Exit Liiiight, Enter Niiiight

Dreams, eh? Those funny little head movies that you can't control and vaguely remember. Anyhoo, I rarely recall my dreams, but last night's stuck in my bonce and I thought I'd share it with you as some of my (limited) readership were stars of last night's phrenological presentation

Dan Brown (my friend, not the author), Neil and I were in a town somewhere (probably meant to be Bath, although I think it was by the sea), just walking around, enjoying the day. I believe we were going to have lunch somewhere. Anyhoo, we were meandering around the streets (we were the only people about, very '28 Days Later') and came upon a group of thuggish looking skinheads standing on a street corner. As I recall, there were three of them, bomber jackets, bovver boots, the lot. Think Boo Perkins and his two brothers and you'd be close. Dan started talking to them for some reason (surely it can't have been to chat them up?) whilst Neil I walked ahead, suddenly Dan came bolting after us hollering “run”, as one of the aforementioned skinheads tried to catch up with him. I tried to sprint away but got a case of the ol’ porridge feet and couldn’t run for toffee (rather, mimicked running through toffee).

Eventually, I somehow got away ( I really don't know how, my running style was as effective as Stephen Hawking on gravel track) we all got split up and somehow found a safe haven. Our refuge was a random house with a nice big lounge (which resembled our Lorne Road student house (but without the Ginsters wrappers, Gareth's bad videos and dinner plates covered with old meat and B & H butts). As if by magic, Jake appeared, as did Neil and we went off for another (herby) walk through a different sunny town (which resembled Torquay) until we came across a big grass bank containing more chums, live music and jugglers. At this point, things become a bit hazy, all I can recall is that Nick Earl was there, lying on a picnic blanket, as was Nathan's sister, Abbe , Mark Linggood and Nicholas Cage (who is a Bath resident and seen by Mr J Stone last Sunday).

As for Mr Brown, who knows what fate befell him? If I was a betting man (which the next paragraph would seem to indicate), I'd say that the skinheads probably caught up with him and gave him a damn good thrashing. But the pacifist side of me hopes that he convinced those skinheads that violence wasn't the answer and they are had tea and scones together.

So there you go, nothing too exciting really, just something to write. Back on planet reality, poker on Saturday was pretty good, I came away with £30, which meant a paltry £10 profit, mustn't grumble I s'pose. I probably should have had more, being the only sober player an' all. Won't be doing that again, jeez, it was like watching some folk melt in front of you, one minute Gaffer was playing cards, the next he was playing along to 'I Just Called to Say 'I Love You'' on the keyboard. I love you and you are a wonderful host, Gaffer, but I don't like David Essex, his presence on the stereo was slightly harrowing for me, and I can't understand your fascination with the man. Furthermore, you didn't manage to answer Dave and I's questions, them being, 'Does he come from Essex?' and 'Does he really live on a boat?'...

Poor result for The Arsenal on the weekend really, but events at the Lane continue to amuse...