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!