I am with RIDE and we are playing a gig. Mark Gardener is not present and so, with Steve Queralt opting for (replacement) rhythm/second guitar, I have gamely stepped forward (or convinced them I'm capable enough) to fill his boots and am a good fit for bass. The opening track is 'Seagull' and, of course, at that exact moment I have no idea how to play the bassline (which technically kicks off the song). I run my fingers gently over the strings, softly fretting them here and there on the neck in an embarrassed attempt to quietly figure out the riff. With the song having subsequently fizzled out – to the obvious impatience of the band and audience – we try another, one beginning with a simple picked guitar refrain. I quickly (and luckily) happen to chance upon two notes that sit nicely enough (even if they unimaginatively adopt a steady back and forth timing) under this. Again I get lost at the chorus and only really establish the correct key/notes as we jump back into the verse, leaving my playing trailing once more-
I am with another guy, a man, who I am pretty sure is the rapper Kanye West (at least by name and in my mind, if not actually looking very much like him). We both have a small bag – like a Greggs the Bakery bag, plastic film to the top, a white paper portion forming the bottom/underside and back – that contains a representation of us, a sense of our essence. I am disgruntled as Kanye's bag contains a miniature reproduction of a complete tiger's head whereas my bag holds the nose/snout of a lion - I don't see this, I just know it somehow. This disparity causes me great concern and I argue my case with Kanye accordingly-
I am in a gift shop – something tells me it is Culzean Castle? - and am looking at what is on offer. All I can picture are black ink line drawings of faces and they each, as per my own drawings, have eyes that are blank. I'm not wholly convinced of the quality of the actual drawing – some of the features are a bit squint and not in line - and mention this to my mother, saying that I could easily do it (better). As we walk outside she scoffs at this statement and is obviously not convinced. “Oh well, if you think so...”-
I am talking to Cee Oh'Bee (owner of City Centre Comics) and we get on to the topic of not filling in the eyes of a drawing and he informs me that this approach means that you can use anyone's likeness and it will never be subject to contention or copyright and thus can endlessly be used for promotion and profit. I then make (for him) a full size line drawing of Sir Sean Connery's face to be used as a mask, the blank eyes cut out and the nose partially cut to allow your own to pop through the cardboard backing. However, I end up wearing the mask and as Cee and I walk together. Cee is talking and I realise how did I think his strong Glaswegian accent could never be contorted into the smooth tones of Sir Sean and so I attempt a 'shhh shhh' style imitation of Sir Sean's voice. This vocalising is hilariously bad, but I continue to persevere with it as we encounter some company. I go up to our friend Jay EmmCeeEss and try my terrible accent, thinking I'm being funny (and realising as I do so that he is engrossed in conversation over a book with a woman of some importance)-
I am at home(?) or my mental comfort zone suggests as much. By my Father's chair, to my right, in the corner of the (living?) room I notice what I think is a spillage on the glossy laminate floor. Tackling it with kitchen towel I realise that the (ceramic?) hot water bottle lying on the floor nearby is, when I lift it, cracked and broken and a gloopy, red wine-ish coloured liquid – a surprising amount as I cradle the seal in my hand – is pouring from the neck. My Mother is cross – I'm assuming she's assuming my father (who is not present) has stood on the hot water bottle by accident. My little brother and I are on mopping up duties, trying to stem the tide/damage of the liquid with kitchen towel. I notice, after some frantic rubbing, that the glossy surface of the laminate flooring is slowly peeling away to reveal the pale, untreated timber surface below. This is worrying, the gloss coming away in large flakes. Suddenly it's as if the flooring has turned into strange, elongated (representations) of classic funk and soul lps – the covers themselves are in bold reds and blues, the band names set in artistic fonts, the groups lounge, stylishly dressed in the inset photographs – and there's now a team of us who have been commandeered by a Sly Stone-esque figure to marshal us, to organise us so that we might click this failing (record) floor back into place. It seems to be two panels of flooring exactly side by side, then a single offset panel, then an other two aligned and so on. Someone (me?) shouts, “the funk of America is moving!” and immediately after I question whether this exclamation could be deemed to be a little offensive, if not racist (though Sly does not visibly react, suggesting it is not). The floor appears to move in coordinated waves and someone (who is definitely not me) drawls that it (or is it Sly's instructions?), “rolls over you like a carpet”, a stoned and puzzling observation if I ever heard one-
I am at my friend Ess EmmSeeKay's house, late of a (Friday?) night. It's around 11pm and we are deciding what to watch on television. I manage to persuade him to put on (my DVD copy of) Fearless Vampire Killers. He's not that fussed and we watch the first few minutes together - quite different in terms of content (similar-ish) and picture quality (poor) to what I remember - before he says he's taking his dog for a walk. I realise it's pointless to sit and view my DVD alone at his house, and ask if he's at all bothered if I take it way to watch at home, thinking I could just set off with him on his walk. He says that's fine and I vividly recall being impressed that his DVD player ejects the disc in the standard flat tray only to angle it up to the left side, exposing the edge and making it very easy to lift out. There's some confusion, to Ess's amusement, as I clumsily negotiate my way around the ground floor of his huge house - the rooms seem to interconnect for ease of circulation - and I accidentally disturb his son, Dee, in his room-
I am in a shared office/Studio space with several other people. The desk layout seems uncomfortably crammed and just a little jumbled, as if they've been shuffled around or deliberately reconfigured to maximise inconvenience and unsettle us. It feels like I'm supposed to sit somewhere over to the left, but I decide to take a rather awkward spot on the right of the space. I recall the sense that some object (the edge of a drawing board, perhaps?) is uncomfortably close to my head when I am sitting, hovering in my field of sensation. Still, the reason I chose to sit here is quite clear as there's some guy - more or less heard and not seen, vague like everyone else present - who is kicking up a considerable fuss about the layout. An older lady, similarly less defined, is sitting there absorbing (and presumably exhausted by) his ire-
Next I am sitting with a work colleague - it feels almost like a variation of the office space, right down to the simple crisp white desks, etc. - but we're talking about grabbing a quick pint. It's 4:00pm and I seem in a rush to head off. I change my mind as Kevin Costner comes over to join us. I recall he started work recently. (Could I manage just the one beer by 4:30?) We ask him what he thinks the fussy guy's problem is. Kevin says it's (something along the lines of), "my life is shit so I'm gonna make your day as shit as mine." We're both impressed/amused at this concise assessment and my colleague offers him a drink too. With a knowing wink in my direction Kevin cooly says he'll get them and stands up. All I can think is how my time will pass and how I will pace my drinks-
I am in a huge arena witnessing a Kickboxer-esque (is it a sequel?) event. Jean Claude Van Damme is there. He is visible only from a great distance and never facially recognisable - I simply know it is him participating. He wears black combat pants and nothing else, his body toned and in suitably '80's shape. His opponent is a great hulk of a man - 3-4 times a normal person's size?! - with long straggly hair and a black wrestler-type spandex suit. Again, I never see his face, my view restricted (mostly) to shots of JVCD misjudging brutal two-footed kicks and slithering harmlessly across the broad, rough skin of his monstrous opponent's back. At certain moments it looks to me as if this giant is carrying the prone body of a woman, clutching her in his right hand, securing her torso under his arm. Is JVCD trying to rescue her? In the middle of the arena there stands a 2-3 level tall scaffold structure, presumably to add more excitement to the contest, that has several access ladders up to and between the timber platforms. At one point JVCD takes on two other (normal sized) combatants, knocking one (and himself) to the floor. Both lie there, huffing and puffing, regaining their senses after the blow. Finally he is challenged by two men wearing Imperial Stormtrooper suits (but no helmets)-
Record Store Day (or a few days after, as I'm hoping to snap up leftovers?). I am at Monorail Records – at least I am served by the staff member Dee from there – and I go up to the counter, intent on asking about whatever titles they have remaining. Dee immediately goes to a drawer/storage unit at his back and asks me if I want the Big Brother & The Holding Company, producing a shrink wrapped, slender card packed CD. I say, 'yep!' and in a flash I am parting with 15 pounds – it has a bold £15 (HMV-style) sticker price tag in the top right corner of the cover, which itself is an orange and jet black, vague swirl, likely a photo of the band that has been pushed to maximum contrast. I am instantly annoyed at both Dee and myself, reckoning that he just wanted rid of overstock, targeting my good nature, and at my own amiable manner, my too-eager-to-please purchase. I leave and I am still annoyed. Did I even get a receipt?
I am wandering about forlornly, roughly trying to calculate the time elapsed since my purchase. It is about half an hour later, I guess, and I am still fretting about the receipt (or lack of) and planning to take the CD back, thinking about how I will phrase/open the conversation. (Do I reach Mono?)*
I am somewhere and go to the bathroom, walking through a very long room with expertly crafted porcelain sinks and fittings all topped with a neat timber trimming, framing and finish. I turn a corner and come to the end of this (somewhat bemusing) toilet area. Beyond some inset sinks there is a final urinal “hole” set into the floor, a companion shower/washing tray next to it, on the right. Looking into this hole in the floor I can see that beyond it, where you pee, the water is sky blue, so fresh looking and swirling (a little on the mesmerising side). I feel I have no choice but to hunker down to urinate. I do so, worried that this is the ladies bathroom. A guy steps into the area on my left – I am partly screened by a timber upright between us – startling me. I turn and ask him if this young, besuited gent knows if this is the ladies. He says that no, he doesn't think so and I finish peeing. When I stand up I notice that the shock of his arrival distracted me so much, meaning that I have a great, damp streak of piss from my inside left trouser knee that fans out down to my ankle, soaking the strange black and silvery woven fabric of my trousers. On the right leg, at the trousers over my ankle bone, it is much the same, only less sodden and more sporadic. I worry about how visible – very! - this will be-
I am walking with my friend Vee Dee and two other people. In fact, I seem to be lagging behind them, distracted by my returning the CD, and they are constantly a corner's turn ahead of me. At one point I lose them, the shadows cast by their legs the only clue as to the direction they've taken. It sounds like they are discussing the selection process of some architects? I am worried that the packaging of the CD will get damaged in my shoulder bag, the cover marked or creased by other items. I search for it, panicking. The price tag – now appearing as a long, descriptive sticker strip – flashes through my mind, easing my concerns. The CD is not there! No, I remind myself it is in a green plastic shopping basket(?) I am carrying in my left hand. It sits safely on the bottom, packed under some neatly folded clothes-
I finally catch up on Vee Dee. He is now only 'plus one', the man that was with them having gone off. The woman who he is with is, to my disappointment, not the broad Caribbean lady with a shock of afro hair I thought her to be. Approaching from the back she appears to be a slightly sullen, overweight white woman with too much makeup and a limp bob for a haircut-
*(At this point?) I am in a cafe of sorts, seated with two(?) other people. I am constantly singing (in a low voice) the final refrain from (ex-Mansun singer) Paul Draper's solo song 'Friends Make The Worst Enemies', the “close... keep your enemies in close... 'cos your friends can hurt you most” lyric. I have in front of me a sheet of paper, perhaps it's an envelope(?) that has a black and white photograph of a microphone stand printed on it. I have a thick black pen and I am drawing, quite accurately, a young Paul Draper singing into this mic. I start by sketching the mouth and head and my mind sort of better composes the two to match, an auto-correction of sorts, and I continue drawing him from there-
