The other night I had a dream. Martin Luther King Jnr. needn’t twitch in his grave for me stealing his thunder, in mine I cleaned the fridge. Like him I saw the light and the colours all came together, but in this case it was a rainbow of fruit and veg that hadn’t turned to a soggy mush over the wine bottles, and the indeterminate smell had gone. Sexy times indeed.
On the plus side at least it meant I was asleep. As a frequent insomniac a solid batch of shut eye is a gift from god, if I didn’t have the spirituality of Richard Dawkins that is. Or even if I knew what Dawkins’ full thoughts were and I had made it past the first 10 pages of his dry-as-a-cracker God Delusion. These are the sort of things that fill your mind in the witching hours, while the happy, rhythmic breathing of your loved one beside you fills you with the violent thoughts that would find you on the front cover of the Sunday Life. Perhaps a dull book would get me over. Nah, let’s sneak downstairs and stick the tele on.
Wink, wink, innuendo eyebrow, a high-pitched giggle, Barbara Windsor fills the screen, at it again, talking about testicles. Maybe not real, human man bits, but balls none the less. She wants me to play bingo. Online. In the middle of the night. Tell me this Babs, what is it about the online-ness of bingo that turns the big balls blue in the first place? Perhaps the participants have spent so much money on all that bingo excitement that they forgot to feed the meter. Or buy underpants. Maybe it’s part of the process that you have to play wearing only your underpants, the rules of which are explicitly marked out on a sticky post (technical term, not a descriptive one) in their chat room. As if giving her a hard earned tenner which magically turns into 80 quid in bingoland wasn’t enough, Babs wants me to venture in and chat as well. Apparently the craic is 90. I can’t see myself conversing with like-minded individuals on how “oh would you believe it, that made up computer generated fix of a number was a 5 and I needed a 32”. That is not going to happen. I somehow doubt that they are having educated mathematical musings on making maximum profit from a full house. They are probably just full, in the house.
The screen flicks and another tarted up dolly bird trying to pay the mortgage fills the screen, Nicole Scherzinger. She too is wibbling on about balls, but her’s are tiny, chocolatey ones, smothered in yoghurt and shoved into her big, smug bake. Watching the first flush of sexual excitement spread over her as she destroys a beautifully middle class picnic by knocking everything over without even the sniff of wine does not make me want to buy yoghurt. If she carried on with that sort of behaviour in my back garden I’d be more likely to belt her with a deck chair. No mean feat, as I’d have to get a designated driver to take me down to B&M Bargains to purchase aforementioned deck chair in the first place. Thus would be my commitment.
Apparently loads of creative types from days of yore also suffered from the ole insomnia mularky. Van Gogh hadn’t obviously got any lavender oil and whale sounds handy and opted for a type of turps which slowly poisoned him. Nice work Vincent. I hope the greats of the past enjoyed sitting up all night penning mighty works or daubing fabulous canvasses. It’s not my fault that they didn’t have digital tv. Perhaps if they had they too would have found themselves muttering at a screen to no one in particular at four in the morning.
Similarly, they wouldn’t have had Netflix. Or Llidl own brand Baileys, which is what I’m opting for. As another famous insomniac William Shakespeare may have said, ‘for ’tis nicer than the real Baileys’. Rant over, sleep well one and all. But not Babs. Or Nicole. Especially Nicole. X.