For my sins I was punished with a hideous nightmare last night, of an awfulness too dire to revisit to post on this blog until now. I have finished my lunch, hope you have too.
I was walking along the side of a cricket ground, minding my own business, while some of the players were practising. I noticed Shane Warne ahead of me, entirely nude and showing off some particularly colourful tattoos around his arms and back.
At this point I made a fateful error. Rather than running as fast as I could in the opposite direction screaming for the police, I instead sped up so that I would be able to overtake him and pretend not to have noticed his "condition".
An awful realisation dawned on me as I drew closer - he was turning round to face me. By this time there was nothing I could do, I was helpless, not even able to speak.
He fixed his beady eyes on my face and began making strange noises, like I imagine an emu makes when it swoops in for the kill (yes, there are killer emus, at least in my world) and raising his arms threateningly.
Frozen in terror I lost all awareness of my surroundings, as he came closer and closer, until, with a triumphant shriek, he suddenly turned round to present his arse, bent down a little and farted into his own hands which he then shoved into my face as ...a gift?
Proud of himself, he aped off, and I woke up, mad-eyed and feverish.
And no, that's not how I wake up every morning. Can anyone recommend a therapist? Or at least can we win the bloody Ashes?
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1 comment:
it wasn't a dream.
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