|Fog on the Tyne
I've not been dreamed that well recently, so this one's a bit hazy. It could even be that this is really two dreams, or the order's out, but I'll do my best to be coherent.
I am taken by my stage-mum to the set of the latest Harry Potter film, in order that she can pick some stuff up. Relishing the opportunity to see some famous people, I eagerly go along, but the only celebrity I see is Arnold Schwarzenegger, and I'm sure that nobody would believe it if I told them I had seen him.
I walk up some stairs, into a caravan-on-stilts. A television is blasting war. I see a picture of a mid-air explosion, in slow-motion. In front of the blast, I see two airmen sitting obliviously on the tailfin of an aeroplane. A piece of flak from the explosion glints in the sunlight, then carries on forward to decapitate each of the men, though I look away after the first, and exclaim that it is shocking what they put on television these days.
From here, I am transported to a sort-of school assembly hall, where the assembled audience and I watch a black-clad woman unleash feminist invective upon us. We all quite enjoy it, and she signs autographs later.
Walking out of the hall, I find myself in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, in a shopping centre (decidedly not the MetroCentre), with my friends. It's a typical 1990's development, with a UGC multiplex cinema and a Pizza Hut. Myself and a friend have a race into the cinema. I win (just), by using the handy ramp.
Inside the foyer, I find that my Unlimited Cinema card entitles me to put my belongings in a locker. Without hesitation, I put my jacket in, then slam the door shut, immediately realising that my card is inside, and the locker can only be opened with the card. I retire with my friends to Pizza Hut, in order to ponder the consequences.
"Of course," I think whilst ordering a Vegetable Supreme, "they should change it so that you have to put your card in before it locks. Maybe I'll suggest this to the young man in charge."
I go back to the cinema, and worry that the Geordie lad in charge won't understand me [much like the Mancunian McDonald's manservant who couldn't understand that "large chips" means the same whereever you come from]; and I also notice that a rather long queue of harrassed-looking pushchair-wielders has formed.
At this point, I also notice that I've still got my jacket on.
I am wandering in the vicinity of the Merrylee Shops (Ashmore Road, Glasgow), when I happen on the mansion - set in plentiful, verdant grounds - of Michael Moore. I know it is his, because I spot the bearded liberal in the garden, bizarrely staring into his own front window, like a prowler.
I shout over to him, for I enjoyed Bowling for Columbine, and I would like to talk to its charismatic authour. He scoots over, and suggests that we go for a coffee.
We go for a coffee, in a non-existant room next to the newsagent's. I ask him about his life, and he tells me that he once (many years ago) had a seat in parliament. A flashback appears before my eyes of Mr. Moore riding around in a sort-of wheeled Sedan chair, wearing one of Mussolini's hats.
The flashback ends, and I thank Mr. Moore for being a thoroughly interesting man.
|Man on the Moon
It is late on a Thursday night, and I am in my bedroom with my parents. I switch on the computer, but it keeps getting only so far, then rebooting, and the screen is flickering as if the vertical hold is broken.
Defeated, I try to turn the computer off, but this doesn't work either. Instead, I try to turn off the monitor, but doing that merely restarts the computer. There are three power switches on the monitor, and I cannot find the combination of these that will switch it off. Eventually I fall into a somnolent stupor.
It is now Friday morning, and seven minutes to nine o'clock; it is also still dark. I have a university class at nine, and am worried about getting to it on time. The computer appears to have settled down, and we are able to leave.
My parents offer me a lift to university, which relieves some of my worries. I head out to the car, before realising that I have left my bag and my jacket in my room. I run back in and upstairs, and fetch these. On my way back down the stairs, I notice that the light is still on in the spare room.
At this point, I assume the character of Jim Carrey, who in turn is acting in the persona of Andy Kaufman, who himself is acting in the persona of Latka Gravas, from Taxi. I attribute seeing the light on to Carrey's "crazy mind", but double back nonetheless to take a look in the room.
Inside the room is not the spare room, but a 1950's bathroom, with a tiled floor, and tiles half-the-way up the walls. The walls and floor are bloodspattered, and a name (which I cannot remember, and take to be my character's name) is written in red on the far wall.
I turn around, and expect to be confronted by a maniac killer, or some such, but instead see my charater's mother (not my mother), who looks typically 1950's.
She tells me that everything's OK, and tells me I should do more to communicate with others. She suggests that I should write a letter. Looking out the window, I see a clifftop peninsula, and a row of houses. In one of those houses, I tell her, there lives a man (Mr. _) who writes letters to himself, because knows nobody else to whom he can write. She tells me that he writes lots of letters.
I find myself wandering the Science corridor of my former school. I am somewhat disconcerted by the fact that nobody - none of my former teachers - recognise me, and I feel like a ghost. I wander the length of the building, and leave at the end of the English corridor.
When I get outside, I notice that a horrific cycling accident has occurred. I rush over, and find that an old friend of mine is attending the casualty. I immediately offer my help, and my friend suggests that I squat, and prop the cyclist's leg up on mine.
I do this without thinking, and then am somewhat disconcerted by the fact that the cyclist is bleeding profusely, and I have an exposed puncture wound on my thigh.
I express this concern to my friend, who rubbishes my fears. I, however, am not convinced, so I ask the cyclist, who is now standing up to leave.
"You don't have AIDS or Hepatitis or something like that, do you?" I ask.
"I don't any more...."
|The Award Dinner
I am back at the New Year's Eve party where I had been the night before. I find that I have accidentally brought my digital camera with me, so I ask people to pose for photos. One of my friends takes umbrage at this, and wrestles me to the floor, almost causing me to drop the precious camera. He rants about not wanting his picture taken. Fortunately, another of my friends takes the camera from me, and puts it somewhere safe.
I wake up slightly dazed (actually a false awakening, because I believe that I am really awake), and stumble out of bed. My room is in the wrong place, and from the door, I walk down a flight of stairs to a lounge. Embarrassment sets in, because I'm only wearing a pair of boxer shorts, and most of my extended family is sitting around a large table in the lounge.
The lounge is redolent of a 1960's pub, probably in the east end of Glasgow. I take my seat at the table, and nobody bats an eyelid at the scantiness of my clothing. It transpires that we are actually in a subterranean Chinese restaurant, so I order some food. I look at my surrounds, and I particularly notice that the signs pointing to the toilets direct patrons up the entry stairs, and outside. I feel a little squeamish to be eating so far from convenience.
I am in the gym of an American high school, on the basketball court. Sharing the court with me is my entire year group at school, and the scene is chaotic. Furthermore, there are crowds of people watching from the bleachers. I have a basketball, and take a shot, but the ball does not even reach the backboard. As the commentator makes a cruel jibe over the tannoy, I run out in shame.
On my way out, I look up at the clock, and see that it is only three o'clock, whereas the session is scheduled to run until half past. I decide, therefore, to run back into the hall, pantomime fashion. I find that the hall has been set up for a banquet, with one huge table running the length of the basketball court. I also seem to have changed into a tuxedo.
I find some of my friends, who are to be sitting next to me. A particular old friend sits next to me, and congratulates me on winning an award. She shows me the certificate, which announces that I have won an award for innovative webmastering [arf]. It then dawns on me that the gathering of family was to celebrate this, and they must just have been tolerating my eccentricity, vis a vis the underwear.