Last night I dreamed a nightmare. Even now, a good twelve hours after I woke, it still greatly troubles me. It involved John and his new chair... well, kind of. But John was not John as we know him, but rather this strange cyborg thing. His legs had been amputated and his lower body was somehow attached to his wheelchair – which was no longer powered electrically, but controlled by John's brain. Though in the dream that all seemed normal, like John had always been like that. What wasn't normal was the undefined fear that was manifest, woven through the atmosphere like a foreboding of the horror to come. And it did come... and I knew the fear, and it was a very real one.

I was suddenly outside in my paisley pyjama bottoms, walking the highstreet calling “John! John!” Everyone I have ever met or known were lining the road like onlookers at a parade. But they looked all wavy and deformed like when I watch the world through the spy glass. As I passed down the line, certain people stepped out and zoomed strangely into focus.
“He's gone!” said a fat woman dressed as a nurse.
“Dead!” spoke Doctor Dennis.
“Milton Keynes!” laughed the manager of Morrisons.
They all seemed to be poking and prodding me with their words. It was as if they took a great delight in seeing me publicly distressed as I was.
“Oh, here he comes now, TAKE HEED!” screeched a certain Mrs Winthrope, pointing into the distance. Spinning around I saw a black speck at the far end of the highstreet. It was getting nearer and nearer and picking up speed as it came. It was John in his brain powered chair, but his hair was blond like the night when he maybe turned up at mine.
“Andy.Warhol.hairpiece.only.£15. Bargain. Bargain. Bargain!” he sang, passing and heading straight for St Mary's Church, which was now somehow a part of the highstreet. I stood helplessly by and watched in horror as John headed for the old stone wall of the church. I wanted to close my eyes, but couldn't. It seemed my unconscious mind wanted me to see John get splattered. So I watched as John collided with the wall, only he didn't, instead he went straight on up it, heading for the steeple. That's when dreamscape really kicked in...

As John wheeled his his way up the outside of the church, I was down below now dressed as a priest and shouting out Tombola ticket numbers. Up in the bell tower was the young herpes afflicted postboy all lumpy and deformed like Quasimodo. He was ringing the bell and letters were falling out the sky, but when they landed they were actually naked playing cards with John on them. I rushed to gather them up, to hide them, but there were too many and they were spilling out my hands (and frock).

That's when my father appeared in his hospital bed, rolling onto the scene as if on a conveyor belt, the drip thing and his heart rate monitor machine in tow. It was like the grand finale of the Generation Game. He saw the cards and also started gathering them up, fighting them from me and throwing them into a large black binbag.
“Liberace, queer homo shit-stabbing piano poking poofta!” he screamed every time he chucked a load in the bag. Then he was trying to throw punches at me, which brought on one of his crisis. He collapsed in bed, his heart rate monitor flat-lining. I looked desperately around for help, I don't know why, but I did.

Across the road I saw a crowd of white coated doctors waiting at a bus-stop. I flagged and waved them down, but they wouldn't acknowledge me. Instead, they parted like a theatre curtain, revealing my mother (with her grand tits out)in a passionate embrace with Verity/Dennis Cooper. My mother looked across and started laughing like a hag.

“Top international male Slaves for the month of August!” Verity/Cooper yelled, and kept reapeating. For some reason that made me turn back around and focus my attention on the events taking place on the outside of St Mary's. As I looked up John was just parking himself on top of the ancient steeple. He was smiling and blowing kisses to someone below. That someone was of course Brian the debauched postboy. He was goofing and dribbling out the belltower, making inhuman noises and staring lovingly up.

“Male slaves for the month of August... Male slaves for the month of August... Male slaves for the month of August... August... August.......”

And that's when I woke up – all damp and sticky downstairs. My pathetic chips were at a record high/low. For the first time since the age of 14 I had had a wet dream.


  1. To have appeared in a wet dream of Tristram Spencer...

    I want to forget this ever happened.

    Worse even than the night young Butch Chastity clung to me and told Cher she wanted ME as her mother.

    What do you freaks see in me?

  2. That goes for me too... I just don't know how it happened???

    Was it over you? Dr Dennis? My father? Mother? John? The postboy? Sadly I think I know the truth...

    Well, I'm off to hit the sack now, if you feel a shiver up your spine, it's me... X

  3. well trippy, really liked that a lot.
    Nick XX



  5. You dreamt of Robojohn. Very peculiar. Perhaps your veggie pizza and tranquilizers don't mix.

  6. @ David: Robojohnny, rubberjohnny...

    The postboy always rings twice... next week you'll see your boy in action. X


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