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So in this dream I had (no, come back!), I realised two things: that all the passengers and crew on the shiny new bus pulled up at Tottenham Court Road were black and white, and that thanks to some revolutionary technique they had all been superimposed on to real life from a bus scene in an unspecified Ealing comedy. I marvelled out loud at this as I boarded the bus, causing one of the black and white passengers to entirely freak out. “What are you telling me?” he cried. “I’m not even real?” I realised I probably shouldn’t have said anything and tried to tell him that he should just get on with what he was doing, but this sudden existential crisis had made him frantic and I had to restrain him from attacking me. “Calm down,” I said, pinning his arms. “Fuck off!” he spat back, “I don’t even like you!”

I give this dream 7/10 for its technological innovation but 2/10 for enjoyment, as I don’t appreciate waking up with the unpleasant sensation of fighting off a hysterical man who’s working hard to headbutt me.


At least this time there was no product placement. Earlier this year the same studio brought me the odd experience of zooming along the Thames in a speedboat, bouncing harmlessly off massive gold-coloured inflatables advertising Guinness. To its credit, though. the studio is on a laudably Reithian mission to inform, and I’m constantly learning things I didn’t know. For example, Thora Birch turns out to work for Commons Hansard, which in turn is apparently located in my old school library.

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I’m at a house party last Saturday, queuing. The only downside of the increasingly ambitious annual bash at this shared house in Homerton, which these days involves a marquee in the garden and live music, is that in the entire four-storey house there is but one toilet, which, as the evening draws on, becomes a bit of a star attraction.

A short Mexican girl joins the queue behind me. Someone leaves the cubicle and goes into the bathroom next to it to wash their hands. When they’re done the Mexican girl indicates the bathroom and asks me, “Are you going to…?” I tell her no, I’ll wait for the cubicle, and she dashes in, emerging triumphant a couple of minutes later. “You know how sometimes you guys piss in the sink?” she grins. “Well, that’s what I just did!”^[1] The sink in that bathroom is very high. She doesn’t elaborate on how she managed it, but she requests, and gets, a high five.


^[1] Please imagine this being said in the most Mexican accent possible.

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Given Thora Birch’s recent inexplicable cameo in my dream, I was a little weirded out to see this at Charing Cross last night. Is it maybe an ill-advised band name?

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Someone at the Sunderland Echo has an eye for the startling headline that can’t help but overshadow the actual story:

15ft Christ threatens wedding