nightmares

HOW DO YOU DO...

nightmares

Sick of fucking sheep?

Want a nocturnal lady horse

Scared?

The face oh the face, it’s still there!

When Crimewatch’s Nick Ross used to say. “Don’t have nightmares, please, do sleep well.” Did you ever feel an choking air of disengeniousness? He said those words with such an unbelievably smug mug I used to think that the whole show was an elaborate put-up job to mask Nick Ross’ brutal and barbaric crime orgy. Show me a serious fuckload of hideous attacks, give me a series of disproportioned criminal identikit photos, then, THEN tell me they’re at large and are highly dangerous, should not be approached and may not even look especially like that photo we just shown you. Essentially telling a boy of ten everyone in the whole country is a grievous gunman and a roaming grievous gunman at that. I remember seeing horror films at that age and being indifferent to the lot of them. Then sitting down to Crimewatch and fearing I’ll never get to use my willy proper cos some crim‘ll cut it off when I accidentally cut him off on my BMX while he’s on the way to disembowel Neil Matimow for calling him a “divvy” and generally being a divvy, cos he was.

So every Wednesday I used to go to my cold, dark, slide mirror wardrobed bedroom overlooking an easily assessable backyard with patchy lighting, wooden windows, with inadequate locks, in an area that sat on top of the worst neighbourhood in my world. Coupled by situational fear in a house of creaks so varied and ambiguous, it hurt. Yet eventually, eventually I started to drift into normality e.g. A Mr Soft marshmallow like world of my invention, but wait, what was that, oh, oh my, aghhhhhhh! Then I’d run, and keep pegging it for 7 hours of sleep. To confound it all, I awoke to a fog horn shriek of “Quick, qwwwick get up!” by my always understanding mum.



The Nightmare Of Peace And Prosperity Is Finally Over
“I think war is a dangerous place.” The World needs to participate in US elections for this sole reason. When George W stepped onto the White House lawn, most of this watching world felt due embarrassment for a nation controlled by ‘that’ for four years. After an illustrious nightmare period of shod ridden, dangerous, fear-mongering and overall befuddlement "This foreign policy stuff is a little frustrating." Requiring world leaders to hurriedly read up on ‘ Taking care of your specialties’ we globally thought, “Alright, but it’s only 6 months left, right?” Then he got voted in again! Then the world went “Do’h!” That’s one of the reasons everyone hates most Americans, there are others but being a nation of self-mutilating sadists isn’t a recipe for getting the thumbs up, maybe the fingers up.

Despite this, local nightmares come through your door slits almost weekly: Bills, warrants for court appearances, and demands for bailiffs, overdue rent, credit card statements, and Christian missionary newsletters. The thing is, your home isn’t even safe, and you think you have a safe home. Ohhh Forrest, Oxfam, Jehovah, debt collectors, grieved neighbours, persistent acquaintances, the police, salesmen, other peoples friends that you hate, all make you lower your drawbridge for nightmarish discourse that if you weren’t passive would result in a marked increase of doorstep related attacks involving coned, kebab stained phonebooks.

Arghhhh! Work
My granddad used to love work, no he did, ‘bout the only thing he’d ever talk about, that and “the pools” oh THE POOLS. I remember our local shopkeeper Ali Kahn, he was right old, he started decomposing but seemed to love work so much he’d open everyday just to see our bright little faces steal sweets from his milky eyed vision. Counting every cola bottle in some deep mystical murmur “bli, bli-bli-bli-bli, bli-bli bli, bli.“

Now, no-one normal loves work. Everyone’s tired and arsey and stressed. The only exceptions are: people who magically land their ideal job most of the time achieved through sod all effort, stupid people in jobs where they talk to people or get experimented on for money, Porn moderaters, people who make a living from posting stupid- not in a “ohhh ha ha, that’s so stupid,” no stupid you tube videos, minimalist artists, Smug-head Branson and Huge fringe benefits Hefner.

For 99% of you not living in dreamworks and for those who work in Dreamworks™. Work turns dark, ghoulish even, backstabbing, with targets, cost cutting, disciplinary hearings, ethics and always, always, cut backs. You can’t walk into a job nowadays without assessing the level of anal hemorrhage you could potentially incur. Can’t we all just, buy and demand a bit less and just maybe then we can all slouch out waiting for our flexi time TV’s to warm up. Instead of playing yes sir, yes sir, three files done, which cubicle today sir? Oh the left.

That’s your arm?
One day soon, but one day, might be today you’ll look down and realise you harbor some abnormally foul part of you that has somehow grown over a period of months or years into what’s gaping, wrinkling, postulating out of seemingly average surroundings. But wait, your surroundings are starting to look more like:
1. Desert like aridity or 2. Flood like swelling. What has happened?

Physicality has a strange way of essentially growing awkwardly and uneven, changing until you’re sick of changing, then more changing until it plateaus around your mid twenties. You arrive, you’re finally comfortable, pleasing even, you feel there. As soon as you’ve realised it, Bam, your body stops looking good, you falter, you start looking tired and start having to hide more and more. You start living in a misanthropic nightmare of your true self-escaping from this cleverly constructed mirage. So you keep changing to stay ahead till eventually you wake up hoping, praying to look even faintly like Bernard Manning’s testes and you don’t even come close.

Ghastly tidings
So the best way in the 21st century to have nightmares is the thing you’re doing right bleeding now. Living is the number one cause of nightmares. So, to get the worst out of your brain’s sense of lurid greed, get a job in sales; some sort that involves lying to victims of say, domestic abuse. Don’t shy away, find out their awful details then make sure they’re left without heating in December because of some small print about differing payments not allowed, that you wrote in biro when they weren’t looking. Don’t stop there; start burning dogs near libraries, if they find you, say Mohammad told you to. Gizz in the street on expectant mums, with the reason “I just can’t wait till he pops out.” Take regular shits under the floorboards of houses “I’m interested in.” Flick people who are paralysed, “to check.”
If that doesn’t work get a job as a hole specialist and really work it. Become so full of cum it’s dribbling out your ears, then go to sleep. Worked for Barrymore. So it must be “Alwight at the back.”