Now in Multimedia Format

Inspired by the wonderful work of Jesse Reklaw, K. (frequent star of these narratives) has been in touch with his own rather beautiful visualisation of 'Bob Harding and Pirate Ship' (see below for the original). I think he got my hairline about right, too. Respect is most certainly due, and with a bit of luck the recent dream famine will be coming to an end soon!

Plat, and Fuel Crisis

Am driving (on the stretch of the M8 between Bishopton and Paisley, I think) when - suddenly - petrol becomes unavailable and all vehicles immediately switch to electrical power. Also as part of this transformation, cars (including my own) become smaller and closer to the ground, as well as running on tram/rail lines which are set into the motorway. It's delightful how everyone scoots around Scalectrix-like in silence...

Later, I see the new edition of a glossy news magazine. The leading article is about a woman named 'Plat' who is making the headlines.

Hamilton Suite

Some sort of gathering of musical people in the Hamilton Suite, Greenock. A lot of my company are preparing for a gig at the Dearkin (Dworkin? Deacon?) Festival which is being held in London. A poster for this event shows the venue, which is architecturaly spectacular, looking something like the Lloyds Bank building on its side - the interior is open, so it forms a sort of huge illuminated tunnel - or so it seems from the stylised monochrome treatment on the poster.

At one point I am standing at a urinal, but choose to urinate into a handy polythene bag instead. My friends and I all put on our white trousers before going home.

The Hamilton Suite was sited opposite the Tesco Supermarket on Rue End Street, Greenock and closed sometime in the 1980s

Concrete rendezvous

Meeting in a concrete bunker - St Peter's, Cardross-alike again. I notice a portion of the roof has given way since my last visit there, and discuss with my company the increasingly deteriorated state of this historic building. Rain outside and pools of water on the floor...

Pell-Mell

Was joining my old band for a jam/rehearsal. As often used to be the case, I felt slightly frustrated at difficulties in getting any coherent songs together; the whole thing didn't really work out. Was using my old black Yamaha drum machine.

Later, in an alternative vesrion of Greenock (my home town): with a bunch of people including my cousin K. we end up in an upper storey flat. He has a firework (it seems to be some sort of firework occasion) - just one, a Roman Candle, and lights it. To my mild distress he leaves it, unattended and sparking, resting on a window sill and pointing out of the open window. However, I later find that it has exhausted itself, and the sparks have crystallised somehow. They protrude in a spray from the charred cardboard tube, looking slightly like the fibre-optic lamps popular in the eighties, and flake and crumble upon touching in a similar way to a Chinese 'magic forest' or 'crystal garden'. Later, we go to see a recent innovation: a church which has been converted into an extremely steep indoor ski-slope. Two trough-like runs have been created, each begins at the level of the balcony, and ends up at the front row of pews, leaving the aisle clear for entrance and exit.

We spend some time wandering around this pseudo-Greenock, I am suprised to see bits (especially a small circus of tenement buildings around a private garden) which I don't recognise.

I am later taken to meet a moustachioed bloke who (at first) irritates me with his seemingly contrived eccentricity. He runs a graphic design business (there are colour swatches lying around the floor of his otherwise smarty house), and I rapidly assess that he fancies himself as something of a Vivian Stanshall. We end up discussing Stanshall, and I discover that he claims to have met Stanshall on at least one occasion). I also get the impression that this man shares with Stanshall a tendency to alcoholism. He shows me his piano - I am about to tinker with the keys, when he simultaneously shuts the lid on my hands and begins to play himself, somehow. However, I accompany him on another piano positioned at right angles to this one. My piano is older and a lot of the keys are badly out of tune, which annoys me, but we manage to enjoy a relatively harmonious session of twelve-bar blues. At one point when the music hits difficulties I am delighted to make my wife (J) laugh with the phrase "aaargh, everything's gone pell-mell!"

Later, I'm in a pseudo-Glasgow, trying to get home by bus. As always, I am interested to see parts of the city I don't normally visit, and this route takes a long diversion north towards the Campsie Hills, passing by a housing estate which I recognise as being marked on an Ordnance Survey map I have at home as a 'Disused Showground'.

K seems to be making regular appearances in my dreams lately - I wonder why, since I don't see him that often, and he doesn't occupy especially more time in my thoughts that some other members of my family who never feature (sorry K., don't take it personally!)

I saw my old band last week, which may have triggered their appearance. I never actually used the black Yamaha drum machine with the band. My friend F. told me a while back that his occasional client, Andy Arnold of the Arches Theatre in Glasgow had worked on Vivian Stanshall's 'Stinkfoot' in Bristol, which impressed me at the time and might have prompted the anecdote of the self-styled eccentric. I was in Greenock yesterday (and writing about this rare visit last night) , and that would seem to have prompted its appearance in this dream. The 'Disused Showground' reminds me a bit of Scotstoun in the real Glasgow, which is a functioning showground and calls itself such.

Adventure Holiday

I must have been back at school - two things point to this: the fact that I was on some kind of organised trip to a highland location with a largish amount of people of my own (younger than actuality) age, and the apperance of an old school aquaintance, K. B., who seemed much more friendly than I tend to remember him. The 'outdoor centre' was reached by bus round a long but narrow fjord surrounded by hilly, but not mountainous moorland - resembling the southern part of the Isle of Lewis, by Harris.

The 'centre' itself was fresh and rugged architecture, lots of pine facing and drystone walling. One feature - chairs known as 'lock chairs', in which either side and arm was fashioned as a huge padlock.

I'm struck by how this dream features this same style of building again - what does this mean about me and wood-stone-seventies outdoor structures? I would not read any simplistic meaning into the padlock 'symbol', I'm certain it's not a symbol of anything, more likely a random linguistic or shape-based thing.

Showbiz Party

All over the place with this one, and it was very enjoyable. A big party (or TV recording, or stage show or something), the company not only included my brother B. and friends A. and T., but also Bob Mortimer, Matt Lucas and Mark Lemarr. Even though I didn't know these showbiz types we all got on very well together and the quips were flowing thick and fast. A sort of holiday environment followed with lots of walking (a building with the general layout of St Peter's Seminary, Cardross featured), then a very jolly trip to the vet's with T's labrador, Cabot. The whole gang of us went along and sat at a long, plain table with the vet, a no-nonsense but cheerful lady. I was surprised and embarrassed when Lemarr began to roll a joint, but he exchanged jokes about this with her.

Can't explain this at all ('Shooting Stars' hasn't been on the telly for ages), but once again this seems to be an expression of what must be a deep subconscious desire to take a holiday.

Bus Ticket

The only thing I remember: trying to shield myself from gunfire by holding up a bus ticket (it was all I had in my pockets).

A New Life

Begins as I arrive at small, attractive, modern but rustically-built complex by the sea somewhere in Scotland - judging by the bleached look of stone and wood, and the dune grasses, Western Isles? I am working or studying here, and have been allocated a couple of rooms at the sea-facing end - it is otherwise occupied by people I vaguely know.

Later I am visiting/staying at a much larger complex somewhere nearby. I am accompanied by J. and my friend G. This group of buildings (at times resembling parts of Stansted Airport or Cumbernauld Town Centre) is dedicated to one purpose; people are here to work, and here in substantial numbers. As we explore, we discover not only that the complex includes shops, offices, auditoria and a partially-underground railway station, but also that entrance and exit is strictly controlled. As interlopers without roles or accreditation, we will be unable to leave! We make an attempt to escape by train, but find that unless we are to be discovered, the only way to avoid identity or ticket checks is to return to our station again. Eventually, while exploring some offices (very seventies in style, much tongue-and-groove pannelling), I discover a half-open window. I squeeze through it - G. follows (J. seems to have disappeared by this point) out onto a small balcony/roof area, then drop down into a field of some kind of cereal, and liberty.

Therafter, a dream of paranoia and pursuit. A long journey through fields and lanes, avoiding encounter with any passers-by. At one point we see, rising in the distant sky, a shape somewhat like the silhouette of a stealth bomber... this splits into smaller shapes and rearranges itself, then again - now shapes resembling geese or crows silently reforming above the horizon. This is a grim sight indeed - we know it to be the pursuit (craft?) of the authorities, and necessitates a long period of hiding, attempting to avoid detection from the air. Later I lose G. - a slight feeling that he has either been caught, or decided to make his own way; it's certainly too dangerous for me to try to find him.

Eventually (days later?) I find myself on a small, rocky peninsula, high above crashing waves. I know that I will have to make my new life here, and I feel OK about that. As long, I think, as I am left alone and free from danger. I speculate that there may be a cave further down towards the shore where I can equip myself to survive, and put together my new life.

I seem to remember looking at a map (a road map, and therefore at a much smaller scale than I would like) and realising I was on the coast somewhere near Irvine.

All Quiet

Yep, as I suspected - a dream famine. This could go on for days/weeks - I'll be in touch once it all starts coming back to me.

Car Park

Mainly set around a classy hotel on a cold day. On holiday, or a trip of some kind. Discussing some issue with two disagreeing groups of people in the car park outside.

I suspect I'm heading for a period of dream famine - or at least dream-remembering famine.

London

Was in London - that's all I can remember.