Tuesday, 8 July 2008

An Occasional Dream

My Bowie ‘thing’ has culminated in an amazing dream. This isn’t going to turn into some sort of slash fiction don’t worry. Things aren’t like that between David and I … The dream finds me on my way to a club to try and gather some of my mates and persuade them to come with me to a punk night across town. The club is ferociously hot inside with lots of staircases everywhere and people dancing all over them looking like extras from Lenny Kravitz videos and sweating profusely. I hear a rumour that Bowie is here tonight and, being an acquaintance of his (apparently), I try and find him. At the top of the highest staircase, underneath red lights, there he is …

He smiles as I approach. ‘Well hello’, he says in a gentle voice which I can hear without effort over the music. I smile and ask if he fancies coming to a punk night with me and he says something which, though I don’t remember it, illuminates something profound to me about the development of British music in the 1970s. As I’m reeling from whatever the revelation is, alarms begin to sound. The club has reached maximum temperature and we are being cleared out due to fire risk. David and I amble down the stairs as people hurry around us, damp and agitated. My friends follow behind including our mate Paddy who has somehow hurt his leg and is being pushed along in a wheelchair by my other half Neil. We head out into the cool air and David and I link arms in the Italian style and walk across town as the sun begins to light up the sky.

I don’t know what we’re talking about but we appear conspiratorial and gossipy to passers by. I think David might be smoking again. I seem to have quit, even in my dream, which I’m very pleased about. I look over my shoulder from time to time to make sure the others are following us. As we walk the city changes from Manchester to London and finally to New York. At one point David rests his head on my shoulder, just for a second. I am filled with joy. We approach a bank of yellow cabs alongside which is a queue of South East Asian transsexuals/transvestites. Bowie charms his way to the front saying ‘Ladies, would you mind ..?’ The girls move aside and David holds the face of the first and prettiest one in his hands and says ‘Thank you’. ‘Hey don’t touch my make up!’ she says in a tough Bronx accent. David climbs into the yellow cab, good-naturedly rolls his eyes, and is gone.

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