Dreams....

"I said 'Oi Chas, No! The early eighteenth century was not a particularly good time for the design of barbeques...too rococo and the satay sauce gets everywhere......you'll never ascend the throne with lazy thinking' ". After the first two weeks in a dingy cell it became more comfortable. The rats by royal appointment nibbled at my appendages, the dry crusts were suitably organic and only the finest Cornish rainwater, or so I was reliably informed. That phase in the early eighties hardened my republican views or rather, re. publicans...all jolly good chaps if they stock real ale and give discounts. However, I have been informed on many occasions by my good friend Dave the Greensman that this phase lasted only the one night following the ingestion of a particularly powerful hallucinogenic mushroom or ten and, that it didn't really happen! The recovery of memories programme I enlisted on with the Reverand Moon is solid proof this really did take place or I am a Martian moon frog....."Ribbit".







'Dave the Greensman'.












I still get flashbacks....I am back amongst the dark green foliage, the dank drip-drip of water the only sound in the sudden silence that descended upon us as we sweated in the 100 degree heat. The smell of rank sweat, fear and ....who farted? I'll never forget that week in CentreParcs...I wake some mornings at three and I scream in abject fear...

Then the alarm goes and I waken to the dulcet tones of Sarah 'Big panty' Kennedy.

TTFN.