3rd Mar - I shat myself in Printworks



No, you didn't read that incorrectly. Endless brown boulders, causing panic and alarm on the faces of those around me in the venue. Luckily, it was a dream. Last night's dream, in fact. So let me 'fill you in' (a large element of foreshadowing there). I'll paint the scene... Printworks. The steel-clad cathedral of London's mesmerising high-ceilings. An industrial space-turned-nightlife hotspot, filled with 6,000 ravers every day and night of every weekend. 

In this particular dream, Kurupt FM were on the mic, and took a break from some MC madness to spit a few bars about the NHS and their hard-work throughout the pandemic. The crowd cheered in unison, but I soon realised they were just a support act for the main event... Craig David. (Not quite sure how he's headlining Printworks, but anyway)... Craigy boi comes on, laying down some 'Seven Days' etc, and then decides he'll also take this opportunity to echo some home truths down the mic. Unfortunately, he's not quite read the room and starts ranting out some Bill Gates-theory madness, about how COVID is a hoax etc etc. The crowd jeer violently, but they're not jeering at Craig. Oh, no. They're jeering at me.




As I look down, I see an endless stream of rabbit dropping style brown nuggets streaming out of my arsehole in endless supply, like Nesquik cereal, filling up the entire venue like a children's ball-pit. I pick one up and give it a sniff. Much to my reluctance, it's not shit. It's just frozen Quorn, the popular meat-based substitute, hashtag Vegan lifestyle. I try to reassure the crowd, but they're not buying it (unsurprisingly, when a man is crapping out enough brown pieces to fill up a venue big enough to play host as an aeroplane hangar).

The paramedics arrive and cart me out on a stretcher, and when I awaken, I'm met by a small Scottish nurse bearing uncanny resemblance too 90s TV presenter, Philippa Forrester. She saddles up to me in this small and private hospital room, with a menacing needle in her hand, bursting to the brim with some form of vaccine fluid, and I manage to escape. Here, I'm met on the street by a student, baring the face of an acquaintance named Rory. This chance encounter prompts the lad to ask if I'd like to go grocery shopping with him. I agree, and we find ourselves in Sainsburys Local in Reading, Berkshire. Rory glides round the aisles filling his basket with 2 x packets of Jelly Snakes, and 3 x 3 litre bottles of Frosty Jacks. "That's not very nutritious," I warn him. Then my alarm goes off, and finally...




.... I'm awake again.





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