Wednesday, January 19, 2005


Sweet dreams are made of this

Last night, I dreamed that I was involved in a bar-room brawl after a bunch of Earlsdon biffos on the pool table took exception to my Grandfather and myself while we were enjoying a quiet game of golf in the corner. Then the bar was attacked by a bunch of terrorists in a helicopter, who shot the place to pieces before being overwhelmed by a bunch of American-style secret service guys in very smart dark suits.

I then dreamed that I was part of a military operation; my squad were deployed by parachute over a very big, very shallow lake, which was then bombed by Vultureman, a minor villain from Thundercats on some kind of flying contraption, as part of a diabolical scheme to render large portions of the Earth's surface uninhabitable, thereby jacking up the price of land everywhere else.

Then, I dreamed that I was struck by lightning on my bicycle, just as I was plunging down a nearly-vertical 200-metre descent on an unlit dual carriageway in the middle of the night in adverse weather conditions (a thunderstorm, obviously.)

I suspect that the reason for these nocturnal pyrotechnics may have been the pound of steak that I ate for dinner, which is currently sitting in my gut like a gypsy squatter.

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