Today I went to deliver the Salford Star with Stephen Kingston and we were caught up in the frenzy of pompous suited and booted political types who didn’t want to look at our lovely magazine about the common man. We Met Tony Benn and Alastair Darling. Alaistair Darling’s bodyguard thrust us aside. We bumped into John Prescott. Of course we refrained from any egg throwing, and did not receive subsequent punches. Oh, We met the secretary of Mr Blair, who is incidentally a journalist. He did not want to read it either, still it was all good fun!
Dreams, but not about John Prescott
I came home and fell asleep. Then I awoke with a start. There was banging. My drum kit became possessed. Had it turned evil and started playing itself? I awoke with a start. In my sleepy reverie I had been on a bus with the Spice Girls. They were judging local acts on a tour bus. The same bus had just toured me round the most amazing colour coordinated mens clothing emporium. John Prescott wasn’t there thankfully. Its another determination of mine to write my dreams down, I am sure they can be good to some purpose.
I felt spooked. I ventured downstairs to check no one was in my house. Why it it always skeletons or corpses I think I am going to see grinning manaically at me from behind a closed door? A quick search revealed nothing, however I locked the conservatory and pulled down the blinds from within, to prevent any ghoulish spectres from entering the main house. After a call to a male friend who can always of course protect one from evil, I felt better and settled back in bed, where I have remained hence wide awake with nothing to do but reorganise my facebook.
This is a lie, of course I have tonnes to do but this kind of tidies out my mind. More ramblings soon when Ive furnished myself with more crack.. truth is I only had milk so whats that all about?