argonautgod

Waking up on a Sunday morning to see Paula Radcliffe take a piss on the BBC is not recommended in any form or manner.

Dear Christ, Sunday's are meant to be sacrosanct. David Frost schmoozes to his buddies while shaking like a leaf, checking the sunday papers online, all good British traditions.

Watching a fabulous marathon runner micurating beside a pavement is NOT a fine Sunday tradition.

This made me forget about my two cool dreams. One was about a bunch of assassins scooching around a blacked-out city hiding from superhero hitmen. The second involved me being a on-the-spot political reporter/spin doctor. An Angus Cow spat shitty hay at Ian McCartney and we had to spin this into something positive. Then me, Tony Blair and the Secret service were chasing down a group of Romanian girl handbag thieves. We had them cornered in a flat then Michael Howard turned up below with a megaphone and decried government immigration and crime policy. Disgusted by this turn of events the theives, secret service and Tony Blair agreed I should wake up to end this gibberish.

So I did.

But that Angus Cow... just waddled up and spat shitty hay. Classic. Where that idea found its foundation in I don't know.

I love my dreams.