Alan Garner came to visit me in my childhood. We sat in a Morris Minor on a hot, hot day. My legs stuck to the car seat.
The traffic on the A1 north of Newcastle was blocked solid. The only way you could now join the carriageway was to first reverse up the ramp, then continue along the hard shoulder backwards until you found a suitable spot to squeeze into the main queue heading south. This was a Saturday afternoon and we wondered just how dangerous it must be in the rush hour during the week.
I was the passenger as TPR tested out the terrifying technique. At one point he almost took out a cyclist, who was saved only by his quick action of leaping from his bike into the adjacent field. Once in the main queue of traffic we didn’t stay in our car long. An accident ahead had forced everyone out of their vehicles and we had to do the same. As we trudged along the road past the newly-dug graves there was nothing to do other than join in the chorus of the Deacon Blue songs along with everyone else.
Later on I met up with the Spice Girls. It was wonderful to be in their company again. The difference between their millionaire lifestyles and mine had no bearing on our friendship. Victoria Beckham even turned to me for fashion advice.
Everyone was seeking my advice on their artistic endeavours. First my boss asked my opinion of her latest magazine column. I had absolutely nothing to say about the content. It was composed in Gaelic and I couldn’t understand a word of it. I did, however, venture the criticism that the tiny typeface was barely legible.
Then I was approached by OM, who was making printed T shirts for the students. He’d got as far as the basic design, but needed some witty wording to stretch across the back. “How about a coded message in Java?” I suggested. Then I remembered that I had come across a whole web page of computing-related one-liners in the summer. I couldn’t remember the URL, but I knew someone who would have kept a record of it. I set off to find my mother. Although completely preoccupied with a hen weekend for one of her best friends, she confirmed that she had the web address somewhere in her Hotmail. Indeed, she had it on paper too – because, as might be expected, she lovingly prints out every e-mail message that I ever send to her.
We’d waited two hours at Digbeth coach station in Birmingham and still the 22:00 service to Edinburgh was not ready to depart. The tannoy announced that it would now leave at 02:00. This was far too late for us, so it looked like we would have to travel north in TPR’s old black Astra GTE after all.
Just before we set off I asked the station staff what had caused the delay to the bus. I expected an explanation that would refer to the lateness of the incoming service (or similar). The actual reason was that the driver had come into work dressed in a sequinned costume with long pointy shoes. They’d been forced to send him home again because it’s against the law to drive a bus if you’re dressed as a clown.
Although about to fly out to Missouri to give a lecture, I was hopelessly underprepared. I was trying to pack, even as Dame Maggie Smith had the hotel staff move all my possessions to the room next to her. This confusion meant I now had two of everything in my room, including two boxes of Meltis jelly sweets. I was also cooking a lamb stew, which I was meant to be taking to my American hosts, although I forgot this detail and ate the lot.
Meanwhile my sister ‘did my make-up’. This involved her brushing yellow powder over my forehead. It now seemed likely that I would not be allowed into the US because I looked so ill.
Russell Grant’s costume was one of the most daring ever seen on Strictly Come Dancing. His underpants had been embroidered in sparkling lurex columns ‘Vote Russell’.
While the crowd applauded I called out to someone in the kitchen. “Come and see what Russell Brand is wearing” and immediately realised my mistake.
Thirty years after I did it the first time, I was now moving into my hall of residence. This time round I was at ‘a Northern University’ but had no idea which one. When I lay on my single bed, I realised I could look down five floors all the way to the wooden jetty. Vertigo! Looking up at me was a group of people sitting in a boat, beckoning me to join them. Convinced this was a case of mistaken identity, I thought it would be more considerate of me to clear the fire escapes of all my unpacked cardboard boxes.
After tidying up, I went downstairs and saw RA standing with his back to me. He turned to look at me, smiled and gathered me in his arms for a long kiss. I tried to ignore the looks I got from fellow students. He was FAR too good looking for me.
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I was in a nightclub in Jamaica. The walls were mirrored and I spotted a man taking a bottle of rum and putting it into his jacket. I realised that I was in charge of security, along with Charlie Drake. We apprehended the man, removed the rum and even managed to send the thief away with a smile. We were a great team.
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Later, in another dream, I told Suggs about my dream about Charlie Drake. As we clicked on Charlie Drake’s Wikipedia entry we were astonished to discover that he had dictated the entry on his deathbed. It was his dying wish that not one word be changed.
Suggs and I sat in the back of a cab in Berlin. I was astonished to discover that the Olympic ice-rink had been built with a right of way for taxis. Twice we sped across the ice even as couples danced in front of the crowds.
Dreamaticus 