for what it was worth it was what it was when it was a dream I had and it was one of those cinematic flights of fancy through a futuristic post-apocalyptic wasteland where everything is overgrown with plants or weeds like out of Logan’s Run or I am Legend or the end of Planet of the Apes or something. I had my biek and I was up Carnaby Street near the *pish-house* and looking over what was the road I could see a sort of elfish jig or dance taking place on the steps there to the grinding, scratchy stench of cheap techno. Ivy draped the walls and the seeds of dandelion clocks matted the streets and around the little crackling fire that burned at the bottom of the Palladium steps were a gaggle of the old ragtime meesinger imps jumping and cackling and chanting, over and over…“Hands’s in your pockets’s, we takes out all your dockets’s, hands’s in your pockets’s, we takes out all your dockets’s...”. I didn’t think anything or say anything coz I had a job on and had to get east it felt like, but, then, as I went to turn the wheels away Swiss Tony bunny hopped right up out of nowhere and knocked me well off my biek with his elephantine, flailing front snaek. I had some proper cusses still so I called him and named him and said ‘that is not what it is, at all. Get a rack or a front basket and tuck that fukcer in it or something.’
Instead of roads there was a sort of Scalectrix track or street magnet or something that hooked our bottom brackets and pulled us along and the ride out of west1 became a wonky sort of pleasure ride like being on the Wurlitzer for ages for free for too long or like smoking one of them morrocan zigrets and standing up out of the bath too quick or something. I had to squint to see the 2D shoppers, coz they were all cardboard cut-outs of themselves, all glued onto the super-slow crawling escalators that lined Oxford Streat. Some of them seemed to be being sort of jiggled along by their creeping ivy puppet strings or something and I could see some of the grim, scheming shop monkeys trying to trap them with nets or hook them inside with fishing lines, trying to pull them in to look at all the crap and that lined up on the precious, blinged-up shelves. We could see some of them fall back out of the shops again looking all drugd and battred with oversized, ugly clown smiles painted on and all the perfumes and phoenes and ipods and new pants and all that sellotaped all over themselves like badges or medals or something. I didn’t say anything.
Centrepoint had grown over and had been replaced by this huge, ancient Californain Redwood tree where up on a thick branch near the top, massive neon letters read “Whatsthepoint”. I didn’t say anything or think anything or judge anyone coz Barry Krishna sort of levitated or floated out the revolving doors on his biek made out of carpets and what he was stinking of jossticks and he rode with us into westcentral1. What was Theobalds Road was liek a massiv, gaping crater bridged over all the way off into the distance to the Duek with a winding plastic track held up by oak trees like out of Lord of the Rings or something. Peering down into the abyss I could see it must have been a *colossal* bomb or Armageddon meteor that made the hole and it must have exposed some of the old worlds buried titanium or 531 or something coz herds of starved, pale-looking hipingers scrambled around grabbing and clawing at the old frames and tubes that poked out. They pushed each other and cussed and called each other ‘Tony Fukcing Robinson’ and we all laughed and I was going to say something but I was distracted by the loud, siren-like wail of the musak version of ice ice baby which seemed to be coming from above. I heard someone say, ‘Boomshakalak, see, dis bad boys back, aye?’ and turned round to see the Bad Man on his little pink, tasselled, stabilizered, my little pony biek and together we all fluttrd on towards Clerkcenwell.
As we floated along with mouths wide open in slow-motion past the Duek it seemed it was starting to get sort of strange. There were two big golden arches straddling Vine Hill like McDoningers except it was two arching streams of yellow fizz being strained out by a pair of rusting statues, one of a meesenger, one of a xeroxinger. There was a wedding going on and somehow it was my dear old mum doing the honors dressed as a preest or something and it was it looked like a big deal with all Boris’ blueboys in vans there and we could see why coz it was one of the hiperingers was marrying a meessenger (!) and a huge security cordon was there to keep back all the flashing bulbs of the flakey Paparangers trying to get an exclusiv on the undercurrent. I smiled over at mummy d and I wanted to say look at me now ma! but she screamed over at us crying “I said ‘career’ not ‘courier’ and she was pointing at my pants with the holes in and it made me fall strait off my biek. I couldn’t think anything or say anything coz I cudnt rightly cuss my mum out and riet there and then it started pishing down and as I wept flat on the street like a rashy, hungry child with dandelion seeds in my eyes I did think one thing and it was that ‘all these moments are lost like tears in the rain..’