Moorlin

"Which one is served as the lady in the bong?" 

Giggles consume the operating theatre as the staff try to work out which of the shifting, shapeless bumps under the sheets is the woman and which is the monkey- 

I am with Alan Moore, trailing him as he guides me through some back streets, exploring small, fusty shops. We finish in a tiny comic shop - though it looks more like a bedroom, complete with bed! - with stacks of vintage comics everywhere. The owner is a young guy with glasses and swept back ginger hair - though I remember trying to work out if Alan lived (or at least slept) here. There's a strange comic with a Jim Starlin cover, an alien in blue outline, suspended above a desert surface. The cover is split, with 2 images? I think Moebius has contributed to it too-

Slouse

I am in a large butchers-cum-slaughterhouse. I am standing in the butcher's section, the counter to my right, and am facing the corridor that leads through into the freezer storage / slaughterhouse. The whole place is very angular, finished in square, gently blue hued tiles on the wall and floor. I think I am here for a job interview and recall a tension as I talk to people around a table. I am then being asked if I could sit in on and ask questions at another interview with a disfigured person - they are sitting just along from me, their face hidden by the lady sitting next to myself. It's as if I can see them - it's a male with short blond hair - but peering round the woman the face is blank, beyond my visual reach-

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-

Beelltee

I am at the flat of my friends Bee Tee and Ell Tee. It feels very claustrophobic, almost as if we are underground – though it's certainly ground floor in my mind - and there's no sense of any natural light being allowed to penetrate. The walls are grey and drab, the hall a long, confusing corridor or sorts with plenty of doors opening to rooms off. I take a hurried shower in one of these rooms, aware that someone could walk in at any moment. The shower room, which is sparsely furnished – I don't even recall a basic shower mechanism, just the sensation of water and steam – is not even tiled or anything (and I get to thinking Bee will presumably tackle that job in future). There is even a strange horizontal rectangular opening, with timber trims, through into the hall at about head height- 

Going into the hallway I notice a seriously burnt, almost to the point of being completely carbonated, short French stick travelling along the carpet towards me. It takes me some time to realise that it is being carried by a troop of large ants. I stand back, somewhat in shock, standing on a giant shiny ant by mistake, popping it under the weight of my foot. There are even more aggressive red ants too – the same deep red colouring as poison dart frogs – and I urge Bee Tee to watch, marvelling at the speed with which these frightening insects can munch down and consume a whole leaf-

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-

Xovvit

“Boris Johnson sacks Australian CEO on his couch.”

“WW2 fillings responsible for second fire.”

I am looking at the back page of a newspaper. There is a two-thirds photo of a Formula One racing driver, Rema(?), dressed in the standard red jumpsuit. He has short curly hair, matted to his head, a dark complexion, large, slightly bulging eyes, his mouth set in a pained, gap-toothed semi-smile. The headline, to his bottom right, concerns his “feral grandmother”. There is a picture (there?) to accompany this. She stands, her arms aloft in a triumphant pose, her feet planted firmly apart. Her skin is dark and leathery, a huge diamond of black pubic hair growing up from her crotch, peaking below her saggy, wrinkled breasts. Her head is tilted back, her toothy mouth open to the sky as if uttering a mighty roar- 

I am watching football on a big screen in a pub. I am directly in front of the screen, resting my bottom on a timber table to my back. The table is covered in piled newspapers and I am conscious that I am crumpling them at the edge and continually shift my weight accordingly. I am not sure whether I am watching (The Stone Roses) singer Ian Brown as a player or in fact “Ian Brown” the team playing. He wears an all white strip and looks to be of an age comparable to his early solo artist years. His team are playing, and losing to, Cameroon. I turn to the guy on my left and we have a short discussion about Ian failing to capitalise on The Stone Roses reunion, about how he should be playing in the World Cup- 

I am sitting at a table sorting through box after box, searching for a (particular) pair of socks. We are planning to go the opening of an art exhibition by Cee Cee. My friend Vee Dee is there, urging me to hurry up and make my selection. I expect I am partly stalling as I do not want to go – I do not like, nor respect, Cee Cee. We are drinking too. Eventually Vee Dee (and the others decide to) leave me to attend the opening. I am still puzzling through boxes, taking out pairs of socks and examining them. One pair especially I try and wrestle on to my feet, giving up as they are simply too tight. Do I suddenly come to? All the boxes are gone. The artist Pee Kay passes by, commanding two flatbed railway trucks, trundling by of their own accord. The side facing myself has a white sheet that rises about 2 metres into the air, and adjacent to that each end is partly covered in a surrounding sheet too. I am convinced he has taken my boxes and follow him to a large warehouse that houses even more flatbed trucks, each covered in similar white sheeting-

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-