Hello again!
I’d like to tell you all about my exploits at the five-yearly annual meeting of the Mulberry Bush Murderers Convention (MBMC) – but there is simply not enough space here. Suffice it to say – I enjoyed it immensely, but I’m glad to be back on Earth again.
A dream I had one night on Easel involved many of the things that you all take for granted as ordinary, kids going to school, Ice cream vans – boozy football supporters shouting “OY, COPPA!” until they get arrested, or even worse, arrested.
Where I come from, dreams like these are often considered to be as disturbing, if not more disturbing as the dreams you have on Earth involving Parmesan cheese salesmen, coffee percolators driving buses, old ladies reciting Shakespeare to an audience of dead daffodils, the return of Elvis Costello and the Attractions – or the terrible stinging pain you get if you sit down on an electric fan (OW!).
You know that it’s time to return to Earth when the dreams you have start to get too dreary, and you need to “flip” back to Earth for a while, just to get your idea of surrealism firmly back into place.
The journey from Easel to Earth is surprisingly easy.. You just use the Visualisation technique as you drop off to sleep, and before too long you wake up in your bed on Earth, as if it were as normal as breathing. Obviously the journey itself is quite strange to describe – but, as you will be aware – the latest Guinness advert with my good friend Louis Armstrong singing the soundtrack is quite difficult to describe as well. You see, one day my dream recorder will be invested in and you will all be able to record your dreams, as I have, and transcribe your sleeping thoughts and subconscious machinery into words like these.
This “Chunnel” that people refer to — I mean what, metaphorically speaking, is the bees’ pith-helmet of it all? What has rubbing lumps of cottage cheese into your eyes got to do with driving a train in the dark? You can’t see where you’re going, the smell of whey (WHEY-HEY!) becomes unbearable — and at the risk of getting a “Fatwah” issued on me, I would like to ask you all if you can see any connection whatsoever between roast beef muffins, and a pile of old raffle tickets.
I put this question to my very very dear friend, Paul Weller last week as he is (in addition to being the bored shitless bloke out of the “Feed The World” video) a leading authority on Coronation Chicken Sandwich Filling and it’s uses.
He said, “Wha…? Who are you? And what are you doing sat on my knee in my house?!”
“Me? Oh, I’m the used biro salesman from down the very end of your very street — and very PROUD of it!”
“Used biro sales-”
He broke off at this point, mainly because of a terrible stench of egg (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!), which was rising from a small cranny in the ground near a discarded Michael Bentine puppet in Chiswick, but also to do with a terrible recollection of something from his past that he had obviously blanked out at some stage. He muttered something about pigeons and this filled me with dread and a need to escape.
I did…he didn’t.
Serious Historical Pigeon Holing
In many forgotten corners of the land, the practice of pigeon holing has become almost as popular as Dreft consumption has in the High Street banks of Twickenham. It is a delightful pastime, I am told, and the hours of scraping reinforced concrete off your lounge walls can be quite rewarding as well.
While buffing a paisley hanky to a beautiful shine using the top of a pillar box in my garden last week, I was visited by a few Swan’s Vests that had escaped persecution in the coalmines of Og.
Only 1 inch tall, actually.
Apparently the coalmines were a bit overcrowded with crowds of tiny Elvis Costelli (Plural of Costello, I was assured by the Swan’s Vests). I got angry when they told me this. They set fire to some water after I told them to clear off, and left quite hurriedly, I can tell you!
I didn’t know you could get water to burn, but if you try snow-boarding one day, using your backside only, you’ll see that it’s quite possible.
What’s inside the testcard?
As you read this I will be back on Easel, sipping a Ruby from a worn Goodyear tyre, listening to the magical sound of Hank “Warm!” Marvin playing The Very Best of Test Card Music on my personal hi-fi (It is a VERY long album), and wondering about the exotic lives you all lead back on the planet Reebok. Have a good beehive.
What was Office Head?
Put simply, Office Head was a column I wrote in the staff magazine when I was employed by Reebok in the mid 90s.
It was a fictional journal, set in an alternate reality where inanimate objects talk, and things are never as they seem.
You can read the story of Office Head here.
The Dave Price Blog 