Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Last Night I Dreamt....

Maude and I share everything – hopes, fears, dreams. She asked me why I hadn’t slept very well on Sunday night and was even more tired than usual for the start of the working week. I explained that I had been distressed by a bad dream. ‘What?’ she asked 'a proper nightmare?’.

‘Worse than that,’ I answered.

I explained that my dream had featured my finally striking up a friendship with Morrissey. (I once declined an invitation to a party in Manchester – unaware that The Smiths were there. This has obviously stayed with me). I went on to describe how Morrissey had brewed his best tea for me. He had poured it from a teapot swaddled in a tea cosy bearing the combative image of Pat Phoenix and then served it in China cups. The cups chimed beautifully when replaced in their saucers. We had lovely muffins, freshly toasted on Morrissey's open fire – all the while talking about our favourite books, the highlights of ‘kitchen sink’ cinema and trying to quantify just how much Manchester had to answer for. The phone kept ringing and he fielded calls from Nancy Sinatra and Alan Bennett – explaining that he had a far more important new friend and it was highly unlikely that he would need their company any more. It was then that the dream took a dark turn. Morrissey had just asked for my help.

‘Please please PLEASE! have a look at the songs for my new album – I’m really not too sure about them.’

Morrissey then crossed the room and rifled through a leather satchel. He produced a large scrapbook with the legend ‘My New Songs’ stencilled on the cover. He fumbled a little, put on his reading glasses and made to return to me at the hearth. My second muffin was very nearly done to perfection. Morrissey’s face now wore an expression of profound relief. He had obviously been carrying a great deal of worry about the quality of the new songs and saw in me a kindred spirit - someone who would add the necessary polish to get the songs to recordable quality.

Morrissey’s body was then struck by a terrible spasm. His hands dishevelled his cardigan and clutched at his chest. He then fell, dead, on the deep-pile carpet.

Of course I awoke at this point.

Maude looked unmoved by the events of my dream.

‘I tend to dream about family and friends,’ observed Maude. ‘You know, the people who matter to me…..you.’

‘I dream about you as well, dear.’

Maude looked unconvinced and continued.

‘I dream about the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.’

I pointed out that I was still upset and she really should keep her threats to herself.


  1. Your dream subject is so much more worthy than mine- what the hell was I doing dreaming about flipping Gordon Ramsay last night? And yes, it was one of THOSE dreams.

    Also, heroes are best never met- it's maybe a good thing you never made it to that party.

  2. Anonymous12:50 am

    I never missed out on any parties attended by The Smiths but on my very first night at Wolverhampton Polytechnic all those years ago I met a bloke who was off to see them playing at a gig just round the corner- and I shyly turned down the invitation to go along with him. Shyless may be nice.. but the triumphant Wolverhampton gig of 1986 went down in musical history (to inadvertently paraphrase an album track you will be familiar with) and I have ever since regretted my decision to stay in my halls room and listen over and over to my 12-inch single of UB40s 'Rat In The Kitchen' instead of walking round the block to witness Morrissey in his chrysanthemum-brandishing prime.

    That said, my dreams like those of Missy M tend to boast much less iconic subjects, such as the ex-Newcastle United midfielder Peter Cartwright. They're not THOSE sort of dreams though, before anyone asks, hell no....

  3. Peter Cartwright? I'll have to look him up on one of those 'Toon Legends' type sites.

    What is it with the Gordon Ramsay thing? The Mount Rushmore face, the boorish vulgarity, the absence of any real wit. Maude impulsively bought his 'memoirs' - she couldn't finish it.

  4. Re Ramsay: I had no choice! I woke up feeling quite icky, actually.

    And then the other night I dreamt I met Nick Cave and got my photo taken with him. I woke up next day livid. I have to shag bloody Ramsay and then I meet my all time No1 fantasy bloke, the Cavester and I get my bloody photo taken with him!!!

    Thank you very much, subconscious! Don't do me any flipping favours, will you?

  5. Anonymous11:51 pm

    Mr Chocolate: Cartwright was signed for a matter of pennies from North Shields (this was in the days NUFC used to specialise in bargain basement buys from local non-league football, a policy that saw its most auspicious success with the signing of one C Waddle from Tow Law Town) and enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame on account of bagging a brace at Roker Park in the first leg of a tied League Cup tie eventually lost on penalties to our perennial Wearside rivals (Jim Pearson's fateful, parried spot-kick bringing the curtain down on a never-to-be-forgotten Gallowgate evening). Nowadays, according to the respected fansite nufc.com, the diminutive all-action midfielder has hung up his boots and plies his trade as a schoolteacher in his native Northumberland.

    (Oh and if the sports editor of the Evening Chronicle happens to be reading, I can bang this stuff out fourteen to the dozen any time you like and am available at very competitive rates...)

  6. Anonymous5:50 pm

    I've just peaked John x