Thankfully I got most of the script written today. Typically though I left a third of it to complete properly at the last minute on Monday morning.
It has been a nerve-wracking project. It's a leap in the dark and I don't know if it's going to work or if I'm going to end up with Haribo eggs on my face.
The nervousness manifested itself in a dream I had overnight, the meaning of which was transparent and which clearly demonstrated how the paucity of imaginative reach of my subconscious.
In the dream I arrived at the Leicester Square Theatre for the show, with my partially written script, only to find that Stewart Lee was on stage and had, it became clear, taken charge of the show. I ineffectually waved my scripts around, but he presented me with a running order of his own devising which I scarcely featured in. He had invited along a load of crazy, rubbish avant garde acts to fill the bill and it turned out that my role was to be drummer in a strange musical troupe. Except they didn't have any actual drums so I just had to squat on the floor, slapping my palms down on to the floor. It hardly made any noise, as I sat in the dirt and the dust. The singer was singing a satirical song that really was shit and the audience were looking at us in disbelief, with people getting up and leaving.
What on earth could any of that possibly mean? How cryptic.
How awfully tragic.
