Last night I had a nocturnal extravaganza in my pyjamas. The Prince of Pop has never been up my strasse, but for some reason, in my dream, I was getting jiggy with Michael Jackson. We caught each other’s eye in my Grandma’s rhubarb patch and by the time we’d wandered up the garden path towards the outside toilet, we were horizontal. I don’t want to go into particulars but he had a barrel chest and squeaked like a guinea pig. After that, I went on an urban ramble with Liam Gallagher. It started well in a pub with lots of lager and cheery shoutiness but pretty soon, we were in the back of an icecream van watching a policewoman get run through by a bread knife. Liam was very masterful; urging me to drop my Strawberry Mivvi and leg it to a nearby park. Here, it got a bit blurry; I know at one stage I was straddled over a set of railings but that’s it. As far as dreams go, it doesn’t beat my recent night’s shenanigans, stuck in a wardrobe with Boris Becker and Virginia Wade but hey ho!
Posts Tagged ‘pyjamas’
I know it’s spring, not only because of seeing the odd flip flop but also because insects have started to copulate in my back bedroom. Yesterday, I tried to prize apart a couple of teensy flies who were bareback riding in amongst my brussel sprouts seedlings but unfortunately, I was a bit cack handed; it wasn’t so much coitus interruptus as coitus squashus; I only hope they were in the afterglow and not coming up to a rolling boil! Anyway, to continue on a theme of frustration, I went to see Archipelago at the cinema last night. It was set on a windswept island and mostly consisted of four people who didn’t much like each other, moaning, eating dinner, having long conversations about lobsters, and going to, and getting out of, bed. Every now and again, a Tony Blair lookie likie popped by to talk deep and meaningless, mostly to a young man who wore striped pyjamas and had a talking teddy (yes, it was as bad as that). To relieve the middle class ennui, there was a couple of scenes with working class people selling dead animals. As a result, I now know how to dress a pheasant which is a level of take-out not usually experienced from a cinematic environment. Anyway, there must have been a lot of weak bladders in the audience, either that, or people were leaving the screen in order to stab themselves in the eye in an effort to relieve the torpidity. Of course, they could have been going to complain that, in the distance, while riding his sit up and beg through the island’s windswept lanes, Edward’s corduroy trousers were a bit of a blur. We found out later that the Duke’s has had some men in and the focus has gone all doolally. I now feel a bit doolally myself!
Today I woke up with a start. I’d just had a minor disagreement with Gary Kemp who was, I think, jealous that his younger brother and fellow Spandau ballet dancer, Martin, had invited me to his apartment with a view to naughtiness. Luckily, there was a cocktail bar next door so Martin and I decamped and did some light snogging on a beautiful velour banquette but as per, just as it was getting interesting, Martin faded and I woke with my head buried in the pillow. I have to say, it’s an improvement on the night before’s dream when I’d won a competition to spend the night with Alan Bennett in a cheap motel. Alan didn’t have the charms of Martin plus he had a very ugly bedroom and I couldn’t bring myself to slide between his bri-nylon sheets, pyjamas or no pyjamas so…..This morning, I spent an hour flat on my back at Pilates with some very ugly bunions flapping around my ears, the property of the woman behind me. I suppose the weight of said bunions must have made it quite hard to control her legs. Anyway, during the oyster movement, she trumped. I have resolved to park my mat elsewhere.