It’s been an anxious few weeks.

I found myself standing in a room, talking to my Dad about moving into this new flat in Dalston. He didn’t look very impressed, giving it the old “Well if that’s what you really want to do, son… But what about that big hole in the ceiling?” I looked up and there was this massive, huge, tower of air going up 30 stories, like about 20 foot in diameter. “Oh… I never noticed that before…” I said, shuffling my feet uneasily like an eleven year old.

Outside we were packing up for a holiday, but before I managed to get the first bag into the borrowed car, the wheel-clampers had turned up. “How are you today sir? That will be £170 please. Cash.”

Under canvas watching the globules of water coalesce, run into each other, divide like amoebas. Drumming on the ceiling. “Part of me thinks he’s putting it on”. There’s a weird mash up going on in my head of every song off the first Macka B album (except the girl one, mercifully) and every single song I have ever heard about rain. As you can imagine it takes quite some time to come to an end.

At some point I was transported to a room which resembled my local from the waist down and Brixton’s legendary 121 Centre from the waist up. I seemed to be dj-ing but had brought the wrong box of records with me. It didn’t go too badly, I just had to make choices between tunes like The Adult Net’s “Waking Up In The Sun” and that Jonathan King gold flexi disc. Brix Smith was on that Gok fashion-psychosis programme on the telly the other night, so it was a no-brainer.

Then I found myself standing in a room, talking to my Dad about moving into this new flat in Dalston. He didn’t look very impressed, giving it the old “Well if that’s what you really want to do, son… but what about that big hole in the ceiling?” I looked up and there was this massive, huge, tower of air going up about 30 stories, like about 20 foot in diameter. “Oh I never noticed that before” I said, shuffling my feet uneasily like an eleven year old, thinking “Hang on, this seems familiar.”

We visited a village which seemed entirely ordinary, but not really for us. There was a vast Conservative Club which looked like a Greek temple, that sort of thing. We got odd looks, especially those of amongst us of darker hues. One of the charity shops boasted a copy of a tome entitled Hitler – The Victory That Almost Was. I placed it back on the shelf carefully. Across the road was a seemingly innocent shop selling souvenirs and beach tat.

Inside, hundreds of pairs of eyes stared at me. Garish white smiles. The shop sold a lot of things, but a lot of the things it sold were Gollywogs. Pens, fridgemagnets, badges, massive cuddly toys, little cuddly toys – everything you could conceive of was present in the form of a racist caricature. It was like a scene out of Darius James’ Negrophobia.

Suddenly everyone around me started throwing up. The air was awash with the sounds of paper sick-bags being opened up and then filled. I was oddly transfixed by it all, trying not to think about my breakfast. Macka B toasting “Beans and Egg, between two thick slices of bread” into my ear was not helping matters very much. Good tune, but y’know – give me a break Macka! I tried to sleep.

I found myself standing woozily in a room, talking to my Dad about moving into this new flat in Dalston. He didn’t look very impressed, giving it the old “Well if that’s what you really want to do, son… but what about that big hole in the ceiling? I looked up and there was this massive, huge, tower of air going up about 30 stories, like about 20 foot in diameter. “Oh for fuck’s sake!” I said.

The bar is arranged for midgets. If I stand up to my full height, everything from my nipples upwards is obscured. This makes ordering a drink very difficult, so I stoop like some crazed hunchback. I still don’t get served but at least I can now make vague eye contact with the barmaid and wonder how come I am the most sober person in the place. Everyone is dressed as cowboys and they all seem to be drinking vodka out of test tubes, mixed with chocolate. Lots of cowboy midgets, ripped to the gills on vodka, dancing to “Boom Boom Boom” by the Venga Boys. Fair play to them. The last time we were here there was a guy dressed in vast purple wig going by the name of Alvin Sawdust. Singing the old time songs.

I went to the toilet and then stepped outside for some air. Someone asked me to lie down in a trench. They were pretty friendly about it and had all these kids with them so I was happy to oblige. Then everyone started covering me up with stuff – shells, seaweed, sand, you get the picture. I wasn’t able to move, so I drifted off.

When I woke up I was standing in a room, talking to my Dad about moving into this new flat in Dalston. “Jesus, look at that big hole in the ceiling”, I exclaimed. “I’m fucked if I’m moving in here!”