Hells bells buckets of blood

My sleep since last Wednesday while very sound has been filled with ludicrous and nonsensical dreams, yeah, shame, they are usually so profound.

The dreams of late have been so silly that I have reservations about “blogging” them really but I feel have to as the silliness is dominating my waking hours rendering me twitchy and embarrassed, which is generally a true sign that a bender of a confession is just around the corner.

Ok, I have been having dreams about pop stars, and real pop stars ok, if you happened to be in a moderately successful indie band that does not mean you !? I'm sorry but if you weren't big on the “hit parade”, didn’t appear on countdown, weren’t crowned king or queen of pop, we have a very different interpretation of a pop star. Frankly, after hearing this confession, falsely referring to oneself as a popstar is a fairly tame crime really.

Anyway I’m getting all jittery and het up, will have a chamomile tea and resume gripe and confession shortly.

So to dreams featuring pop stars.

It’s disquieting and I’m kind of tired of my mind’s walter mitty like take on life. So for the past 5 days to counter my natural disposition towards the inane and fanciful, I’ve been reading non-fiction and watching “docos” (so what if they are about pop stars), I’ve really reduced my neighbs intake an’all, and my work, when I do it, has also been lately rather sensible, literal, and dry, so I guess my brain is rebelling and reverts to Mistress at 12 up to the present, really, who am I kidding?

In the other day’s “posting” I referred to a general tetchiness when reading about the rolling stones upcoming tour to Australia. This is a consequence of an absurd fascination/irritation mania i have. Anyway at the moment I’m irritated by rs incorporated.

Oh cock, I’ve made black tea instead of chamomile. Hang on a sec.

So to the nub of this entry, there is one?, well my reading of the upcoming rs tour to Australia must have really messed with my mind, doesn't take much, let's face it, for the other night I dreamt that the rolling stones were in town and somehow I was entrusted with keeping Keith Richards entertained for the evening.

So the dream begins with keith and me sitting in a local RSL club, watching footage of World War II on a very big screen, and my having to listen to keith and sagely nod my head as he tells me about his mum and how his house was bombed during the blitz, which actually did happen according to one bio i read, and just drone on about the war (fabulous memory for someone aged 2 by the time it would have ended - keith not me but i think really my mind must have been confusing Keith with Mrs Huggett from Stella Street, it's all such an odd mish mash, except i do recall reading that keith as a lad had been a great admirer of "iron legs" Bader, that WWII fighter pilot, who'd lost both his legs in pre-wwII flying accident, so perhaps that's where it stems from, still he also liked roy rogers and i don't recall either of us in cowboy suits). The place was full of people who were all in military attire, Anzacs and what looked like the cast from that Powell and Pressburger Stairway to Heaven film in an Australian RSL club (unfortunately no sign of Leo McKern as Rumpole reminiscing about his wwII days).

Part of my role in keeping Keith entertained was being at his beck and call and running to the bar and attending to his every whim. Not scoring drugs but getting fancy sounding Italian wine, "not Chianti", he kept bellowing, and then 'ed say the name of some other Italian wine, perhaps valpollicello, at me in faux posh, so I’d pathetically and hastily order that, i think i was playing Uriah Heep, after calling from the bar “what, how do you say it” several times, and then I had to get silver goblets filled with 3 scoops of icecream. I was then in a pickle as I didn’t have enough money to cover the damage, and was deliberating whether I could just go back to Keith and get $2.50, when miraculously the coin part of my wallet suddenly filled itself with silver dollars. (mmm, blood money, price of my dignity?, whatever, i was still having this dream, gordonia de benatar)

Then I finally returned to bossy old Keith armed with eyetalian wine and several goblets of icecream and to my relief found that someone had sidled up to Keith and was sitting there blankly listening to him droning about the war and the movie. I then woke up rather relieved that I’d extricated myself from the whole sorry and sad situation, and then slumped back onto the pillows, sadly thinking why on earth did I dream about that, jesus.

Yeah and every night since then I’ve had other dreams, of a similarly ludicrous yet strangely mundane calibre with me and popstars. Generally ones from records I’ve been playing during the day, fortunately not featuring R and J Stone as the stars and their soundtrack the dream's theme, but a host of Australian new waveish groups who did appear on Countdown during my teenage rampage.

However, as I tap my toe, slap my thigh, shake my head back and rambunctiously sing along to On the Beachhead by Dragon, I’m starting to get a little bit worried about the magic that Mr Sandman will weave tonight....I see myself in a pastiche of Dragon film clips, splashing around in the El Alamein fountain in Kings Cross with the lads, maybe standing by a street corner, colour a la Toulouse, or in a dark motel corridor, no matter where it takes place you can bet your bottom dollar, it’s gonna be some kind of louche situation in which I’ll find myself come Wee Willy Winkie’s arrival. I just hope that Mr Asia won’t make a special guest appearance or if he does, he’ll be spookily faceless, or the truth will be revealed in a blinding flash!