Dreams

Clang!

by Enormous on October 19, 2009

So, in my dream last night, I had some free time; no one was ill; Enormous had a new bass player – with hair – and a keyboardist who played piano like Steve Nieve; nobody was depressed; nobody was poor.

As happens regularly in my dreams, Audrey could speak English. She said ‘Here are your  pyjamas, father. You forgot to put them on.’

‘I don’t wear such things, darling,’ I told her. ‘I’m an ex-punk rocker. You know that.’

‘But these are your special pyjamas,’ she insisted, ‘the ones you bought in the Bahamas. The ones with the big bananas on.’

‘Oh, those.’

‘Yes, your Bahamas banana pyjamas.’ I smiled at her sweet furry innocence.

There was suddenly a big noise from outside. Clang! Audrey jumped and looked at me with urgent concern in her eyes.

‘It’s all right, girl,’ I told her. ‘It’s just Jennifer Aniston delivering our money.’ She relaxed with a doggy groan. ‘What are you dreaming about?’ I asked her then.

‘I was dreaming about who would win in a fight between a monkey and an emu,’ she said.

‘Monkey, definitely.’ I mused.

When I eventually awoke, I felt even more joy due to the fact that I didn’t have a hangover. I was such a good boy again last night. I was so sober, I was seeing single. I hate hangovers. Being hung-under is eminently more preferable. It is always a tremendous relief when I wake up without one. They make mornings hell. I am always reminded of Wodehouse on the subject when he wrote: ‘The cat stamped into the room.’

Well, that’s all from me for now. Must dash. I am about to savour my Monday morning eleven o’clock orgasm.

Pip-pip!

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Considering Mister Shooter

by Enormous on June 3, 2009

‘Well, as I keep telling you, it’s very inconvenient and annoying, to say the least. Please make sure it doesn’t happen again. Thank you.’

That was me on the telephone this morning speaking to a nice woman called Velma at the local Post Office depot.

Velma is the latest in a long lone of Post Office employees who have been hearing my complaints about a certain item of mail that is delivered on a regular basis to my address. She is the latest of a dozen various officials who have told me: ‘Yes, sorry about that, Mr Lawrence. We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

Despite her and her colleagues’ well-meaning assurances, I am happily confident that it will, in fact, happen again.

About six times every year, an large envelope addressed to a Mr P. Shooter – a previous tenant, I have ascertained – is stuffed through my letterbox. Inside this envelope is a glossy catalogue displaying in full-colour and highly graphic detail a large range of sexual toys and various rubbery implements from a company called Up Yours.

Whilst I am not totally averse to quickly flicking through its pages before depositing said catalogue in the bin, I have noticed that the range of products available is almost always entirely the same; Up Yours’ range of wobbly vibrators and pink, blow-up dolls has, over the years, remained pretty constant. Thus, I do not need to see any more. Neither, I suspect, if he were in receipt of his catalogue, would Mr Shooter.

It seems that the Post Office has been ignoring my requests, however. And I do not have any intention of personally contacting Up Yours; goodness knows what else they might send me once they have my details. I do not want my actual name on further envelopes full of offers to buy embarrassing ‘real-feel’ contraptions at knock-down prices.

Not being listened to seems to be the story of my life – well, the main chapters, at least.

I am feeling slightly anxious and uncomfortable for another reason this morning, also. I had a lurid dream last night in which I was engaging in rampant sex action with the pretty wife of a Hammond organ-playing friend of mine. I still feel very guilty about it – she’s a happily married woman, after all. That dream was immediately followed by another in which I was on trial at Nuremberg.

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The Boy From Mars

by Enormous on October 5, 2008

I was dreaming last night that I was travelling across America in a flying saucer.

I was taking a break in a bar in the middle of nowhere when Heather Locklear wandered in and headed straight towards me. She looked tired and was obviously quite drunk. ‘Hey, you’re the Boy From Mars, aren’t you? Can you lend me twenty dollars and fifty cents? I’ve got to drive for miles to get to see my lover OJ Simpson before they send him to hell.’

‘Is it really important to you?’ I asked.

‘Well, he’s offered to instruct me in getting away with murder.’

I laughed.

‘It’s not funny, Mars-Boy,’ she hissed. ‘You might think OJ ridiculous but abstract evil does not choose the form in which it emerges in the particular.’ (I think she was secretly plagiarising something she had read about Hitler and the Nazis.)

‘Anyway, what’s the fifty cents for?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that’s to buy lipstick for my pig.’ With that, she fell over and was carried outside by a priest who put her in an ambulance and drove her away.

Chuckling to myself, I finished my breakfast of grits and coffee before getting in my spaceship to continue my journey.

Later, as I was going through Hollywood, I turned on the radio for company; Harry Shearer was singing: ‘President Bush is a moron; we’re all doomed.’ It was a good song.

I got up this morning about seven-thirty feeling very refreshed and was able to write down the exact details of my dream with the mental precision I always have on first waking.

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Telling Teenage Fortunes

by Enormous on October 3, 2008

No.24

Often, when you dream at night, you will discover you possess something extraordinary; something you didn’t realize you had.

This is what it is: grace.

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Nocturnal Body Oddity

by Enormous on September 27, 2008

Last night I dreamed my eyes had moved closer together. This upset me so much I had to avoid looking in the mirror while I was shaving, and now my lips are covered in razor cuts.

A few weeks ago one of my hands fell off in a dream; and during the spring I had a recurring nightmare that I had women’s legs – vaguely alluring in an autoerotic sort of way, but disturbing nonetheless.

This situation cannot continue; it is beginning to make demands of my good humour. Time to consult my local MP, methinks.

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Too Much To Dream

by Enormous on August 3, 2008

I had too much to dream again last night.

At one point, I was scampering around a meadow playing tig with a herd of cows. The enormous black and white beasts that produce double cream were easy to catch and I had no problem tigging them as they drunkenly lumbered about their field. Their light-footed and skinny, skimmed-milk cousins were more elusive, however. Not only are they difficult to get close to, but it is quite hard to actually see them. Like the milk they produce, they are translucent and slightly grey – you can easily see right through them to the landscape beyond – causing me to keep bumping into them frequently by accident.

Eventually, growing tired, I sat down to rest. When I raised my hand to wipe the sweat from my brow, I was shocked to discover that it was not a human hand at all but a big, black, hairy paw. I was not alarmed by this; in fact it made me smile.

I wonder if Audrey and I had swapped dream-worlds . . . I wonder if she was dreaming that Vanessa-Mae was slowly and lovingly stroking her face while Christina Applegate was tickling her belly . . .

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David Duchovny Ate My Hamster

by Enormous on July 31, 2008

We are supposed to enjoy something of a temperate climate here in the UK but it is becoming more and more extreme.

It is so cold around here in the winter that rainbows freeze to the ground; poor kids chip off pieces of their favourite colours for a Christmas treat and lick them until they’re white. And this summer is so hot! Yesterday Audrey and I saw a squirrel in a tree fanning his nuts, and this morning she chased a cat and they were both walking.

The nights are horrible at the moment, oppressive and muggy and not at all suitable for sleeping. The present conditions are perfect for fitful nights of dreaming weird dreams, however. Last night, I spent a few hours with David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson.

Duchovny was being very annoying, trying to impress Gillian with his jolly japes – at one point he found a hamster in my Claris Cliff teapot and swallowed it whole, it might have been rather horrific but it was just embarrassing – but Gillian was very sweet. Somewhere in there, she said to me, ‘Every day in every way, you’re getting better and better,’ which I found very encouraging and made me want to have sexual congress with her.

The dream ended with them both holding hands and repeating some bizarre mantra – probably Californian – which sounded something like: ‘Thgir si ger, thgir si ger.’ I have no idea what it means.

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