Dali’s Bollocks

I am in a series of adventures. They start when I am abducted from a hospital. All my memories are false. I was created a short time ago.

I am sliding down rocky paths on a hillside with friends of Gary Numan.

At the bottom, I sit on a toilet by the road, waiting to see who notices me.

I am taken to a roller derby club. I pay to be dominated by women. Inside, the space narrows, and I pull myself along on tiny hooks on the ceiling. The ladies are better at this form of locomotion.

We enter a large space. From the ceiling hang many fine threads, each ending in a hook carved in the shape if a silver letter. I don’t recognise some of the languages. One of the ladies changes her font. Her body is sharp, silver letters.

I am suspended from the ceiling. Far from feeling pain, I feel freedom. I can fly through this space suspended by hooks in my flesh.


A man on a bench offends me. I rise into the sky and summon him, controlling him like a puppet. Others appear in the sky, challenging my actions.

The man apologises.

I find myself imprisoned. A narrow cell just wide enough to levitate vertically in. I look down. There’s a toilet but no door. I verbally repent misusing my power. A wall slides open.

I’m in a doctors office. She tests me for involuntary reflexes. I pass the test. I have none. Behind me other patients twitch, wired up to sensors.

I walk around the lab, seeing other me’s from the past being tested. I ask the doc what I’m made of. She says I have Dali’s bollocks.

I pick up a book. The cover reads “Paul Smith-1980”.

Inside is a photo story of everything that happened after my abduction.

The roller blade women, the friends of Gary Numan, all the same people.

I wonder what I should do now, now I know who and what I am.

I leave the lab. A screen appears in mid air and tells me a place to live has been supplied. It suggests buying a phone, as staring at screens others can’t see could be mistaken for madness.

I walk onto the street. I have been registered blind, so I can pretend not to see people from the past. I see buildings I recognise from another existence. In the street, my creators argue over me. One pursues me. I throw lumps if cheese at him. I have foresworn violence.

I am flying.

Pursued by cheese.


Teaching, Tattoos, Tourism

I am wandering through ruins in St Thomas, Exeter, taking photos of the buildings.

Two people are following me. I divert into a health shop, hoping to lose them. In the shop, I order a coffee and a flapjack. As I wait, the shop fills with people, they are going on a guided tour of Ashwood Road. Apparently it has a lot of history.

I join the guided tour, chatting to people about choirs and vocal range. We pass by statues. I see a tattoo parlour and enter. A woman in a mask recommended it to me.

I see an empty room with old furniture. I’m not sure what to get. I think of covering my existing tattoos, or getting my socks tattooed on my legs.

The tattooist arrives. He is tall and smartly dressed. I shake his hand, a Masonic grip, the woman in the mask introduces him as “The Big Deal”.

He understands that I need time to think, and suggests a coffee while I browse designs. I am worried about bleeding too much, as I take drugs for my blood pressure.

The scene changes. I am dressed as a Zen monk. Alan Watts is teaching me Zazen. I can’t sit properly, I’m too inflexible. He explains it will take time.

Many small steps.


Creative Genius and the Submersible Cat

I am sharing a house with Tina, a girl I knew at college. I am creating some music. Struggling for lyrics, I cut up an article about Manchester. In the next room, a tall figure materialises. It’s the anthropomorphic representation of my creativity. He is a tall, spindly giant. His cranium is distended, and filled with ever changing glowing clouds of light.

We meet in the doorway. I am afraid. He looms over me, and for a moment, evil thoughts flash across his mind. Then he turns and touches a wall. It has a hidden door in it. Telepathically, I realise a future genius me has come back in time and altered the house before we moved in. Behind the door, narrow steps lead up and down. My genius descends. I squeeze my way up, thinking how much thinner the future me must be.
At the top of the stairs is a room on a bed, notes from myself. A tent for romance. A control room for my own emergency services. I am invited to bring in whoever I want. They are already there.

I am a student in a shared house. Our back door is constantly open. Other students use it as a shortcut from campus. We have a cat. I pour it some dusty dried food. I add water. The cat submerges itself in the bowl, eating underwater. I add washing up liquid and wash the cat.

Students walk through our house. A constant stream.

A mother and her daughter arrive. The daughter is going to university soon. She’s black and very beautiful. We chat about the uni. They leave, heading back to Solihull. I kiss the daughter. She likes me. As I head back inside I realise I didn’t get her number.

I exit by the back door. The university grounds are amazing. Beautiful rolling hills.
I wander off to explore. I get a little lost at a large junction, and can’t see my way home.
My boss appears, and offers to take me back to work in the Trafford Centre. I just want to go home.

I wander down a side street. Behind me, plywood walls appear, and a Shakespearean actor says “Act 3; Scene 2”.

He begins to perform. I push past him and push down the plywood wall behind him. There’s another actor there, continuing the performance.
This happens again and again. Plywood becomes plastic, and actors become artists.


Escape From Rio

I am a gunner in a helicopter flying over a city. We are just doing an exercise. We aren’t expecting any trouble. We are fired upon by one of our team, we take her down onto the roof of a skyscraper.

We get out without any injuries, and exit the roof. Inside it is a residential block. I think that this could be a great plot for a movie, with this block being some kind of test, and us having to escape through the sewers. I think’Intake’ would be a good title.

We exit the building and enter the street. We are in Rio. It is preparing for the carnival. We walk along a narrow alley, none of us know where we are, or where we are heading. We pass some scary, odd looking characters, I think, that if this were a movie, we’d keep bumping into them later on.

We pass through a square, a young girl is playing with a phallic balloon, her mother has only just noticed its shape, and is concerned. A train of double dockers buses drives across the square, decked out for the carnival and racking in time to the music they blare out.

We carry on, heading along a main road. People walk at differing paces, and we slowly split up. I radio the ones ahead to wait. Some do, and we regroup. It’s getting dark, and we are hungry. We break into a church that is also a food bank. We leave after getting some food, but forget to lock the door behind us, a local gang sees this, and waits for us to go before raiding it.

We walk on. Ahead we see a series of statues. One is a fat Buddha. I stroke it, and the face moves, I am hallucinating. The face cracks, and beneath it is the face of a woman. She smiles, and cracks the stone, reaching up, she grabs me, and I fall back into a bath with her on top of me.

I’m in a forest. A plane drops something by parachute. I think it’s two jeeps. They land in nearby trees, annoying the apes who are climbing there. As I get closer, I see that they are actually huge green first aid kits, shaped like double decker buses without wheels.

As I approach, the apes start to form a pyramid. They are Olympic apes, trained to perform at opening ceremonies.

I lay down to sleep, with my hand resting on my now dead dog, I can feel him breathing.

I awake alone, as always.


Legal Demolition

I am in Donliegh Street. It is beautiful. There are flowers with petals that look like paint. I realise it’s a dream. Our house is boarded up at the front. Inside, it looks totally different to how I remember it. Dad is there, but very distant.

We go for a walk. Dad ends up in a fight, tearing his shirt off and showing his tattoos.

We head back. I see a digger parked outside the newsagents. It is transporting legal freedom of information.
I climb aboard, squeeze into the tiny seat and steal it.

I drive the digger through our house, demolishing most of it. Then I am flying, happy to be free.


Pixel Hearts, Breathing Steps

I am in a damp, rotting, wooden building. I walk through an auditorium, full of people in tight, skin toned morph suits, that emphasise their muscles with drawn on shadows. I walk up some steps. The people have become the auditorium.

The steps are breathing, a collage of eyes, faces and other body parts stare at me as I climb them.

Slowly, the breathing steps fade into rotten wooden steps, racing green paint with visible mould.

At the top of the steps, a roof. Made of glass and rotting wood. I lift out a section. It rolls downhill. I climb out, naked, and stare into the rain.

Beyond a wall I can hear people shouting. I am amazed at how real it seems. I’m not sure that I am dreaming. Someone walks through a wall. That’s my signal. I walk through the small wall. It stops raining. Most of the people vanish. I see someone I know and hug him. His heart lights up, glowing pixels visible on his chest. I hug someone else. They spread the hug until everyone’s pixel heart is glowing.

I run through a gate and fly, singing a song about the joys of this digital reality.

I wake up in a shed. It was a dream. I go back to the task in hand, trying to develop a self-cleaning Roomba.


Abandonment & Bereavement

I am on my way to work. Crossing the road, I see an accident. Three cars, one after the other, get stuck in deep potholes in the road. I go over to help. Mostly they are ok. A bit shocked. One guy is trapped. An ambulance has been called. I run to work and get blankets to help keep people warm.

I am in a hotel. This is work. I pick up some tokens and accidentally pick up President Ahmadinejad’s credit card. I only realise when I’m in the lift.

I return it, feeling like an idiot.

I am playing civilisation on my iPad, the interface is different. There are destabilising options like building nightclubs and developing recreational drugs. I’m trying to figure out how to develop more than one settler at a time from a city.

I look up. I am in Seabrook Road, in Newton Heath. My dad is sat in his usual chair, reading the paper. I think mum is in the kitchen. Then I remember she’s dead. Everywhere I look there’s a mum shaped space, reminding me how much I miss her.
I hold back the tears and sit on the back step. There’s a memorial bench there, with two crosses as cushions. The tears come, sadness mixed with anger at how my family abandoned me when I most needed them. I realise I need bereavement counselling.