They were all there…
Paddy O’Hare and Billy McGrew
And Mick O’Flaherty too,
Tramadol Tess, Big Matt and Big Liz,
Bigs Ron, Craig, James and Andrew,
Big Chrissie, Big Steve, Wendy & Brian,
Black Nigel, White Nigel, Choo-Choo,
Mack Taxis, Pissed Chris, Camp Barry, Tall Paul,
Funny Face, Tiny Tim, Dirty Sue,
Uncle Ken, Auntie Jean, Steve No Legs, Shergar,
Mad Mark, Baby Ox, Little Sue,
Old Jim, Graham Gloves, Old Dave, Bob The Fish,
Panda, Taffy, Ma, Nosferatu,
Budgie, The Penguin, Blind Pete, Hi-Viz Paul,
John Blue Eyes, Oz Pete, Fu Manchu,
Arkle, Fag Ash and Gentleman Jim
(Oompa Loompa and Giddy came too).
“Well,” I said to Linus, the shrink I’d found on the internet by Googling ‘dream analysis’, “what do you think?”
“I think you need a Freud-grounded Jungian, I’m a mere Cognitive Behaviourist,” he replied, “and the fact that you were singing the ditty out loud to a tiddly-tum mock-Gaelic tune while doing a riverdance in clogs is confirmation that this sort of nonsense is way beyond my pay grade. I’ll refund your fee. Get out.”
“I believe in obscurity,” I drawled sardonically as I closed the door behind me, thinking I was grabbing the moral high ground as well as getting the last word in.
I could hear him yell “Fuck Off!” as I slouched down the corridor.
Then I woke.