Black Cab


I am in a black cab. There’s no one driving, yet it all seems to be under control. I take the steering wheel. It doesn’t feel comfortable. I manage to steer okay for a while, with just a few random swerves. At one point the cab goes onto a garage forecourt, while I continue along the road. I end up at another garage , with ammunition sticking out of my jumper. Just outside two guys are in my battered cab trying to drive away. I put my foot down and the cab stops. I have applied the brakes remotely. One guy gets out to argue with me. I let the other one think he has started it and wait until he begins to accelerate then slam the brakes on. He smashes his head and gets out. 

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I drive the cab again. It is not so responsive, and quite slow. We swerve through bollards in snow, narrowly avoiding a collision. Other vehicles around begin to behave oddly, as if possessed. My cab speeds up, way to close to a supercar in front and a bus behind. I leave the cab and I am floating through corridors. I pass through a door and into a room where a woman is sleeping in the bath. I look out of the window, trying to see the ultimate fate of my vehicle. 
 
 
Elsewhere. The word “MAJOR” is graffiti on the side of the museum in massive letters. A team of people is painting over it. 
 
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Rock & Roll Nazi


I am at a gig with Steve. The band I dreamt of the other night are performing. Most have cartoon cardboard instruments. One woman plays cello. 

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We are with Ori and a crazy old lady who is supergluing things to our skin and suggesting clothes. She gives me an intricate tattoo on the back of my left hand. It includes a swastika and the phrase “rock n roll nazi”. I am wearing a jacket with a patch on of the same design. I worry that people will think me racist. The old lady insists that we will be the most interesting people at her party she superglues gold shapes to Steve’s face. 
 
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We are ushered to the door and told to be aware of wet clay on the floor. I thought they were planning to throw us out. 
 
I am outside running. I have gloves on to hide the tattoo. I have difficulty with my right leg. I take a step and slide through the air, counting. I get to about 40 before taking the next step. I am running uphill with ease. I enter a building. I want water but there’s only a radiator pipe leaking oily water. I keep leaving the room, forgetting my scarf or shoes and having to go back. 
 
As I try to leave, I realise I am in an Islamic women’s hostel. I am now in Arab dress and trying, unsuccessfully, to leave without being detected. There’s a young woman from Kyrgyzstan having sex in one room. She sees me and looks ashamed. As I leave I tell her to keep having sex, and that Allah likes it. 
 
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Hypnotic Accordion Postman


I am in an Irish bar. A man plays Que Sera on the accordion.

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Sam is working as a part time barman. He spends most of his time chatting up women. He tries to convince me that Guinness is £5.25 a pint. I tell him we aren’t in London. Our friends come in for a bit then leave. Sam leaves with them. 

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I am talking to a group of women. I demonstrate how to fix someone in a chair using the power of suggestion. Then I explain how we limit ourselves everyday with our own suggestions that we are not good enough, pretty enough or smart enough. 
 
Peter the Postie comes in. I haven’t seen him in years. He still talks nonstop. He looks run down, and like he has been stabbed in the upper chest some time ago. Dried blood cakes his shirt. 
 
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He’s here to do some training. He keeps treading on my scarf and dripping blood on it. 
 
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The Kraken


 

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I’m at home, by the sea. All our phones stop working. We know the kraken will be passing our island, leaving destruction in its poisonous wake. 
 
A submarine. People are tracking the kraken. Force will be used. 
 
It flys over the island, followed by a convoy of vehicles shooting at it with no effect. The vehicles are transformers, and as they reach the sea transform into a giant shitty Lego robot, that floats sideways in the sea ineffectively. 
 
The kraken continues unharmed. 
 
I am wandering in Newton Heath. Looking for a Chinese takeaway. I’m not really hungry though. I run down a dark lane racing against two other guys. I thank them for the exercise. They are going swimming. We get stuck in a garden and have to climb out. 
 
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The Man Who Became a Bear Spider-Man


Tiny cats head biting me. Singing songs from the musicals. I am looking for Bluetooth adapter in a dishwasher full of filthy dishes covered in peas and gravy.

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I am searching a house with Nick and Ori. The power has gone off and we search for how to turn it on.
Inside is a huge room with a smaller room like a curved glass old style shop in it. Nick finds a light switch.
This place is bigger on the inside. We are now in a huge, intricately engraved temple underground. I greet a rabbi, we are joined by priests from the C of E and a trio from a star child cult.
One of us three is missing, having invoked a powerful spirit that these other religious groups need to contact. I see the spirit arrive. It is The Man Who Became a Bear Spider-Man. He seems to have a fair bit of eagle in him too. He does not look very happy. He sits next to me as an eagle in a ripped Spider-Man costume. I offer him the crumbs from my packet of crisps, and explain why he’s here.
He flys over to the leading priest and speaks. Everyone cowers at his voice and they physically duck or kneel as he emanates light.
The star child guys speak to him in a worshipful manner. He shits on the students while hovering above them. A woman next to me moves to leave. A tv is playing a scene she wrote where this divine being has to chose which of two twins must live, and which must die. This makes him angry.
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Trapped in a parallel world where no one can see or hear us. Chee and me try communication with kids, and read their books to learn the language.
We find an adult who can see and hear us. He prefers to communicate by sign language. Their spoken language is very hard to pronounce.
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We cry with relief to have found someone who can understand. He cries for us.

Coffin Sales Figures


I am in Europe. France or Italy. I am in a Catholic Church, at a funeral. I don’t know the person. A relative speaks in Italian from a pulpit with clear panels angled around it, like the US presidents use for autocues. Next to the coffin is a whiteboard or flip chart with sales figures drawn on in red marker. 

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I am house sitting for Penny. Looking after her cat. She is due back soon. I am walking back there, dodging children in shiny silk clothes playing football with a beanbag. The door is unlocked. Penny is on the phone. We chat and she’s amazed at how much her cat likes me. 
 
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Halloween Dream


I am on a street. It has stalls along it for Halloween. At the end of the cul de sac is a cafe with a stage. A band is rehearsing their moves, but without playing. One of them is complaining about being moved to a navel base in North Devon. 

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I am walking through a shop looking at books. I am having difficulty walking. It is hard to move my legs. There’s a battered copy of Aleister Crowleys commentary on the Romans. It is £2 but the cover is missing so I put it back.
 
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Lots of people have sat around me. The shop is now a room in a church. They are having a meeting so me and others, including a cat, leave. The cat enters a Gap in the wall. I see there is a facade and behind it ancient carved stone. Another cat runs up and plays with me, he bites my hand, drawing blood, then retracts to become a carved head in a tiny pool of liquid. Steam rises from the liquid as my blood mixes with it. The head says “alcoholic”. 
 
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