I am supposed to be flying to the moon in the prototype of a new spacecraft. I insist that I am too fat to get through the door, then discover that this is not the case. The two other astronauts are Gerry Rafferty and “Gerry Rathbone”, who seems actually to be Sammy Davis, Jr. — they seem to have been chosen because they both at one time were part of a double act with George Burns. The spacecraft barely manages to leave the atmosphere before coming back down, but lands safely. The spacecraft is then put on display inside Glasgow School of Art — somehow it’s only about a foot across and displayed on a small plinth. I decide to sign the spacecraft with the name of a Scottish woman artist, who I later hear objects strongly to this. I overhear a telephone conversation which reveals that the artist is actually the pseudonym of a Japanese man who works as a hospital porter — I start contributing works to the pseudonymous oeuvre. I remember trying to figure out how to post writing anonymously on the web — I set up a website and am surprised to discover an elaborate stylesheet already in place which formats the work I post there in ways I can’t predict. The last thing I remember, which might be a completely different dream, is a female performance artist with incredibly beautiful breasts, running topless across a playing field with her brother who looks like Gary: Tank Commander. Then there’s a video interview with the performance artist, who is lying down wearing a tank top. She talks about something that she’s basically given up, but still relapses into doing fourteen times a year. The interviewer asks her to demonstrate her two singing voices — the high falsetto one, and her regular voice. The dream ends before she does so.
What appears to be the torso of an unidentified large sea creature is brought up from the depths and laid out on a bed in my mother’s house – I have to gather up the long, trailing intestines, as thick as a human leg, and lay them on the bed beside the creature. I go out and forget this has happened, then come back and realise with a jolt that it is still there. My mother berates me for leaving the creature to die, though it looks no more (or less) dead than it did before. The name “Hermione” is associated with this part of the dream – I’d been reading about David Bowie (“Letter to Hermione”) and about H.D. (“HERmione”) the previous day, and also about ambergris in whale intestines.
Later, I’m possibly in Cork, trying to get out of a large building full of energetic children milling around – I am with a nice French woman. We follow the crowd, hoping to find the exit, but take a wrong turning and lose everybody. We are told that the exit we need is via the roof garden restaurant, so we go that way. The waitress asks if I am in a hurry: I say that I have a train to catch, but not till 11pm, which is five or six hours away. The waitress recommends that we eat here, at the Michelin starred restaurant, and we agree at least to have pudding. I ask for a pesto ice-cream, and afterwards notice that I am speaking French – “Not really,” says the French woman. There is a brief romantic possibility, then I wake up with an erection and have to get up to pee.
Recurring dream in which there is a sentient human who is so physically disabled as to be completely unrecognisable as human, just a loosely-aggregated assembly of organs connected by tubes. I become very frightened of meeting this person: then I meet him or her, and s/he either appears completely normal to me, or I get used to his or her appearance so quickly that it isn’t a problem.
Ian Crichton Smith, Julian Cope and the Leeds Brotherton Library all enter a competition whose winner gets to be a roadie for Beck.
A reunion of actors from Only Fools and Horses is taking place in a pub: Del Boy jokes to Rodney that he has placed a “not in” sign outside the pub to keep them all at bay, but the other actors are approaching anyway. As Trigger arrives, he is joined by some actors from Coronation Street, followed by the entire current cast and every former character, including ones who died, either as characters or in real life. Crowds of people are converging on the pub in bright daylight, including grown-up versions of characters who died as children, rejoicing in their unfamiliar adulthood. Someone recognises and greets Tony Warren, and Ken Barlow approaches and greets him warmly. An elderly actress who at first seems to have Alzheimer’s and to have had a stroke, walks in, smiling and confused. As I look at her, she becomes a beautiful, young, red-haired smiling actress…
I am either travelling to Venus on a spacecraft, or more likely I’m controlling the spacecraft from Earth using a sophisticated imaging system which lets me see everything on board in 3-D. The spacecraft is filled with small, vaguely humanoid figures, brightly painted like matryoshka dolls but lacking heads (the effect not unlike electron micrograph images of tardigrades). I can’t figure out if these are living creatures in charge of the spacecraft, or if they are simply patterns, perhaps shadow-patterns, formed by turbulence in the liquid with which the spacecraft seems to be filled — I keep noticing obvious signs of conscious interaction between the figures, and then a jolt seems to return them to being accidental patterns in the liquid. The last thing I remember is when they all take part in a stage presentation given in honour of a sixty-year-old — I don’t know whether he’s a man or a larger cousin of the small humanoids, as he doesn’t seem to have a head — who was born severely disabled but has been able to live a full and active life with the aid of the small humanoids. He performs a very slow but quite creditable dance.