On Dreams

On Dreams

Dreams. Why do we have dreams? Is it - as some people say - our brain's method of arranging memories and experiences so that they make sense while we sleep? Or are they some sub-conscious transmission of our hopes and fears into some sort of fantasy world where we are able to act without the constraints of our waking lives?

Or - and this is my opinion on the subject- your body's way of telling you that you're a complete mental.

If this is the case, I don't need dreams to tell me this. I just have to look back through five years worth of archives from this place to tell me everything I need to know about my one-way ticket to Bonkersville wearing the specially designed cuddle-jacket.

I have a number of themed dreams that pop up regularly, and always tend to end up with an enormous pair of breasts, and the least said about that the better. Even the football one, where I come on as a substitute in the Cup Final, 2-0 down, ten minutes remaining to score a match-winning hat-trick ends up with bosoms. In the Royal Box, no less. She's a minx, her majesty.

However, that is as nothing compared with the dreams I've been having over the last week or so.

This: I am currently having incredibly disturbing dreams that involve going round a friend's house, fixing their vacuum cleaner and doing all their housework.

It is awful.

Currently working myself to death, I cannot even escape it in my sleep.

Last night, if things weren't bad enough, I had another dream in the same series. This time I was a window cleaner-cum-painter and decorator dressed up like Super Mario, and having finished the hoovering and the huge pile of laundry, I do just about every other job that needs doing round the house, including something creative with dog eggs. Sadly, there are no bosoms.

I wake up exhausted, even more so than after my tumble in the royal box at Wembley even if there were bosoms - or at a pinch, a nice pair of buttocks - I'd be too knackered to notice.

Dreams: ARSE.