Last night I dreamed I was marooned at sea in a small boat. With me were Nelson Galaxy – Big Arena Records’ glamorous and angst-ridden transvestite songwriter, my dog Audrey and Brad Pitt.
We were in the Iranian Ocean and I remember feeling very queasy; it was like being drunk, when the ground becomes variable. Audrey was barking at the legion of colourful Arab fish that were trying to leap into our small craft; Nelson was very animated. Gesticulating wildly, he was chattering away to me about something I couldn’t understand (the more passionate he became, the more I grew afraid that he would capsize the boat) and Brad was just quietly sitting there, his knees up to his ears, stoically gazing out to sea.
The American film star was naked apart from a small pair of pink Speedos that were so tight, you could tell his religion.
I was trying to ignore Nelson, who by this time had begun to sing, and I was trying to catch Brad’s eyes. But he would not look at me. I couldn’t help noticing his sculptured abdomen and arms, and I remember half waking up at one point and feeling generally physically inadequate.
Then I noticed that Brad and Nelson had become very busy together. They were trying, with their big hands, to activate a small metal contraption that was lying on the bottom of the boat. They had suddenly become very conspiratorial; their eyes very narrow, whispering quickly to one another.
At this point, I noticed that Brad was heavily made up: he was, in fact, wearing more make-up than Nelson – something that is quite difficult to achieve. As the scene developed, it began to resemble a pantomime and became rather comical. And as I continued to watch their stylised performance, they looked to me like the evil genius and his useful idiot, hard at work in their watery laboratory. Audrey moved her attention from the tasty fish and began to bark at these two intense schemers instead.
It was then that my laughter caused me to awake completely and I found that Audrey, sitting at the foot of the bed, was indeed barking, happily shouting at the world as the morning sun streamed though our bedroom window. She was protesting about the torturous racket that was emanating yet again from the car-alarm belonging to the hideous neighbourhood simpleton who insists on parking his vehicle outside our house. Plus ça change . . .
I have spent all morning meditating on the hidden meanings and paradoxical themes of my sea-faring dream, but so far I have no idea what it could all signify. It will, perhaps, become clearer to me this evening: I plan to finish work in the studio and settle with Audrey in front of the television, whereupon I shall open a couple of bottles of Beaujolais Nouveux and proceed to drink myself into Bolivia.
Ta-ta!
On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Beatles for Sale – The Beatles
Tagged as:
Beatles,
Big Arena Records,
Celebrity,
Dogs,
Dreams,
Iran,
Neighbours from Hell,
Nelson Galaxy,
Songwriters,
Transvestism,
Wine