The Other night I went to a show at the local arena. It was packed, sold out. I took my time coming out afterwards, and as I walked through the upper level foyer, I was pleased to find that the escalator and the lower foyer were reasonably free of people. So I eased my way down and pushed my way gently out the doors thinking I had got out easy…

…only to find myself stuck in a vast swirling ocean of humanity outside. Why were all these people loitering outside the venue? I got totally disoriented. I didn’t know where the hell I was, which way was up, which way was down. I couldn’t move, except to be borne along on the swell of this moving, chattering, boisterous crowd.

Eventually, the crowd momentarily parted and I saw an opportunity to step out and try and get my bearings, until, I found myself walled in and trapped behind this one really slow moving old man. You know how it is when someone is blocking your path and they’re not moving at the same pace as you and you can’t get by them and it’s so infuriating? Well that was this guy. ‘Hurry up, old man! I got places to go.’ Well at least I gotta get home.

Then, just as suddenly, I was swept up again by the maelstrom of the swarming crowd. Borne along by the power of its combined motion, I lost the use of my free will, and my legs. This vast collective pushed and dragged me along with it onto a busy road. The traffic honked and swore, but what could they do against such vast numbers. An army of legs crawled across the tarmac like a centipede, bearing me in its midst.

Eventually, I was deposited in a small bit of personal space on the opposite footpath. I looked up, saw an opening, and went for it… only to find my path blocked by THE SAME SLOW MOVING OLD MAN!

You gotta be kidding me! In a cruel random universe, how does this happen? Get outta the way old man, get outta the way.

Anyway, that was my evening, how was yours?

Dreams are funny too. Quite disturbing sometimes as well. I think David Lynch has taken to directing my dreams. That would account for all the oddly behaving faceless strangers who somehow know me and I know them, and the grey other world he constructed in my brain, with its vast amphitheatres and road networks and cathedrals and black heaving oceans, and all those people, both familiar and strange simultaneously, going everywhere and yet nowhere.

I also like the childish illogicality of dreams. How you can be driving down the street one minute, and the next minute you’re riding a bicycle instead, but you don’t bat an eyelid. This is perfectly normal. I’m still waiting to find that huge pile of cash I found in my dream the other night.

Do you think we’ll ever get enough of celebrity chefs? Are there any chefs left in the world who aren’t celebrities? Can we cram any more cooking shows onto the networks? One I thought of recently is called ‘Good Chef, Bad Chef.’ It’s a simple premise, most of them are. Two chefs, one nice, and the other a complete bastard.

‘Right Lindsay, just step into the scullery for a minute, would you? Gordon and I would like to have a word. Take a seat, son…. Now Lindsay, it’s about the dinner service last night.’

‘YOU OVERCOOKED THAT SOUFFLE, LINDSAY. YOU DID IT ON PURPOSE, YOU BASTARD!’

‘Well, as you can see, Lindsay, Gordon tends to get disappointed when the staff let him down.’

‘YOU MURDERED THAT BOLOGNESE! YOU ‘ORRIBLE LITTLE TOSSER, DIDN’T YOU! ANSWER THE QUESTIONS!’

‘Now Gordon, calm down. Lindsay, is there anything happening at home that’s troubling you? You can tell us, we’re your friends.’

‘YOU’RE NO FRIEND OF MINE, YOU OVER-SEASONING SNOT-BUCKET!’

And so on.