Dreams

The Dark Intruder

by Enormous on July 23, 2008

I had a terrible nightmare last night. I thought that someone was in my room.

I was dreaming that a man was standing in silence at the foot of my bed and that he was there to do me harm. ‘Wurhurrrr! Audrey!’ I called for my little dog, but she was hiding under the bed and refused to help. I managed to open my eyes slightly and realised that the intruder was in fact Hollywood heartthrob Christian Bale.

‘I’m Batman,’ he said. ‘The Dark Knight.’ He sounded like Scooby Doo.

I sleepily moaned a question. ‘Yes, it is a dark night, isn’t it – what do you want?’

He held out his hand. ‘Can you do me a favour and lend me ten quid?’

‘Look, Batman . . . Christian . . . whatever – I don’t negotiate with terrorists, please leave. And anyway, why are you dressed as Einstein? And what the hell are those!?’ He could have been the famous scientist’s identical twin had it not been for the fact that he had grown a pair of enormous breasts.

He moved closer. ‘After I’ve given you a good hiding,’ he barked, ‘I’m off back to the Batcave to work on my theory of Relativititty.’

Suddenly, he wasn’t so frightening. ‘You’re crazy,’ I told him. ‘No wonder you got arrested.’

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Eye Can See Clearly Now

by Enormous on May 14, 2008

I awoke with a jolt this morning at 5am in worried-sheep mode, full of anxiety. I feared one of my big, black waves of depression was about to engulf me. I read some John Donne before going to sleep last night (yes, I read metaphysical poetry – try not to faint) to prevent just this kind of thing from happening.

I lay in bed for a moment, stroking Audrey’s soft head, trying to wake up properly. I put my mood down to the fact that I had been dreaming all night about producing a session for some awful rock band in a recording studio in Mansfield, and tried to wipe it from my memory.

To my further dismay, I realised as I was getting dressed that my right eye was very sore and heavily crusted over. ‘Please, God, not another eye infection,’ I moaned as I stumbled into the bathroom. After performing my watery ablutions however, it became obvious that all was well; my eye was fine, and, as the morning sun rose in the sky over Sutton to the east, I began to feel much better.

Things improved even more when a beautiful Colombian-looking woman – who I imagine is called Angela – smiled at me as we were enjoying our pre-breakfast promenade around the village green. Then, when we got back to the house, there was a big, fat cheque from the PRS waiting for me on the doormat.

Maybe there is a God after all; I used to think that he didn’t exist. I used to think that believing in God was like taking out an insurance policy for the afterlife, but one that the divinity would never have to pay out on. Sorry, God.

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I Dream of Jenni

by Enormous on April 25, 2008

It’s happening again.

I keep dreaming of pretty, blonde TV presenters. Last night it was Jenni Falconer’s turn to pay me a visit. The whole thing is rather unsettling because I usually prefer brunettes when it comes to attractive women. I think my subconscious is probably trying to tell me something.

But, oh boy, was I having fun with Jenni last night! We were playing naked beach-volleyball in Cornwall. I was losing, of course, due to the fact that I couldn’t keep my eye on the ball – understandable under the circumstances. When the game was over and we were making love in a nearby beer-garden, a large rabbit brought over to us a clotted cream scone and a large pot of tea. The rabbit pointed at Jenni with his furry paw and said: ‘She loves you.’

I had gone to bed late, full of anxiety and fearing a sweaty night of tossing and turning, but after being told that, I slept like a bivalve. I awoke this morning feeling quite marvellous though slightly confused.

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Angelina versus Jennifer

by Enormous on March 8, 2008

I dreamed last night that Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Anniston were fighting over me. They were really going for it. There was lots of hair-pulling, face-scratching and even a few karate chops and well-aimed heavy punches. It was great.

It then got even better when Sophia Loren from 1960 suddenly appeared and stepped into the fray. ‘Forget about him, girls, he’s not worth it,’ she snorted.

But this was just a clever ploy; she actually wanted me for herself.

When the fighting was over, 1960 Sophia Loren took me gently by the hand and lay down with me on a big, soft leather chaise longue.

I woke up kissing my pillow again.

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Stereo-untypical

by Enormous on January 19, 2008

I had a cancellation in the studio for Saturday so I decided last night to put my feet up and get drunk.

I made myself a hearty meal of pasta and vegetables, placed a bottle of red wine on the table in front of me and turned on the television. I was watching an interesting documentary about Hilary Clinton and Barack Obama. I finished my food and sat back, corkscrew in hand with my good eye on the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, salivating at the thought of the fruity liquid it contained.

The documentary was accompanied by an anodyne soundtrack of some unremarkable and unidentifiable piano music which must have had a distinctly soporific effect upon me because within mere seconds I could feel my eyelids growing very heavy. Thus it was, in spite of my evil intentions, I managed to resist drinking a bottle of one of my favourite alcoholic beverages. Not through willpower or noble resolve, but, rather predictably, I fell asleep. I fell asleep on the sofa before I had even removed the cork.

As always happens on these occasions, I was plagued by lucid dreams full of bizarre characters that I felt inclined to attack physically or to argue vehemently with about the true nature of reality. (I long ago accepted with careless and neurotic abandon that I possess a great deal of surplus combative will.)

I dreamed of Tom Cruise, movie star and irreducible nutter. I dreamt that he was the Anti-Christ and that he was trying to inveigle his way into mankind’s collective consciousness by using subliminal messages that were iniquitous and malevolent and truly horrific in their intention.

He was somehow secretly downloading his messages on to people’s iPods and mp3 players. He was building them into the very transistors and microchips that lie inside home stereo-systems and inside the speakers of radio and television sets. These were messages that, because they only existed in my dream, were, by their very nature, vague and amorphous – but they were insidious and malignant none the less. The awful basis of them was the monstrous and mendacious assertion that he, Tom Cruise, was the true saviour of the universe.

Not if I can help it, I thought.

I very cleverly managed to penetrate Tom’s inner circle (- sounds painful – Ed.) and turned his own people against him, revealing to them what a pathetic individual he really was. I was on the verge of sending him back to hell when I awoke, mumbling to myself and covered in dribble. It was 4am.

Judge Judy was pontificating on the TV and a lonely car alarm was protesting in the street outside in annoying and strident, high-pitched tones. ‘No one can hear me! No one can hear me,’ it was shrieking. And in spite of its acute shrillness, its message was comfortably melting into the night.

I know how you feel,’ I sighed as I climbed the stairs to bed.
‘I know how you feel,’ I sighed as I climbed the stairs to bed.

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Stinking Pitt

by Enormous on January 4, 2008

I had a strange dream about Brad Pitt last night.

My band Enormous had a gig at the Royal College of Music and Brad, being a fan, had contacted our management to ask if he could come with us as part of our road crew – I think he was doing some research for a part in a movie.

Bizarrely, it transpired – with the help of some Fantastic dream-logic – that Brad knew my mother quite well, so it was arranged for him to be picked up from her house in Mansfield. When we arrived, he was waiting at her front door. She was fussing all around him, looking him up and down and tutting constantly in that expert way that mothers do. In one hand she held her purse and in the other, her nose. ‘Hi, mum, Brad,’ I said cheerfully.

‘He stinks!’ she protested, to no one in particular.

And indeed he did. I don’t know if it was Audrey who had broken wind and the noxious aroma had invaded my dream or something, but the stench coming from the handsome film star was of the worst kind.

‘It’s his jeans!’ she went on. ‘Look at the state of them! I insist that you let me buy you some more, Brad.’

I felt slightly uncomfortable standing there in the rain, staring at Brad Pitt’s famous legs, but it was true: his ruined denims were in tatters and it was obvious that the offensive smell was coming mostly from that area of his body.

The band and our entourage sat in the van and had to wait while I, under orders from my mum, was forced to escort the unfortunate Mr. Pitt to the local Tesco’s to buy him a new pair of trousers. ‘Right, shall we go to the shop then, Brad?’ I asked him.

Too touched by my mother’s charity to say anything, he merely coughed his embarrassed assent and we walked to the supermarket in silence, twinned by our awkwardness.

He chose the cheapest pair of jeans he could find (only £3.00!) and on our return to the house, we jumped into the van – the two of us pleased beyond words with our frugality – and sped off with the rest of the band down the motorway towards London.

From then on, my dream was even more anomalous. The gig was the usual fraught experience due to my forgetting all the chords and lyrics to our songs and the audience was dressed as warthogs. Brad disappeared into the mists of semi-consciousness, and later on, I had sex with a beautiful blonde-haired student of the violin who said she was the Queen of England – which was rather pleasant. It all got a bit weird after that.

I do remember this though: after the gig, as we were loading the various monitors, guitar amplifiers and drum cases into the van, Brad was nowhere to be seen.

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In Which Audrey Kicks Her Father in the Face

by Enormous on October 20, 2007

Life and Death, Space and Time, Fate and Chance: these are the forces of the Universe – well, the more generally accepted ones, anyway. There is another, lesser-known universal force: Sleeping Dog; and I hereby propose that it is this force that is the Most Powerful of Them All.

Last night, Audrey, who sleeps next to me on the bed, was dreaming about fighting tom cats. In her dream, I fancy she saw herself as a hairy Bruce Lee as she bravely battled against the inscrutable legions of feline evil.

I realised long ago how adept at Kung Fu my little dog was becoming. She is graceful in the air and swift and deadly when she attacks. But I never for one moment thought that her prowess in the martial arts would ever be directed towards me.
At about three o’clock this morning, I received to the right eye, one of the most vicious and unexpected kicks that it has ever been my experience to, well, erm . . . experience. She made me bleed.

She did not do it on purpose, of course; and I was so proud of her because the powerful blow was delivered with such expert precision and professionalism, that I never stood a chance. But even so, I was slightly miffed. It came from one of her muscular back legs, too, which ensured that the damage was more substantial and gory than it perhaps might have been had she karate-chopped me with one of her forepaws.

A few nights ago, I turned over on my pillow and her wet nose was right there, pressed suddenly up against mine. It wasn’t very dark in the bedroom and I could clearly see her eyes open immediately very wide in surprise, as did mine. There we were, nose-to-nose, suddenly finding ourselves in an unusual and potentially embarrassing nocturnal situation. What she did next really made me giggle. She merely turned over, snuggled back into the soft pillow and let out a soft and gentle groan of comfy pleasure. Women!

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