The other day I was pottering around the castle sorting out a few things, Leftwing Idiot was working on his computer and Fran was making us some food when, out of nowhere, a new series of sung tics rolled out to a whimsical unidentified tune. Leftwing Idiot grabbed a pen to write down as much as possible. Here’s what he got:
“I’m dreaming of bears in Lucozade dancing in their t-shirts in the dark.
I’m dreaming of naked wrestling, matt emulsion and 14-inch queens.
I’m dreaming of launderettes in autumn, of horses mucking out their mums.
I’m dreaming of donkeys shagging the toes of otters in the dark.
I’m dreaming of warm winter clothing wrapped up in Colgate-coloured parts.
I’m dreaming of the bit between the barrel and the barn.
I’m dreaming of grazes on chickens and hamsters having sex with golf buggies.
I’m dreaming of all the libraries turning over pages of a book.
I’m dreaming of wrapped up children snuggling inside a toasty sheep.
I’m dreaming of sun-drenched vaginas, of horses, and history, and sheds.
I’m dreaming of ten types of glassware and ceramics shattering in Bath.
I’m dreaming of Damian Hirst dreaming of an Imperial Leather advert.
I’m dreaming of clothes lined up in order and coloured pencils shaved until they’re ducks.
I’m dreaming of mayonnaise in shoes and Santa-loving Wimbledon belles.
I’m dreaming of farting in all the pants of all the bears.
I’m dreaming of running fast and braking, and Santa selling corks in the street.
I’m dreaming of all the things that happen and all the tennis elbows yet to come.
I’m dreaming of what’s left in store for Brockley, where we’ll go with Willesden, and how on earth Sheffield will make snow-coloured bears.
I’m dreaming of candyfloss in the breeze.
I’m dreaming of shadows of sin on the face of babies, of history in the making and teenagers knowing more than God.
I’m dreaming of rainbows in the distance and the glinting shadows of hope.
I’m dreaming of ripping up the laminate.
I’m dreaming of putting all the books in Boris Johnson’s bed.
I’m dreaming of nesting tables, tantric sex, bears, cable ties, Asda, Normandy, Romans, biscuits, Santa, tracksuit bottoms and cling film.
I’m dreaming of greyhounds in the morning, of dewy little dogs and soaked up rum.
I’m dreaming and thankfully for you a little bit of soot is in my eye.”
I wonder what an analyst would make of that lot?