Sunday, May 29, 2005


In my dream, I’m in my element.

I step forward, and acknowledge the adulation of the feavered audience which stands before me.

It’s all going well, as I seamlessly blend into the tightly-rehearsed performance amidst the seasoned professionals beside me.

I twist, I turn, I do the jiggy-jiggy, I glitz a smile at opportune moments and split-second synchronise my hand-moves with my colleagues.

My fans, young and old, male and female, straight and gay, are all lapping it up.

Until, that is, my subconscious takes over: Reminding me I can’t sing. Reminding me I can’t dance. Reminding me I don’t possess an ounce of discernable talent.

Which my audience, but moments ago exuding such awe, recognise as I freeze, their awe quickly turning to disgust.

I’m not in my element at all. I’m just a twat who had drunk far too much.

I awake, mopping my cold, alcohol-ridden sweat as I realise my dream is in fact not reality.

But, like many of my dreams, is in fact a twisted, distorted smorgasbord of recent events: some significant, most less so.

And was why I decided there and then that would be the first and last time I should go and see ‘Steps’ play live.

Written hastily by Unlucky man.

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