Dreams

[Slim]

Oh yes I did see them supporting Motorhead on the Bomber tour, that would have been the second time I saw them. Then the Brain Damage Party would have been the third and last.

[Slim]

I'm in a record shop - the old-fashioned kind, with wooden racks and LPs - and I'm looking for Colin Blunstone records. I'd never buy vinyl in real life - so I suppose this dream is a throwback to the past.

My younger brother's there as well. Someone has given us a huge box of chocolates, a big tray about 2ft square filled with them. I don't particularly want to eat them all now but he's already started, and before I know it about 2/3 of them are gone.

I think I must have had this dream after waking up, putting 6 Music on then drifting off to sleep again, because Maconie did play a Colin Blunstone record.

[Slim]

I'm watching Top Of The Pops. Some band or other is playing their latest record, featuring the sonorous tinkling of an electric piano.

But wait, doesn't that piano player look familiar? The camera zooms in on him, slowly. As the identity of the band's keyboard artiste becomes apparent, the studio audience begins to boo, loudly.

It's Jimmy Savile.

[Nick]

Was meeting someone in a hotel. The meeting floor inside was a series of huge swimming pools in all shapes and sizes and all interlinked. As I swam there was an artist at the side of the pool painting images of horses hoofs, there was supposedly some great art mystery about it but I never found out what it was.

[Slim]

I'm lying in bed with a woman. There's nothing sexual going on, and there are other people in the room. I'm talking to her, she wants to talk about politics and I tell her I'm a Tory. I think I also tell her my name is Richard for some reason. In the dream, perhaps it is.

One of the other people in the room joins in the conversation, and climbs into bed with us. I think there were something like four of us in the bed at one point. Naturally this is uncomfortable, so I get out. Then I'm packing a large suitcase.

[David L]

I'm lying in bed with a woman. There's nothing sexual going on, and there are other people in the room. I'm talking to her, she wants to talk about politics and I tell her I'm a Tory. I think I also tell her my name is Richard for some reason. In the dream, perhaps it is.

One of the other people in the room joins in the conversation, and climbs into bed with us. I think there were something like four of us in the bed at one point. Naturally this is uncomfortable, so I get out. Then I'm packing a large suitcase.

You are Boris Johnson! Of course, you are lying about your name 

[Slim]

I'm out in the country somewhere. It's early morning, not yet full light. I'm in a field, but there's a a small stone house about 20 metres away.

A large group of swans, or white geese are sleeping, tightly packed into a circular shape in the field. Like a huge Polo mint formed of aquatic birds.

I have a hand grenade. But instead of being heavy and made of metal, it's like a tennis ball - soft and a bit squidgy. I want to throw it. After thinking about it I pull the pin, then I allow the safety lever to spring free. I look at it for a moment, then I throw it, in the opposite direction of the birds.

It doesn't go quite as far as I wanted. I wait for it to go off, but it doesn't.

[Slim]

Oh yes later in the morning I had another dream. I'm sitting next to an old colleague of mine called Mike, we're in a cafe somewhere. One of the waitresses is wearing a white dress but it's far too short and her entire bum is showing. She's about 25 and she has a fantastic body. She tries to pull the dress down once or twice but it's no use.

[David L]

I was in LA and got friendly with Peter Frampton. He fixed us drinks at his place, possibly rum or cocktails of some sort. Very odd shaped glasses that kept slipping down in your hands.
He took me around the town and pointed out all his undesirable acquaintances that led him astray whilst he was there. He told me he was leaving LA to live just outside Ipswich.
Later, I returned to visit Peter in LA as he'd invited me to an awards ceremony. I was with someone else(?) and we each had small hire cars like Fiat Pandas. I picked up Peter and his gay(?) brother. I followed the other car over a roundabout and just avoided colliding with two other cars. The next thing I know, we are on a huge freeway, going the wrong way! I can see carnage in the rear-view mirror and ahead of us as cars try to avoid us but we don't get hit, as if we are floating above the road. Hundreds of cars are being totalled.
I pull over and say to Peter, "this will cost us millions". He replies,
"We are ruined"

[Slim]

I'm watching some sort of parade with guardsmen in bearskins. Some of them are wearing red bearskins, some are wearing black bearskins. I have a semi-aerial view, as though I'm watching from an upper floor in a nearby building. I think they're marching along Whitehall.

As I watch, a guardsman runs to take his place and slot into the parade, while they march. He's late. They're marching four abreast. But his bearskin is the wrong colour! The different colours make up a sort of symmetrical pattern. He hurriedly changes places with the guardsman to his right.

[Slim]

I had a variation of my recurring train dream. In this one I'm in London, and trying to go somewhere using the tube network, or local trains. I get off at a stop where I think I'll be able to change trains to get where I'm going. But as I walk up the steps away from the platform I think that I've left my briefcase on the train, although I'm not sure I had it with me.

Also had a sweet dream in which I'm at some sort of informal work meeting. There's a young woman present, about 30 years old, short brown hair, very chic. She's obviously attracted to me and as we're standing talking, she moves very close to me. I ask if she's noticed that my accent is different from the other English people present (I think she's from the continent somewhere), because the others are all from the south, and I retain a vestigial trace of generic Northern in my own velvet tones.

I can't remember what she said. But I kissed her softly on the lower lip. Then I woke up.

[David L]

I had a variation of my recurring train dream. In this one I'm in London, and trying to go somewhere using the tube network, or local trains. I get off at a stop where I think I'll be able to change trains to get where I'm going. But as I walk up the steps away from the platform I think that I've left my briefcase on the train, although I'm not sure I had it with me.

Also had a sweet dream in which I'm at some sort of informal work meeting. There's a young woman present, about 30 years old, short brown hair, very chic. She's obviously attracted to me and as we're standing talking, she moves very close to me. I ask if she's noticed that my accent is different from the other English people present (I think she's from the continent somewhere), because the others are all from the south, and I retain a vestigial trace of generic Northern in my own velvet tones.

I can't remember what she said. But I kissed her softly on the lower lip. Then I woke up.

Shame. Would've been a banger if it had ended with you kissing her softly on the left lip   

[Slim]

I'm in a bar somewhere. It's an unsophisticated place. I think it might be a pub I went to once in East Leake.

I order a whisky and soda, and it comes in a disposable plastic cup - the sort that you buy in a stack of 20. But while I'm paying for it, Jamie Vardy sneaks up to the counter and steals it. He's very short.

I walk over to the table where he's sitting. He stands up. I take the drink back. I ponder what I should do if he kicks off. I decide just to punch him. Sure, he's younger than me. He's fit. He's aggressive. But he's only 5 ft tall.

But he grabs the whisky and soda, takes a big mouthful and blows a big raspberry right in my face. I've got whisky-scented footballer saliva in my eyes.

I wake up.

[Slim]

I'm sitting at a table in a front garden. I think it's in East Dulwich, where I lived in London. The house has French windows at the front and they're open. I'm the guest of a lady there and her daughter. The front garden is very small, just a narrow space between the front of the house and the pavement.

The lady who owns the house walks through the French doors out into the garden with a cake. It's a chocolate cake, quite small and shallow, about the size of a tea plate. It has cream in it.

I hear a bird squawk behind me in a tree on the other side of the street. It's a budgie. South London wouldn't be the same without them, she says.

She asks me to cut the cake. As I sink the knife into it, the cream starts to ooze out. It's runny, almost like milk. It bleeds out copiously and overwhelms the tin-foil base the cake is standing on, onto the table.

[Nick]

Kept pulling out small bits of plastic that were embedded in my left ear canal.

This may relate to my ongoing tinnitus and worrying about hearing loss.