11.04.03 - 04:04am
The other night I dreamt I was doing a gig at The Royal Festival Hall, supporting World Party. I started playing and was immediately beset by sound problems, but unlike the other night in real life at the Portland I managed to keep a handle on things and announced that I would return in ten or fifteen minutes. Backstage I started on the rider and Karl matey (who looked a bit puffy but still kinda rock ‘n’ roll, like a tour manager of a successful band) wrote me a cheque for 350 pounds. I tried to look blasÃ© and then began to wonder whether I could work this unlikely event into my act. The Royal Festival Hall looked uncannily like The Mumford Theatre.
Last night I dreamt I was on a huge ship and I took acid. I was being really cautious and I only took a small portion of this grey microdot. When it started to come on I wondered what the fuck I was doing because I wasn’t with anyone I knew, and I felt myself getting claustrophobic. Suddenly the mood changed and I hooked up with all these people I hadn’t seen for years (I think they were from my boarding school). Then, trying to get from one end of this enormous vessel (like an old Mary Rose-style wooden ship but as big as an ocean liner) I found myself making way for hundreds of young women. Then I woke up with a sense of just having been in a nice place. I haven’t had a pleasant dream for as long as I can remember. Normally its weirdness or proper terror.
Thorough investigators of this website will be unnerved to see that I am scheduled to do a gig at Tate Britain in May. This is being sorted out by my No.1 nigga Adrian from The Teenbeat. I don’t think it’s actually going to happen, but I thought I’d put it up on the site before I found out for sure. I’ve always wanted to do a gig in an art gallery, and Tate Britain seems as good a place as any for a start.
Steve Adams’ ladywife Charlotte met Ivor Cutler the other day. Apparently he seemed ill, mad and unhappy but was quite funny. He told her that all funny people are sadsters, and that he was 28 years old.
Syd has grown out of his bed with bars now, so we’ve had to get Colin to put some on his door. I tried to do it myself but I spent an hour and a half on diagram 1 of the flatpack instructions, and almost ran out of self-esteem. Syd hates the new bars, and now wakes up extra times in the night to express this hatred.