So last night I was in my old bedroom at my mum and dads. Weird thing was the gerbils I used to keep were still there even though nobody thought to water or feed them in the past 20 odd years. Anyway, while I’m fussing with the poor malnurished blighters an aeroplane flies over head out side. I look out of the window and see a little parachute dart being thrown out of the plane. It opens and falls onto the bit of the garden where the conservatory is now but never used to be.
For two nights in a row I’ve had some crazy bat shit dreams.
Tuesday night culminated in me trying to keep hold of a rather cheeky looking snake while walking through Woolton village and last night found me being asked by my boss to take a mature student home to perform sexual services as part of her degree, I was concerned by this not because it is totally not in my job description but because I have deadlines on Monday and it would have prevented me from doing my work.
Coming up in the news for today:
Prescription drugs. Does putting in a prescription on Wednesday mean your drugs are available on Friday? We find out.
Selling your house. Why might people not want to buy my lovely house?
Taking time off work. As deadlines loom, more and more student assistant librarians are taking time off to finish assignments. Will 3 ½ hours extra work really make that much of a dent in one’s output?
Goodfella’s Meat Feast Pizza. It claims to be a new and improved recipe but still there isn’t enough cheese. We find out why.
And toast. Do you know which side your toast is buttered?
Last night I was part of a group of people who had uncovered a sinister government plot (similar to the second hand television sales plot) in which a nasty virus was to be used against the population. Through all manner of events eventually there were three of us left. We had a canister of strange green gloop which we had smuggled into a hospital for analysis. It was going well until one of the three decided to ingest some of the green gloop which rapidly started to make him feel very sick and cause him to do all sorts of weird muscle spasms.
Worried I ran into an adjacent room to try and call 999. The telephone was on the blink and the people at the other end kept saying “An Ambulance? But you’re in a hospital!” which of course caused the sinister government organisation to realise that we were in the hospital and issued a lock down. The other person (a woman) and I managed to try to escape from the building up some stairs. Unfortunately the sinister governmental types recognised her and arrested her. This meant I was on my own and I had to tell the world about the sinister goings on.
Escaping onto the streets, I ran while looking for someone to pass the information onto. I was running through streets of those old victorian workers terraced houses. It was then I bumped into Chris Herbert (who I always seem to bump into in these sorts of dreams, though in the second hand television selling dream he was in with the sinister organisation) and I immediately passed on the details to him. That didn’t stop the sinister government types though, they still tried to get me. Thats when they brought them out. The crack team of comedy inflatable breasted vampiresses in tight fitting black pvc cat suits armed, this time, with hypodermic needles filled with green gloop.
I then felt a heavy weight on my chest. Small pin like things pierced my skin and a cold but furry nose touched my face. I woke with a start, got out of bed and went down stairs to feed my saviours. Mrs Mop and Yoda.
Last night I discovered that one of the gerbils i used to keep as a teenager was still alive and in a bad way seeing how nobody had cleaned or fed the poor bugger for 20 years. So I cleaned the cage and gave him some food and water. He seemed a little happier :).
So last night I donned my tartan pyjamas, picked up teddy and hopped into bed at a respectable hour as opposed to “ungodly o clock because Warcraft is addictive”. The reason behind the early night will become clear after the weekend (because I like to add a dash of mystery to my entries these days). Anyway, I had but just nodded off, the opening credits for the nights dreamingses were starting and went something like this:-
A Stegzy Gnomepants Dream
Dreamed in GlorioustechnicolourAvril Lavigne
and The Tight fitting cat suited lesbian vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts
Steamy Sex Orgies on Underground Trains Vs the Binbaggers and that woman with the green poison VIII
In soft focus
Avril Lavigne – Ooh Thelma Blair, Liv Tyler and Hayden Panettiere come and help me rub this olive oil into my pert nipples while I do rude things to Kirsten Dunst with this cucumber. You fuckin bastard I fuckin hate you you fucking cunty bastard sweary sweary bum bum
Shouty Man on street out side – You fucking bitch I fucking hate you I’m going to smack you yadda yadda yadda shouty shouty shouty
Back to real life with a start
At this point I woke up. Very annoyed. I mean just what rude things did she mean? What a point to start and end a dream! Vexxed and annoyance levels heightened by the fact that my bedside alarm clock revealed I had but been asleep for 20 minutes, I looked toward the window in response to the shouty man on the street outside who was still shouting, wtf was going on?
Shouty Man on street out side – I’m fucking gonna slap you just fuck off fucking fuck fuck fuck slap hurt bitch arrgh toilet roll fucking pot noodle
Shouty Woman – Just fuck off you fucker
By the window Mrs Gnomepants was peeping out down onto the street with all the subtlety of a flamboyance of flamingoes in a blizzard. I shuffled grumpily toward the window listening intently. There on the street was a car, the doors wide open and a rather shouty shouty man shouting at some woman, getting rather rough and slapping her about a bit. Obviously drunk (the police in South Yorkshire don’t give two flying fucks about rural drink driving so it is rife) the man was seriously and scarily shouting at everyone in the street that he had roused from their slumber, who had obviously also started to peep out of their bedroom windows, instructing them to “FOKIN MIND YO’ ORN FOKIN BIZNIS”. At which point I shrugged and thought well fuck it then, and climbed back into bed.
Mrs Gnomepants called the police. Not to inform them of my disinterest in local drunks fighting it out on the street, but because she was concerned that a woman had been assaulted (Believe me the woman was giving that bloke a better slapping than he was giving) and that there was a drunk driver on the street and could the police come. Shouty man and Shouty woman went separate ways, shouty woman headed towards Grimethorpe still shouting at shouty man even though shouty man had driven off noisily (and dangerously) toward Pontefract Road.
As I desperately tried to get back to the sticky girl on girl action in Dream Theatre, I could hear Mr Shouty Man squeeling about further up the road and Mrs Shouty Woman screeching like a banshee in the other direction.
Honestly, it’s people like that that give booze a bad name.
Eventually I nodded off:-
Avril Lavigne – (Licking buttercream off her fingers while zipping up the all in one tight fitting pvc catsuit over her rather curiously large voluminous comedy inflatable breasts) Right then Drew, Lets get him
Drew Barrymore – (Brandishing a rather large hypodermic syringe filled with green liquid) Ok but don’t forget to bring those bin bags
Bastards. I always seem to miss the best bits.
Last night the terrifying tight fitting PVC cat suit wearing vampiresses with comedy inflatable breasts took a break from trying to get me. Instead passing the mantle to the bin-baggers.
Bin-baggers? You ask. Bin-baggers. Terrifying collective of people who stop people on the street, at home or other unlikely place then cover the head of their victim with a black bin bag which then develops a life of it’s own and takes over the host body. You can tell a binbagger through their completely black eyes and the way they talk to you in sinister reassuring tones.
Fortunately I managed to escape their world domination plans and help fight with the resistance (using posters and compact discs) from our base which was W H Smith in Church Street, Liverpool. We were also fortunate enough to have Samuel L Jackson and Bruce Willis on our side. Whether or not the binbaggers were successful in their attempts to take over the world I do not know as I was awoken by a hungry furry pawy purry thing.