My dreams from the last 10 years

I realised recently that I’ve been using Twitter as the unofficial repository for scraps of my dreams over the last 10 years. Whenever I’ve woken from a dream worthy of note, my first act has usually been to inform my few hundred disinterested followers on social media. So here are the raw recollections of a decade of dreams, all neatly encapsulated in 140 characters or less thanks to Twitter’s original tweet limit.

Pat Sharp phoned me because he wanted me to write for his new magazine called Quarzine. I really thought I’d finally made it.

A judge sentenced Squeeze to death, which made them perform a really desperate, uptempo version of ‘Up the Junction’ to try and secure themselves a pardon.

I launched a new gallery and used deadly snakes as a gimmick on the opening night. There were deaths.

I found an abandoned ‘monkey people’ experiment in a cave and spoke to a survivor. But I just remember thinking: “This is shit CGI.”

To avert World War III, I had to collect a key fob from a woman called Charlotte. But she’d left the office early.

There had been a terrorist attack on the country, which led to The Smiths releasing a brand of jeans with the words “I can’t believe they attacked us” printed on the gusset. There was widespread disgust that they were making money off the back of an atrocity.

I volunteered to help Joe Biden fit some large tubs of raspberry ripple ice cream into a packed industrial-sized freezer.

I visited a tiny wool shop in the Scottish Highlands and was impressed they were playing The Cure’s ‘Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me’ (‘Hot Hot Hot!!’ was playing on the shop’s PA system).

I decided to eat my trainers for lunch. Unsurprisingly, decorating them with olives couldn’t hide the smear of dog shit on them.

Louis van Gaal called a press conference to announce that Luke Shaw had been killed by a firework. (I’d fallen asleep during Match of the Day.)

I did a parachute jump, pulled the ripcord too late, landed in the sea and killed a seagull.

Alan Sugar paid millions to have his voice altered to sound like Roy Orbison, then released a single called ‘Strawberry Blonde’.

I’d been retweeted hundreds of times on Twitter (for the first time ever) but had used “your” instead of “you’re”. I ended up deleting it.

A man brutally murdered a pelican in front of me. It was thoroughly disturbing.

I was shot dead by Ted Danson while having a wee. (That one woke me up.)

Mine and Steve Coogan’s cars were clamped at a posh pub. The clamper was played by Gordon Kennedy.

I was chatting and laughing with Diane Kruger. But then I looked in a mirror and I was Diane Kruger.

I went to get fuel so I could drive a dying man to A&E. But I got delayed when I inadvertently filled up with £4,000 of diesel.

A load of horses died in a field. When the distraught farmer arrived, he was a ghost.

A poltergeist started moving things around in my flat. I dramatically said: “I banish you from here!”, which prompted it to shove the sofa.

I was stranded on an island with Leonard Cohen. We argued because I accused him of looking down his nose at me.

I set my girlfriend’s mum’s carpet on fire. I went to break glass on the fire alarm with a hammer but smashed up the wall instead.

There was a government press conference, where they announced the end of the world in a year’s time. I was in Office World when I heard the news.

I was part of a Special Forces team on a rescue mission. But taking out bad guys had something to do with font size selection.

I was turned into a vampire and was dancing for people in a club. My mum (played by Judith Ivey) then argued with me about it.

I stole a motorised inflatable ring at a water resort. When I was eventually caught, I owed thousands of pounds in rental fees.

Russell Grant flipped out on GMTV. He fell through a glass coffee table after saying: “I’m the world’s greatest TV personality!”

I couldn’t go for a wee in a cave because I was being pursued by someone.

Nicholas Witchell stole my parking space. (Surprisingly, it was more tense than last night’s ‘couldn’t wee in a cave’ dream.)

I loaned my shirt to Gordon Brown for a five-a-side match after he complained that his own shirt had a small scuff mark on it.

I was selling honey outside a prison. (That sounds uncomfortably like a metaphor for prostituting myself. But it was literally jars of honey I was selling.)