My dreams are so complex, often, that I frequently lose any inclination to record them simply because it would take too long. An epic from the holiday period ran to three pages of A4; I haven't transcribed it here yet, but I will soon. (It's practically a movie.) This morning's dream was one of the better of recent weeks, but again I didn't write down all of the details for the reasons just outlined. The salient parts, however, I remember well; and I'm going to give you a potted version now.
So, I'm back again in Pembroke College, Cambridge. I'm so sad... because I realise, upon my return, a decade after graduating, that there had been all the time I was there a campus nightclub (The Union) that I had somewhere managed to miss. I'm filled with all the regret for the lost nights of fun I could have had down there; especially when I realise that it has two stages- one for theatre, the other for music- and that the quality of tonight's musical entertainment is risibly poor. Who are they? My old friends from Beckenham: The Shots- a real-life band- and a couple of rear-gunners in support. Pat, the ginger-headed lead guitarist and singer; Pablo, the rhythm guitarist; also, to my surprise, an old friend of many years passing, Shaun Harrigan on bass; and another blast from the distant past, Matthew Browne, on classical guitar. (Filling in with all these flamenco-inspired licks.) Unfortunately, however, the music is turgid; and the vocals thoroughly uninspired. It pisses me off because I keep thinking to myself how much better I could have done, had I only known that this underground facility (!) existed.
A couple of former University friends file past me. Dan Angadi, a man I hadn't thought about in my waking life for years, is one of them; he seems pleased enough to see me but quickly vanishes elsewhere. The Shots are pleased to see me; four complimentary pints of lager get served to me by a black College Porter who seems amused by the fact that his job seems to be as my personal butler. But I'm dismayed to find The Union is a non-drinking bar; I'll need to take those beers outside if I want to enjoy them.
As I'm pondering this, a friend I have thought about- quite often- appears on the dream scene: Faisal Rahman, dressed on this occasion, in spectacularly camp, Brazilian carnival-type clobber. He's showing a lot of tall, tanned, toned brown flesh; and is keeping company with at least two other highly glamourous gay men, all dressed similarly. He's pleased to see me but disappointed by my staid attire. His friend, on the other hand, glares at me with undisguised contempt. 'Why didn't you come dressed to party?' asks Faisal, before moving off, almost apologetically.
Homo-erotic dream material yet again!
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