Dream interlude

Ah dreams… Aren’t they fucked up? At least, mine are. When I can remember them anyway. What follows is a description of what the Sandman decided to hurl my way last night. I warn you though – it makes little sense, and may not be in entertaining in the slightest. Enjoy!

Not as weird as this. Apologies.

It begins on a street. There is a mob, and I am amongst them. They are angry, shouting, gesturing… Up the street, where two young people, a guy and a girl, presumably protesters of some kind, ruggedly handsome in that unwashed way that all us protesters look, are being shepherded across the road by police officers. There are not many cops around though, and our numbers totally dwarf theirs. In fact, there are literally no barriers between us and them. It seems that we are being held back by some invisible force – our own fear. They are crossing from a mansion-esque building, the sort you’d find on a country estate in England, to a large, blocky hotel. The sort you’d find in just about every western city in the world.

Suddenly, Rita Harold (of all people) appears, whirling into a frenzy and kicking the absolutely shit outta the police. Completely single-handed, and completely awesome. The hordes cheer, only to be stunned into silence when a vehicle, entirely shiny silver but looking like an armoured winnebago, careers into the far end of the street and, apparently, able to slow down but unable to stop, thumps softly into the side of the hotel. The rear doors spring open and out jump multiple uniformed thugs, apparently some sort of ill-equipped SWAT team, dressed in khaki and sporting blue baseball caps.

For some reason, entirely out of character I might add, I am at the front of the crowd at this point, and when we see the pseudo-SWAT team leap from the armoured vehicle, clearly about to take down Rita, I let out a yell and charge towards them. The people behind me quickly follow, and an almighty tear-up begins…although I completely miss my punch on the lead guy and he grabs me in a headlock, pummeling me-

-and in those random transitions that only happen in dreams, we are suddenly fighting in what resembles the front lobby of a department store. And now the SWAT fellas all seem to look decidedly hispanic and are wearing the sort of ugly blue shirt that is unmistakably the uniform of a shop hand-

-woo, another random transition! On some sort of promenade/verandah thing, and it is my girlfriend Saoirse’s birthday. I’ve got her something really thoughtful, a book or some shit, and she is decidedly unimpressed. She dumps me, or at least that is my interpretation. In the dream she is incredibly ambiguous, delivering this devastating news with something flippant and throwaway, along the lines of, ‘That coulda gone better. Better luck next time’ or some such.

I storm off, into an arcade which is somehow right on top of the promenade, and begin playing a staggeringly realistic 3D game which looks for all the world like a modern version of Micro Machines – remember them? I fucking LOVED them when I was a kid – and some bored teens gather to watch. They are impressed, but mock me nonetheless. I definitely am exceptionally pissed off, so I return to Saoirse only to find that the promenade/verandah/whatever-the-fuck is now a dancefloor, uncannily similar to that at my Ashfield Debs in the La Touche Hotel in Greystones.

On the dancefloor, while I’m talking with friends trying to work out Saoirse’s whereabouts, some dick pushes into me and starts giving it large. During this, his drink – a pint of Guinness – flies backwards out of his hands, and not only does it not break, but an employee picks it off the stage where it landed and hands it back to him, and now it has a huge head for some reason. (Does this happen when a container of Guinness hits the floor, I wonder?)

I threaten to glass him, and he laughs and says something about my not having the guts (or words to that effect) so I simply punch him in the face with my left hand. (This is extraordinarily unlikely for at least 3 reasons: 1. I’m petrified of confrontation 2. I’m so right-handed that my left is barely good for anything, and 3. Why didn’t I just glass him?!) He stumbles back, only a step or two, but enough to bump into a tall, slim-figured blonde in a turqoise dress which is then stained her subsequently-spilled drink. He barely gets one syllable of a grovelling apology out of his mouth before he is glassed – by her.

At this point I remember grinning evilly and then legging it. Somehow, for no discernible reason whatsoever, I find that my nose is bleeding. In the dream, in made perfect sense – I was convinced that I had been hit, by the guy or someone else. If I was, I don’t recall it now. Anyway, soon this slight bleed has become a torrent, turning my hands completely red as I try to stem the flow, and resulting in lots of shocked looks on the faces of all the random bods I pass by.

At this point I’m a jumbled up confusion of emotions from this bizarre topsy-turvy experience…

And then I woke up.

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…✲

Yeah. I’m really sorry.

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About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
This entry was posted in Gibberish and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Dream interlude

  1. ipantsless says:

    I apologise on behalf of dream-Saoirse and graciously accept your dream-gift of a book or some shit. Thank you πŸ™‚

  2. sebthered says:

    Seriously, dream-Saoirse is a bitch, I dunno what her problem is! πŸ™‚

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