Khussg

I am in some large, mostly empty, cinema-cum-theatre. It feels distinctly old fashioned. I am hoping to see a documentary (on the film Chungking Express). I keep moving from theatre to theatre looking for both an audience and a screening. Noticing posters for (a documentary on?) Sunset Boulevard I somehow keep getting muddled up, frustrated that I am constantly now asking ushers for that film and not my original choice -

I am now in a vast, busy auditorium and an American football is being thrown by the crowd, itself moving with some sort of momentum towards the back of the room. Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai is there (of course!) and, in the few catches and passes that I complete, I am anxious that I impress him -

Wodolfwai

It seems that the musician Stuart Braithwaite has invited me to join his band Mogwai. Although the audition process (somewhat confusingly) involves wading into the water – we seem to be at some sort of coastal marina - and swimming out. I experience panic knowing I cannot touch the seabed. As we both tread water – the scene is now, oddly enough, reminiscent of the band Slint's Spiderland album cover - I am asking about what happens next. Stuart simply encourages me (between gulping for breath)-

Myself and my little brother want to go to see the film Zorro only it's half past 5 – too late! We take the car, my brother speeding as I sit, uncomfortable and worried, in an ill-fitted and decidedly shaky (and yet robustly manufactured) blue and black fabric covered baby seat. My brother pulls out of Bankhouse Avenue in Largs and on to the Irvine Road, nosing the car around a white van and trailer that is emerging from nearby John Street. At another junction he narrowly skirts around the front of a police van that is also hoping to turn-

We are walking/rushing (to the Pencil monument in Largs?) along a shore path that is elevated back and way from the sea by several metres. At a large inlet we can see an orange and black speedboat beached on the rocks (but shaking as if in open water). Dolph Lundgren and Jean Claude Van Damme, both sporting similarly orange and black swimsuits, are filming a movie. They both look old, with long, straggly hair, as I switch to the camera's POV, their lined, weary faces creased as they shout and gnash their teeth theatrically. Then, to my dismay, they spot my brother and I and start to shout and gesticulate, indignant that we are not so interested in two such "mega stars". They even, in a wide shot of this entire beach scene, fire a machine gun at us, the bullet's trajectories tracing bright streaks as they zip towards us, banging and flashing spectacularly. But we are Scottish (like Mogwai!) and we are "too metal!". Now this they understand and they leave us alone, going back to their filming-

I am now with my friend Jay Emm on the path and he finds my barking of "too metal!" really funny. He says, adopting a creaky granny's voice, "bing bong bing bong bong bong bing metal!"-

Charwai

I am in a bar with my friend Dee Bee. He is recounting an experience he had there and (being the dreamescape) it then seems to bleed into realtime, the recollections merging with the present, the events described unfolding before my eyes (almost as if I am witnessing/near-interacting directly – given time it all mergews into one). The bar has a glazed wall to the front and is spread over three levels each up a flight of timber central stairs and stepped back from the other, a timber handrail running alongways and tables and chairs grouped to either side. The timber is unfinished throughout and the bar has a pleasantly low-key, rustic and relaxed feel, the chatting people often reduced to dark shapes against the soft natural light. Dee Bee is staking out the (Charlatans) singer Tim Burgess – Tim, in his Phoenix '95 era, is animated, drinking and cajoling with a couple of male friends – hoping that he can (gently) collar him at some point and play a tune (he has been carefully planning out) on the small organ that lives on the highest level. “It's now or never...” and so Dee Bee ambles from where we are seated, approaching Tim, who is standing chatting to the left of the stairs that lead to the third level and- 

Success! We are now on the third level. Dee Bee sits on Tim's left hand side at the small (timber cased, with a high back like an upright piano) organ. They are jamming out The Charlatans track 'Weirdo', with Tim following the song's chords with single fingers while a crouched Dee Bee solos intensely on the high notes, the fingers of his right hand working away feverishly to produce a rolling, rapid riff. Dee Bee finishes on a sustained high note and I joke to (The Charlatans guitarist) Mark Collins, who has been lounging impassively next to me all this time, that it must be the 'Tinnitus Remix'. He and I laugh at this- 

I am now sitting at a table to the right of the stairs up from the first to second level. Myself, Dee Bee, Mogwai guitarist Stuart Braithwaite and A.N. Other are chatting and drinking. Dee Bee excuses himself (and A.N. gently fades out of the dreamescape) and Stuart and I continue talking. Stuart's face is all wobbly around the edges, the dreamescape applying a drunken visual effect to match his loose, boozy patter. Stuart asks me what age I am and I say I'm 43. It turns out he's actually 42(?) and, surprised, we joke about how I'm obviously ahead of the curve! I ask him what he studied at University (wondering if we might have by chance met back then) and he says Psychology. He remarks he studied for a year in Ireland then he went off to Argentina for a year (the details of which are a bit 'hazy')... Dee Bee is getting ready to leave for his train back to Edinburgh and I am torn between offering to buy Stuart a drink and heading off myself. I check the time and it is 10:12, much earlier than I thought. I decide to stay with Stuart and Dee Bee gives me quite the forlorn backward glance as he troops off down the stairs to leave. (I am quite vexed by this decision at the time.)- 

I am now out walking in a sort of docklands area with Stuart. He drops a ping pong ball, with a small black pen mark on it. I scramble to retrieve it from under a concrete bench, saying about how he should do something similar at Mogwai gigs. He then tells me about the maddest thing he (and a pal) ever did at Art School- 

Cut to – swimming in the water. Stuart and his pal are paddling, swigging from bottles of beer as they do so. They are barely keeping their heads above water and it laps over my dreamescape 'camera POV'. I am then standing at the edge of the pier/dock, looking down on Stuart as he awkwardly shimmies his way up the stone wall, settling his elbows then drawing up his legs. He says that this is a technique called “…?”, a statement immediately echoed by my (suddenly appeared) little brother-

Liccono

I am with (the late) The Charlatans keyboard player Rob Collins. He's casually dressed, as per their Weirdo promo photos, with denims, a t-shirt and a bomber jacket on top. His hair is long-ish, cut in around his neck. We are talking about him being the 'Hammond King' and somehow we make a jump to/joke of the 'Hammond Queen'. He quips that whichever of these it is that it's always “cold wars” (and I remember thinking is that because the organ keys are cold to the touch?). We are walking near a bungalow, similar to the one I grew up in, and I can just make out huge The Charlatans posters on the internal walls - I can see them through the blinds over the large front windows - and I'm sure I heard something about an exhibition- 

I am with my big brother and Noel Gallagher. I am slagging Noel a little about Oasis as he starts to take off - we are in a sort of airlock/plane environment and he and my brother are securely belted in, Noel over to the left, my brother to the right, nearer myself. I am frightened as Noel (who seems to be in complete control without there being any evidence of actual, physical controls) really begins to tilt the plane(?), intentionally climbing to a high altitude. I am desperately grasping for supporting handles over by my brother, hanging on with one hand for dear life, terrified that Noel will opt to open the door to the plane and that I will be sucked out. I somehow manage to reach right across the compartment, my body at full stretch, to grip the support handle on Noel's side too, somewhat easing my fear of being ejected- 

We are now walking with Noel in Glasgow. I am mocking his brother Liam's new singing style, singing unintelligible lyrics down through my nose, breathing and rushing as he does these days. I try this again, with actual lyrics, with considerably less (amusing) success. I talk to Noel about Mogwai, saying that 2(?) of the members own a pub in Berlin, one owns a vegan cafe in the Southside of Glasgow and that their guitarist Stuart Braithwaite does a lot of community work there too. Noel seems non-committal as to whether he has met or even likes them-

Our route takes us to some historic buildings of considerable architectural beauty, great ornate structures with exceptional decorative stonework, street archways and features. There are several of these constructs and we walk between them in quiet wonder. Noel approaches a very fancy set of double doors, doors finished in a swirling timber veneer with wrought metal handles. I make a joke about him probably being important enough to get them to open and indeed he is. He reappears with a bundle of mail which, as it happens, seems to be addressed to the art Studio where I used to work. Noel sifts through the mail, passing me several envelopes (addressed to Brian Miller?) that he quickly dismisses as 'gas bills'. The envelopes, evidently regarding some business, are so aged they have almost become opaque, the slip of paper visible within. There is also a letter for Kay Emm in the pile-

Hruddle

At some sort of function with Kay Emm. Cold white environment, all rounded surfaces and abuzz with conversation. I am chatting to Stuart Braithwaite from Mogwai. He is smartly dressed and looks exactly as per the Every Country's Sun online 'making of' videos. I leave-

Suddenly I am wiping my bottom, two dirty great streaked wipes (the paper viewed in grotesque close up). From behind me I hear, "maybe you should pull the curtain when you wipe your bottom..." I'm surprised to see Stuart grabbing a beer from a fridge, the line of the curtain over to my left. I casually say I could just use the curtain to wipe my bottom and he says I'd better not!-

Something that seems to be a thread throughout this dreamescape is about (audience/attendance) numbers of 1000 - 3000 - 5000 people, 1000 being poor with 5000 being the most desirable and profitable(?). This feels quite critical and the thought of these figures continually bothers me. See you around, says Stuart when he comes up to me and I hear he is leaving. I give him a friendly response-

Kay Emm and I seem to be in a great labyrinth of a theatre. It has a plush red carpet and off-white walls throughout. I meet two guys and explain what I am doing(?) but at this point I only have an old print of my Burning Orphanage comedy script, with its plastic spine and biro amendments by myself. I feel it should be something else and the lack of this document confuses me and I stutter... What I should have in my possession relates to some sort of quiz/task that Kay Emm and I are appaently undertaking(?). I almost get in a fight or sense impending violence with one of the guys. We are walking outside and I am feeling tense, quite prepared to fight him, and he seems to feel the same towards me. I am not sure of the other guy either. See spray painted letters of "S" and "D", gold on a black timber background when we are walking. These relate somehow to the tasks we're undertaking. Kay Emm and I supposed to be collecting (proper versions of) these gold letters hanging on the theatre walls inside? When I am back with her - no idea how much time has elapsed - I recall she wants to go back outside with me to see these letters, but I really don't want to, being wary of the threatening guy-

Drinking with Vee Dee and we have three shots in quick succession. Next I know we are both standing in intense pain with numerous holly leaves stuck and caught in our clothing. I work out we have run through a holly bush in a sudden blackout of complete drunkenness and that I have a branch of holly jammed in just above my groin. The holly bush sits high on a white rendered/painted wall and drapes over the top, the drinks table/outlet we must have been stumbling for beyond it. Where the branch is jammed into my belly is really painful and, like the many leaves caught in my jumper, I'm definitely aware it needs to be pulled out. Sort of see the burial point in my skin in close up, the skin folding in, the branch jutting neatly out-