Wet dreams and a wet arse

Last week, the Artist formerly known as Prince hosed me down in my back garden. He’d come over for a chat about Sheena Easton and his Power Generation but somehow the conversation turned to sweat. It turns out that my shower was bust and I was ponging so Prince offered to wash me. As this was a dream, I was wearing my dad’s big white shirt and no pants. Needless to say, Prince did a very thorough job; quite a feat when you consider he was wearing a pair of very high heels and tight purple leggings. This was in neat contrast to my previous night’s dream where I’d had a visit from Johnny Rotten who’d been sent a poison pen letter along the lines of ‘I want to gouge your eyes out and set fire to your privates’. Naturally, I offered to become Johnny’s bodyguard and we took a train to his North London hovel where he insisted I cuddle him better. The next morning I woke up with the after-taste of Johnny’s green teeth in my mouth which was appropriate, considering I was going to the dentist for a check-up. Unfortunately, as I cycled down town the heavens opened and we had a hailstorm of Biblical proportions. The hailstones were pinging in all directions, upstairs and downstairs and in my ladies chamber and despite my best efforts to stay dry, by the time I’d arrived at the surgery I was sodden in the bottom. (People without bikes never understand why saddles absorb so much water in wet weather but take it from me, they do.) My new dentist, a dark hairy Greek with a side-line in sarcasm, merely laughed at my discomfort, telling me I’d feel better when he’d extracted two teeth. I said, ‘Demis, save your gallows humour for your drowning nation.’ He didn’t laugh at that!