Fame

Instinct told me that chronicling dreams was as dumb an idea as it sounded.  But I went right ahead and started the first post in the blog by describing a dream in tedious detail, because my dreams have narratives possibly more detailed than on average.

It may be time to give in to instinct.

One of last night’s dreams included me watching The A-Team on TV (Face was getting married, so to stop him, Hannibal took Amy hostage, for some reason). 

And the other dream I remember vividly involved me escaping an awkward social situation because Tom Hollander and his pet badger walked in.  I managed to embarrass myself by immediately telling Hollander that I fancied him, but saved some grace by telling him that badgers were one of my favourite animals.  Then we went and looked at some constellations.  I have zero interest in astronomy, but actually hanging out with Tom Hollander and a pet badger would pretty much be the highlight of the last five years, so it was an enjoyable dream.  It was also stupid and has no use to me as a writer at all. 

So I’ll probably shut up about my dreams now. 

This morning, or rather, this afternoon (it’s all rather difficult to tell), as I flicked TV channels, I came across This Morning, and remembered that the British Barbershop Boys were going to be on it.  So I watched. 

I had to sit through turkey torture.  I don’t understand how if a programme contains images of a dead animal, they warn us, as it may upset some viewers, and yet they can happily zoom in close to a turkey corpse, even though I can see where they ripped its head out. 

And then the psychopath cook took some perfectly good potatoes and covered them in goose fat.  GOOSE FAT?  Is this the 17^th century?  Do you want some lard on your bread?  Not content with killing a turkey, you’ve gone and murdered a goose too and not even eaten the rest of its corpse.  What is the point of even having vegetables if you’re just going to go cover them in meat? 

Plus the guy had two turkeys on the go.  Does food on TV get eaten or do they just chuck it?  The turkeys should get a union.  I seriously feel sick whenever I stumble across the zoomed in image of some TV chef hacking apart a murdered animal.

Then after this horror, came a segment about I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, which actually is torture.  We’re now on that level.  TV seems desperate to become a dystopian satire.  It was not a pleasant morning. 

I turned, shuddering, to The Housemate to express how terrible it will be if one day we’re doing the circuit and we have to sit through interviews on this sort of gentle eye-chewing-gum for lonely people.

To which he reassured me, “Not gonna happen.”

Ah yes. 

Eventually the segment I awaited arrived and I saw the Great British Barbershop Boys perform.  My interest in the GBBB’s success is that one member was my housemate for three years.  And now he’s married, making TV appearances and has his first album coming out today.

While I’m…  Well, writing a blog about how unsuccessful I am.

Still, I always make myself feel better by telling me that it’s a lack of effort rather than a lack of talent that’s holding me back.

Maybe that’s why I’m sitting here, writing down dreams I had about actors I fancy while I wait for the jobcentre to actually pay me the money they promised a month ago, while friends and acquaintances keep going out, falling in love, getting married, having babies and turning up on TV.

I'm going to bed.  I hope Hollander will turn up again.



Oh, and buy Christmas Time by the Great British Barbershop Boys.