone-to-seed comedian Alan Davies – who here has lanky, greasy hair and is considerably overweight – to near tears by gently accosting him backstage(?) and uttering a single, hushed word-

Zellzollo

King Tuts Wah Wah Hut, Glasgow. Entered and greeted by a girl, white t-shirt, shaggy short hair, who took my ticket. Suddenly aware the floor was constructed of elaborate bright lights indicating pathways through the crowd which, to my disappointment, was both huge and seated. It seemed King Tuts was only a "front", and had been landfilled into a vast amphitheatre-

On entry the place was dark, the elaborate lighting suggesting at the size of the enclosure as it streaked here and there, but currently it was daylit, the ground dry, grassy, the seating formed from packed earth built up against a large building to the rear, stopping at the underside of the boarded-up top floor windows. The crowd was very large, stretching this way and that, and justifiably heaving with anticipation-

As I made my way to the front I saw the seating stopped to form a small mosh-pit, an enclosure hemmed in by the amps to the side and ceasing before the tiny stage. I remember thinking not so many people had bothered to turn up just after doors opening (7.30) last time! I ended up sitting as close to the stage as I could, resting my head on a pre-fabricated barrier, akin to the plastic efforts used for roadworks demarkation crossed with a canvas camping chair. This gave me a good view, considering my being short-sighted and having forgotten my glasses-

Peter Hayes of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club arrived on stage shortly thereafter. The mosh-pit had disappeared by this time, and there seemed to be a surplus of stage hands and crew; two big 'dudes' appeared to be acting as both security and the synth player/drummer. Two girls in casual leather with sharp bobs sat on the grass and lamely sang backing (?) as and when required. Peter played the first song on acoustic guitar, but the singing wasn't up to much, the crowd were bored and listless and the picking was more akin to him tuning up. Towards the conclusion of this song I was among a group of people who were now virtually on the stage in what had become a small, dark, intimate setting. As Peter, now visibly bored or stoned himself, finished up the song he sat his guitar face-up on his lap, inviting – to my annoyance – some guy to take over his right-hand duties, allowing him to perform some sort of slide guitar action he had hitherto been mimicking-

At the end of this Peter mumbled that his bandmate Robert Levon Been was playing a song "around the corner", prompting a modest rush to witness this. As I made my way over I became aware that the stage was in fact immense, and that Peter and Robert had chosen to play at opposite corners, preferring cramped conditions and thereby leaving the majority of the (centre) stage curtained off for the moment when the two presumably united- 

When I arrived Robert seemed to be playing directly into the back of a tent pitched in a field, and not facing his supporters. He looked very skinny, in his loose white t-shirt, and had a long, very fine wispy beard on his chin. His song was also inaudible and the gathering crowd seemed to impede his playing even more. I met an old school friend, Pee Dee at this point, and struggled to hear the music over his constant mantra of "f*cking Wednesday", which I deduced my friend Kay Cee had organised as some sort of post-university studies celebration. This continued for the duration of Robert's song-

Returning to my seat I saw a band – of sorts – had taken to Peter's stage. Though, as he indicated, the main players did not seem to have much of a role, deferring to other, generic backing musicians. As they later played a rendition of what sounded like 'Spread Your Love' I went to the toilet, recognising UK underground comics artist Richard Cowdry on the way. The toilets were situated in a long wood-panelled corridor, each w.c. Half-sunk into the wall, a door you could not hope to close flapping hopelessly. I urinated carelessly into what was a very small and awkwardly angled toilet, keenly aware that I did not fancy being caught in the act. As such, I directed my magenta coloured, lumpen piss all over the toilet bowl and surrounding boxing and shelving. I quickly mopped up this mess, realising I must by now be missing the second song-

As I ran back to the stage I passed the comedian Lee Evans, who was using a toilet in the corridor, and I congratulated him on his support act(?), asking him how much of BRMC I'd missed. He noted me but did not reply, and as I continued on my way I could hear what I suspected was the violent snorting of cocaine- 

On my return I met my friend Dee who told me I hadn't missed much. A song called 'Tenerife' had ended in the band fighting, and another song, that they were just finishing up. This took the form of less than interesting feedback, evidenced by the crowd already heading home and murmurings of displeasure at the 7 song set. They played one final number to the exiting droves and I remember thinking of the 2 hour or more set they treated us to on their last visit-

Stromtle

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Square object about an inch thick made of either cake, foam or even formed from thick cream(?). It had the talking face of the American comedian Jerry Seinfeld inset in the surface. It was some sort of party and there was lots of white wine about. The morning after I had to do something-