German Dreamz

Last night I went to a garden party at some kind of French Riviera villa. Some of the band were there, not all, but some. Also present was George W. Bush who spent the evening milling with the rich and the famous. At some point the secret service left him on his own for a couple of minutes and Avalon Gold, our sound engineer decided we should take advantage of the opportunity.

"Lets get the bastard" he said, reminding me of a school bully seeing a vunerable target "now's our chance." He headed over the world leader and began a slightly childish fight with him which culminated in them both locked together like boxers slowly pounding at the others skull. Suddenly the secret service reappeared and Avalon had to beat a hasty retreat. This lead, as you can imagine, to quite a controversy and was the talk of the garden party.

The next day I received a plethora of phone calls about the subject as, obviously, I was the logical connection between Avalon and George W. Particulary pissed was Fantastic Four director Tim Story who called me no less that 3 times trying to find out the whereabouts of the Avalon. Being in the middle as I was I found it very hard to protect Gold and at the same time placate the Bush adminstration who were baying for blood.

Finding the pressure too much I realised I had to go into hiding myself and moved in with 2 middle aged ladies who at first I thought were lesbians but later realised weren't. During the interview for the room I met their daughter, Uma Thurman, but since she was dressed in the outfit of her new movie I dismissed her (resenting the fact that film marketing could permiate my dreams) and set about decorating my new gaff. It was during the painting of my walls that my old film lecturer Sheldon Hall popped by to say hello - I was polite but had alot to do so we couldn't speak for more than a few moments.

Avalon called me. The Bush administration were really piling on the pressure and he needed to leave the country. I made a few phone calls and drove through some remarkably narrow meditterean streets to meet Gus from Eastenders to buy some fake number plates. After a very long 'getting to know you' period where he assessed the liklihood of me being a narc we drove to a rainy industrial estate where he gave me an Asda bag filled with 50 different number plates - all blank except for regional logos.

I gave him €50. "We had better be careful" I said to him "people might see us and think the wrong thing."
"Nah" he replied "in this neighbourhood we're fine." Suddenly I felt like a racist.

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currently listening to: Europop in a Berlin hostel.

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