Not a premonition about the City v United score today:
I had two super-vivid dreams last night. The first one concluded with me waking up in a cold sweat (an actual, real cold sweat - I thought that was just a made-up thing) after I got scared to cross this towering bridge in an outdoor production of Wicked that I was working on.
Then I went back to sleep again and dreamt that my Mum and I were going to Old Trafford to watch the derby (which is today btw - v tense) but Dad was dropping us off and he drives like a pensioner so we were late, and then we couldn’t find the toilet, but then we all had to wait in line anyways because Conor Oberst was some kind of Hindu God that was there to bless the teams. Turns out I’d written him some song lyrics before so he asked to see me first and then we spent ages in this little office painting each other because I was disappointed to find that Oberst didn’t have blue skin or something.
Never did find out the derby score.
I’m going to find a pub that’s showing it in a while. Keep telling myself it doesn’t matter that Tevez and Adebayor are out because we beat United without them last season.
So, you get those hilarious cartoons about pre-menstrual women hacking their husbands to death with hair straighteners, or that ‘how many pre-mentrual women does it take to change a lightbulb?’ joke where the answer is basically irrelevant because any man who tries to tell it gets swiftly hacked to death with hair straighteners. And every time I see that shit it makes me think “Am I normal?” because when I get PMT (I think you call it PMS in America because, I dunno, you like to get in there early with your choice of acronym or something) I just spend a couple of days crying about food shopping while I watch clips of Phillip Seymour Hoffman on YouTube. And have these fucking incredible dreams about living in a lighthouse full of water with a toy truck at the top and and running the merch stand at a Gomez gig except it’s made from treacle and dripping on all the t-shirts or learning to fly on my pet pegasus and shit. Or, like last night, running away from Bebop and Rocksteady from the Turtles.
It was me, my friend Ali who writes the Falling and Laughing blog, this little kid who was being a right difficult bastard, Andrew Stockdale from Wolfmother and Kate Winslet. Bebop and Rocksteady were after us and we were running around this portaloo showroom, hiding in the cubicles and trying not to breathe too heavily because that shit totally echoes around plastic portaloos until it sounds like Darth Vader’s having a crap. At least, it did in my dream last night. And there was this one bit that had a maypole in it and Kate Winslet kept going on about how many Oscars she’d won (51 apparently) and everytime she yelled out “I’m a 51-er!” we would all groan and tell her to shut up, and then we’d have to shush ourselves in case Bebop and Rocksteady heard us. And I kept trying to put the kid in cupboards and under tables and basically leave him to fend for himself because he was totally slowing us down. Except he kept climbing out of his hiding places and whining about how his parents don’t celebrate Christmas properly, even though he gets presents and turkey and sits around watching Disney films on telly for a week, so I was all like “What? Do you want to go to church or something?” but then before he answered Bebop and Rocksteady came round the corner like two big cartoon Mr Ts, except rhinos, and one of them lifted me up and drop-kicked me, although I didn’t know which one it was because does anyone actually know which one’s Bebop and which one’s Rocksteady? So I woke up and I was still all spaced out by it all when I got to work and I charged this one guy for nine sausage rolls and kept forgetting what to put in the drinks fridge and everyone was like “get it together Meg” and I was all “easy for you to say - you haven’t been drop-kicked by either Bebop or Rocksteady from the Turtles” which was conclusive proof to them that I am WEIRD and should not be handling food products.
Man, I can’t wait to leave that place in August. I will never make another ham salad barmcake as long as I live.
