Broeht

I am outdoors in a (Glasgow?) park and am about to attend a concert by The Orb. There is no one there due to the Covid-19 pandemic and the simple box stage, which looks distinctly amateurish, is empty. I walk down a gently grassy slope and I see a second stage where Alex Paterson, replete with bucket hat, stands behind a set of record decks. He is to my left hand side and to his right there's a woman – his dreamescape wife? - with thick rimmed NHS glasses and frizzy strawberry blonde hair. She is at a set of records decks of her own.-

Paterson spins records by The Orb while a (Black Lives Matter?) protest march is dispersing. Paterson peeks behind the stage (at what looks to me like nothing more than a bunch of town market stalls being dismantled) and, somewhat disgruntled in spite of his chilled demeanour, says, “the young people of today...” I suddenly realise now that Alex has emerged from behind his set of decks that he is not wearing any trousers or pants – his thick, stubby, rope-like p*nis points straight down, firmly sandwiched between his thighs. He has no pubic hair. He is puzzling to himself as some young white males, who exude the classic 'matey-with-underlying-threat' vibe pass by, Paterson evidently at something of a loss as to what he should play next-

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.)-

Tlipt

I am at an Orb concert. It seems they have not turned up or have cancelled at the last minute. Instead we listen to the full 39:09 of their 'Blue Room' single (which admittedly makes for a satisfying enough gig)-

Afterwards and I am racing to catch a bus that will take me to a/the railway station. I just make it and am the last person on board. As I catch my breath I realise the tubular metal handhold I'm gripping just might have a tiny smear of dogsh*t on it (and so therefore might my hand). The two lads who caught the bus only moments before me take an interest and, on closer inspection, they look to have sh*t on their trousers too-

It transpires the bus is going to Beith railway station – I try to work out if that's any good a destination for me – and it arrives in good time-

Unfortunately the driver, a goofy, shuffling, grinning 'dude', has used the Satnav on his phone to take us to OLD Beith railway Station. It is an impressive, imposing Grecian-style ruin, the ancient tracks still visible amidst the great crumbling construct-

The two lads from the bus and I approach a bunch of bored teenagers, all affected attitude and Goth stylings, to ask the route to the new station – it sems the driver('s phone) has failed us and we're on our own. One girl with frizzy blonde hair is willing enough to break the solemn mould to chat while another simply sneers that the station for the “stay-at-homes” is simply over there-

The Orb - Blue Room

Zatzyl

I am with my friend Aye Dubya. The environment is unclear, but it is bright and fresh, I guess a family living room - I am conscious of his father sitting in a comfy armchair to our left - but no other details spring to mind, the dream being quite focussed. Aye's mother, looking as she did many years ago, comes to join us. She is dressed in a red billowy top, tied at the waist, that hangs down to above her knees. She wears light grey, slightly loose trousers under this. She sits cross-legged on the floor directly in front of Aye's father. She is chatty and amused, wondering how we missed the news, brandishing her phone to show us something- 

It is Denzl Washington. He is standing with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, wearing nothing but tight Speedos, his hair long-ish and unkempt, a great wild bushy beard sprouting from his chin. He seems to be quite stoned, unaware of his (domestic) surroundings, gently ambling on the spot, his mind evidently otherwise occupied. There seems to be someone lying on the floor of the room he's in. Aye's mother mentions Prins (?), a female who is also part of this (sexual) scandal. It seems two other people were also involved. Aye and myself (to our own amusement), practically as one voice comment on how Denzl seems to be going through the motions, that he has no idea what's going on and that he just happens to be there. There's an additional flash of the Denzl scene, one where there are several more musicians sporting guitars gathered in the same room- 

There follows a very brief clip of the cartoon character Taz who seems to be restrained in a chair in a large laboratory. Suddenly a large, suggestive sausage shape bulges out from under his chin, curving down over his belly. That is all there is of the clip and Aye Dubya and I discuss how and why it was banned. Taz then, as we are treated to the whole scene, seems to shit a large acorn, beginning with the cupule - which is a gentle, Starburst purple colour - followed by the shell (and plenty of cartoony splashes and drips) which matches the colour of his creamy shirtfront- 

The main boy from 13 Reasons Why is living in a top floor space, accessed via a steep staircase. He is wearing glasses and seems to be knocking people senseless and killing them. The atmosphere is very tense and I seem frightened into silence by events, struggling to articulate. 4 guys turn up with polythene bags of photos, and they seem to be discussing how they had a deal that he'd make some books up from these as agreed- 

https://www.orbmag.com

I am talking to someone - who admittedly looks a little like Thomas Fehlmann - as we listen to The Orb's 'No Sounds Are Out Of Bounds' album. He wonders who the music is by, remarking that it really is very good. I am particularly enthused, and begin praising the final 3 tracks, noting how they almost form a piece, both of us agreeing how they seem to recall a particular period/style of Berlin techno-

Behtro

I am with Alex Paterson and Kris Weston of The Orb. Weston is in charge of a revolving black drum, approx. 3 inches in diameter and 2 feet tall, that he is asking Alex to hit on the beat. He is doing this with a plastic shark fin (though it is more like a reverse tail, resembling a fleshy arrow point). This is for the track 'Assassin'. I cannot tell if Kris is doing this knowingly, the joke being on Paterson (as well as the pressure to keep in time). Kris has unusually short hair, the longest plastered across the top of his head. Paterson seems to be regressing as we go, getting younger, his hair lengthening and grin broadening until he resembles an overexposed 70's polaroid. I turn around and to my surprise there are several people sitting cross legged on the floor watching the proceedings. One of these is a girl from my primary/secondary school, Eee Gee. She seems to say something about everyone always doing, or being asked to do, what is expected of them - in her case that seems to be to provide tissues to-

Hebrot

I am with Alex Paterson (of The Orb) and we are in a casually adorned room, lounging on sofas (and working on a track together?). At this time, however, we are listening to The Orb album 'The Dream' (or rather, I am, wondering what DRAP makes of this particular album, and whether he minds hearing it). I suppose, as it's not that highly regarded, he must be pleased to know that someone rates and enjoys it. I leave as he sits quietly listening to the track 'Duja Ve', with it's soaring and upbeat vocals-

I am now standing in a garden of stepped grass, several levels rising to the back of a 50's bungalow. I am talking to a tall, lanky guy. He has a slightly abrasive and threatening manner, an intensity to him that slightly concerns me. Somehow I can't shake the feeling that he is more intelligent than he makes out, urging myself to put aside my reservations and fully engage in the conversation with him. He has exaggerated, rubbery features - a flat, squashed nose, sunken eyes and a thick lower lip that hangs above the jut of his lower jaw. (He reminds me of a drug addict who lives in Yorkhill, which likely explains my hesitation.) I also feel anxious to return inside and to continue working with DRAP - in the back of my mind it is Friday and I am sure he will knock off work at 4pm. I wonder where I am. The guy I am talking to offers me a brandy and I hunt through a box (from?) and take out two sturdy crystal glasses (that I think belong to him too). When I take them to him there's some amusement about my footwear - I have always sensed there was another person present and he seems most manifest at this very moment of ridicule. I have on brown leather slippers and I quickly go one the defensive (knowing I should have put on some other boots?)-

I am in a top floor/attic flat with sloped celings and Velux rooflights. On a table therein are several pencil line drawings (in a nice comic art style) of smiling faces. They are quite good and all are signed in the bottom left hand corner by K. Penman. There is a leak from the ceiling directly onto the red bed covers below. I panic. There is a damp cigarette packet on the bed. My wedding ring-

Tarntle

https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk

New York (where I have never been). Standing, unsure, at the start of a bridge that arches high over the water. My friend Cee Cee is accompanying me. The central body of the bridge is painted gloss black steel, with ribbed footholds on the surface, and two adjacent pedestrian walkways, one to either side. These have white upright circular hollow steel handrails with a macadam footpath running at a less sharp, more steady angle. I am put off from taking this route, unsettled by the sight of the dark, restless water beyond, and acutely aware of a gap in the railing. I feel exposed to the elements, and this gives way to a perpetual sense of instability, as if I am standing at a great height and may be swept off my feet at any second. Suddenly I looked to my left, aware of a feeling of evening sky, which obscures the two distant geometric buildings. I realise this reddish effect is in fact balloons, and advance on to the bridge, my camera pointed at the sky, my feet tracing the surface of the ribs for a stable foothold. The balloons then subsequently descend amongst the gathered crowd and I sense that the bridge sits up on high, an opening in a vertical wall of the cityscape. I look up to see a seabird circling in the sky above. Beyond this I can see a myriad of balloons that have become trapped on their ascent, huddled beneath the darkening arch of what I take to be yet another bridge much higher above. The bird veers suddenly and, to my shock, crashes almost right at my feet. It then reveals itself to be a small model plane, made of balsa wood and paper. Together with an American youth, in casual gear: shorts, colourful socks bunched around his ankles, we examine the broken fragments. We each then chose a wing, covered in a sweet pink sugar coating with yellow writing, to eat. Cee Cee, knowing we only have the rest of today and tomorrow morning to holiday, advises me we still have time to see Manhattan-

We cross the bridge. The first building I see, directly in front of me but facing off to the right, is a large Arabasque construct, with an opening arch turning to a point at the apex and discreet lighting down either side. The surrounding buidings and streets are more modest in size, but they make up for any inferiority with an abundance of strip and neon lighting advertising the goods on sale therein. I have a sense of discussing this area with my friend Pee EmmCee, but I am definitely now talking with an American girl, with whom I have struck up a warm and instant friendship. We 'surf' the shops as indescriminately as one would the internet. One store, selling African goods, has a variety of small, flexible, beaded plates on offer, in a mixture of cyans and blacks and reds. There are four different coloured dogs behind the counter, each dressed in a tight woollen costume, complete with stitched noses, mouths, and old fashioned button eyes. On closer inspection they seem to me like aged jacket buttons, browning leather with stitching across in an 'X' or '+' pattern. My companion urges me to leave the second the dog nearest us begins to stir and take notice-

We are now in some sort of record bazaar, a 'U' shaped market space comprising a series of small shop units with their own roll-down black shutters. This occupies the Arabesque building. I spot a copy of RIDE's 'Today Forever:expanded', which I see contains 8 songs that I don't know, together with a further 8, equally split between 2 other artists. My companion is amused by my wanting to leave before I am continually drawn to the site of yet another Traffic rarity, inhabiting a Pommes Fritz-era Orb cover. We walk through more shops / units and I see books both old and new, and I remark that I have been here before. I feel it is the books that are familiar, if not the place. I look again at the same African dishes, but in a different shop, conscious of another stitched, woollen dog. This turns out to be a friendly Golden Labrador, but my companion urges me not to touch it as it sweeps the display with its massive head. As we reach the turn of the 'U' some units are beginning to close, rolling down their shutters, and I start to talk about how the record shops in Glasgow are closing down, lost, and that the feeling of this market is precisely what has vanished. At this moment my companion has become Kay Ess, but she still speaks in an American accent-

Ervunt

https://www.irishpost.co.uk

School trip with Alan McGhee and Zed (?), an older ex-secretary from my work. We are out at some kinda fortress/castle where we're all having a picnic. A Cop/Highway patrol guy turns up in a long hatchback car. Playing a tune that isn't, but sounds very like John Squire's 'Transatlantic Near Death Experience'. I run over to ask the cop. He looks a bit like Dennis Weaver (who played McCloud) and is really friendly, saying he thinks the music is '905210'(?) by Bachmann Turner Overdrive. He offers to let you hear it properly. Aye!-

So I go with him and his overweight South American deputy (who has since appeared) into a long wooden shack kinda outhouse building - loads of records on shelves on the r/h wall, the back wall covered in heaps of cds and a tv and video player. Records include The Smiths, Dandy Warhols, The Orb and loads of amazing Spiritualized super-boxed sets I've never seen, including some mega 5 VHS video pack and die-cast space toys. As I try to look through the stuff the deputy keeps moving things to deliberately obscure this and hide that from my view. Dennis meanwhile, is huddled pretty motionless in the corner, his back to me, moving stuff about at low level while unfamiliar music plays-

http://easternncnow.com

The deputy makes to exit. I suddenly, looking at the motionless Dennis, want to follow him - desperately - I now know what happens, I've been here before, but too late - the door is locked shut! I gingerly approach Dennis - I can sort of see from 3/4 back view he's now wearing some sort of white 'killer' mask on his face. I back off, grab up a stool and attack him! He blocks and a bloody fight involving, em, coathangers plus other junk ensues. I cannot bring myself to stab him in  the eye with scissors even though it would mean certain victory-

Eventually he's thoroughly beaten and I pulp and smack him from a distance with some metal stud partition uprights that I will subsequently use to batter open the outhouse door. Sight as I escape is a guy (could be the deputy?) with his hair shot down the middle so that to the sides it looks like mounds/devil horns - he's protesting-