I'm on a beach with a beautiful blonde girl (Merche or Yanka?) She says 'I love you' and leans forward to kiss me, at which moment I realise I'm really Lemmy Caution in Alphaville. I dash back to my dingy Parisian-style flat, go to my room on the 4th floor and desperately cram things into purses, wallets, suitcases. Just as I finish I hear a key click in the door. I stand on a chair in the corner of the room while the film-noir 'baddie' enters, and as he does so I leap down and out of the room, down the stairwell in 4 giant bounds and think to myself 'I can get the rest of mys tuff later if he doesn't realise I haven't taken it now' Obviously it's something important.
I'm going busking with two friends (both male and younger) It's a fiesta and we're late. People are starting to move. We go to the entrance of a tube station to set up but no one at all comes past so we move on to various places with the same result. We find ourselves on a deserted road (motorway) heading out of town, at the edge of a wood. The road seems to be still under construction. Still no people, no traffic - just us and a few road workers in the distance.

Fragments of a Long Dream.
Scrabbling down a rock face, sea at the bottom, sense of déja-vu. Looking for someone missing presumed dead (a girl, I think).
I go to Jamaica. It's my birthday. My present is to give my dog (an alsation) a ride in a hang-glider.
I wake up to Dvorjak's 4th symphony feeling very emotional.

I'm taking Peppy (our old family pet, the Yorkshire terrier) out for a walk. I have a very vivid memory of the way she used to strain at the leash in her desire to go faster. We end up in a field of grass half covered over with tall trees. The memory is so blissfully happy I'm nearly crying when I wake up.

I go to see a five-a-side game, Oxford vs. Chelsea on a full pitch. The ground is full. We find a place to perch right at the back but then decide to move down through the mayhem to the touchline. Chelsea get stuffed 4-0.

Shot At.
Me and John and Janette are walking through Zaragoza and some Spaniards see us and start shooting at us because we're Chelsea fans. One shot hits John but it turns out to be not so serious as it's only an air rifle.

Patricia in Sabadell.
I'm in a room with people I know from Sabadell, looking for Patricia. They say she doesn't even talk to them any more, puts the phone down and all that, then they beckon me through a door and there she is, sitting on Stan (the Welshman)'s knee (!).

Nasty Brothers.
I'm going to college but decide to go for a bike ride instead. I go to a cottage in the country where I know a family with lots of sons and gorgeous daughters. I'm with Aidan at first and we're practising. I start to smoke a J but someone comes in and tells me not to. (I remember being alone in a room , stoned, worrying about not knowing my new college timetable and already missing my first class).
I'm getting on well with one of the daughters. There are two horrible lads among the sons - one of them finds a syringe in her room and assumes I'm a heroin dealer so punishes the two of us by beating us up then wrapping us in cloth and forcing us to watch some kind of 'show' which involves a woman pretending to eat someone's eye, which oozes out between her teeth, then we're chucked in a waste paper skip and left for dead. The refuse lorry comes round and I'm swearing revenge as the bin men tip us in but it tips us into one of those things that churn up the rubbish and it's all full of shit and cement so it looks like we've had it.

(Here I wake up and when I fall asleep again I re-visit the dream)

I cycle up to the house a bit more sussed this time and as we're eating, the bad lads come round 'giving' people crap dope and then demanding payment for it. I refuse to be involved, go away and start copping off with one of the beautiful daughters. I have my hand on her knee, there's a kind of party atmosphere then some cops arrive to the surprise of everyone. I ask the girl to give me my packet of Rizlas back as I've left it in an obvious place on the table.

Three Part Dream.
I'm walking down a street of terraced houses with mum. We go into a bar - a long wooden room with a few men in it. Jurgen Klinsmann comes in with a back pack on. The barman doesn't recognise him and I joke about this. Consequently we don't get on very well (me and the barman). He says I have to go. I go and play football with the others with something that looks like a crumpled-up fag packet. I hit the post from a corner. The other team hits our post straight after.

Dream I had in Bolton in October 95.
I'm on a pavement talking to someone (Harry Taylor, my old French teacher at Canon Slade?) I've missed an appointment for something (an EFL job or course?) and I'm worried about it but decide to put on a brave face.


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