All the President's Men.
13:45 | 
Posted by
Tony Foster
Mon 30.11.09
This dream is basically a reworking of the opening episode of Warehouse 13 which I watched the night before.
I am in a huge supermarket and the plan is to do something to the president who is visiting. I am an old man, assisted by one or more. I climb a large ladder and peer over the shelves. Below is the woman who is protecting the president. I have a concussion grenade in my hand and the orders are now clear in my mind. I hurl the flashbang and it lands at her feet, blinding her and the team of secret service behind her. I begin to run through the store. There is confusion and panic, and everyone seems to be chasing me. I'm running between the aisles, and through some of the empty aisles, trying to shake them off. As I near the exit, cops are running all around too but they are unsure who the perpetrator is. Indeed, one of the cops has a navy blue ribbon which trails behind (somehow this is natural) it catches around my finger and he says 'excuse me' and helps me unravel it so he can carry on running. The view switches now to third person, and I am watching this old guy as someone else. He escapes, despite the massive security and the number of people who see him.
The president is safe however, and I am having a debriefing. There is me, the pres. who is Bill Clinton, and a young 23-year old man who is some kind of analytical whiz. He is drawing in biro on a piece of paper at the table we are sat, making all kinds of hypothetical scenarios as to what could have occurred. I observe him, wondering how one so young could find himself at the centre of operations like this, how brilliant he must be and yet he seems so disorganised, manic almost. Also on the table is a small bottle of champagne. 'At least you are safe, Mr. President' I say' and take a drink of the guinness I had poured myself earlier. The pres disappears and I attempt to engage the whiz guy in conversation, but nothing he says makes a lot of sense, he is very rapid and staccato, and seems like he has some kind of autism.
The pres. returns with a small, straight glass, no more than whisky-sized with black fluid in it. The whiz asks what it is and I smile and say 'guinness'. The pres. is smiling too. The whiz gets up to move away and I shout after him, clear and loud in my mancunian accent: 'It'll put hairs on your chest, that.' I am glad of my conspiratorial link with Clinton now, via the drink we share a love for. The kid says nothing and disappears.
Dream 2 - theme park interrogation.
I am in one of America's lovely theme parks, definitely Disney, with a lovely young lady and we are minding our own business. Suddenly a guy appears and says regrettably he must ask me to accompany him. 'You cannot say that here, sir' Although I have no idea what I'm meant to have done. We retire to an office, which is very dimly lit and I protest my innocence along the way. The guy is infuriatingly polite and he reveals nothing of what I'm accused of, despite talking continuously. I become more annoyed. 'Just tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done!' The lady is in the room with me and I'm aware of what she might think of the whole situation. The guy goes on at length again, he is eloquent and wry, witty even, but I still have no clue from what he says and protest again. We sit and I ask why the room is so dim. From the corner of the room, his secretary produces three kittens and I am meant to handle them as some sort of test. By this time I am naked from the waist down. I start to pick up the kittens and the first two are ok but the third squirms and digs its claws in. I am fumbling around in the near dark, anxious to avoid this kitten getting a hold of my dangly bits. After more manoeuvring I manage to get all three kittens into their pen.**
'I would do that again, it was fun' I say. 'Though obviously I'll wear underwear next time.'
There begins another round of questioning and I slightly change tack. I start to become as eloquent as he is, and drop words like 'prevaricate' and 'extemporaneous' into the conversation. He is appreciative of this and I'm encouraged that my defense might offer a twofold benefit, namely: the young lady would be impressed by my vocabulary and ability to talk myself out of a situation, and the interrogator would realise I am not some crude oaf, but a man of words.
Because by now I begin to suspect the problem is that I may have made some casually offensive remark, innocuous for where I'm from but perhaps verboten in their more stringent PC environment. For them to have brought me to book about it, though, must have meant they were eavesdropping with sensitive equipment, because it was in conversation and by no means loudly. After some more bantering back and forth, the atmosphere becomes lighter, and I am invited, along with the lady to eat in the staff restaurant.
We sit down to a delicious meal. Course after course of beautifully cooked dishes, and I remark upon this to the park staff around me. An old boy has come to meet me and I say 'the last time I ate this well in a staff environment was at Colgate Palmolive in the UK, which is of course American owned.' He nods appreciatively, and I explain that it was back in the mid-80s.
We are then drying out on some sort of concrete esplanade, still within the park. My companion has a lovely wrap skirt and black shoes and she says how she needs to 'freshen up'. It seems we have been at the park for days with no opportunity to wash or change clothes. A young boy beside us, who has somehow been instrumental in the ordeal but has only just come to the fore is also wet and dirty. Perhaps we have been on a water ride. She asks if she can borrow his boxer shorts and he looks down and says 'I'll have to check if they're clean'. Suddenly I recall I am naked and say 'I have a spare clean pair' For some reason I never got around to putting them on. But she makes an excuse not to use them and I am slightly perplexed by it.
** I had seen something similar on the Alan Titchmarsh show three days earlier, where they had six or seven kittens in the middle of the studio. They began escaping and the guests had to retrieve them, while carrying on their business of discussing something or other. Alesha Dixon managed quite well but this other guy ended up with one squirming and scratching in his lap. It was pretty car crash, but they laughed it off quite well.
This dream is basically a reworking of the opening episode of Warehouse 13 which I watched the night before.
I am in a huge supermarket and the plan is to do something to the president who is visiting. I am an old man, assisted by one or more. I climb a large ladder and peer over the shelves. Below is the woman who is protecting the president. I have a concussion grenade in my hand and the orders are now clear in my mind. I hurl the flashbang and it lands at her feet, blinding her and the team of secret service behind her. I begin to run through the store. There is confusion and panic, and everyone seems to be chasing me. I'm running between the aisles, and through some of the empty aisles, trying to shake them off. As I near the exit, cops are running all around too but they are unsure who the perpetrator is. Indeed, one of the cops has a navy blue ribbon which trails behind (somehow this is natural) it catches around my finger and he says 'excuse me' and helps me unravel it so he can carry on running. The view switches now to third person, and I am watching this old guy as someone else. He escapes, despite the massive security and the number of people who see him.
The president is safe however, and I am having a debriefing. There is me, the pres. who is Bill Clinton, and a young 23-year old man who is some kind of analytical whiz. He is drawing in biro on a piece of paper at the table we are sat, making all kinds of hypothetical scenarios as to what could have occurred. I observe him, wondering how one so young could find himself at the centre of operations like this, how brilliant he must be and yet he seems so disorganised, manic almost. Also on the table is a small bottle of champagne. 'At least you are safe, Mr. President' I say' and take a drink of the guinness I had poured myself earlier. The pres disappears and I attempt to engage the whiz guy in conversation, but nothing he says makes a lot of sense, he is very rapid and staccato, and seems like he has some kind of autism.
The pres. returns with a small, straight glass, no more than whisky-sized with black fluid in it. The whiz asks what it is and I smile and say 'guinness'. The pres. is smiling too. The whiz gets up to move away and I shout after him, clear and loud in my mancunian accent: 'It'll put hairs on your chest, that.' I am glad of my conspiratorial link with Clinton now, via the drink we share a love for. The kid says nothing and disappears.
Dream 2 - theme park interrogation.
I am in one of America's lovely theme parks, definitely Disney, with a lovely young lady and we are minding our own business. Suddenly a guy appears and says regrettably he must ask me to accompany him. 'You cannot say that here, sir' Although I have no idea what I'm meant to have done. We retire to an office, which is very dimly lit and I protest my innocence along the way. The guy is infuriatingly polite and he reveals nothing of what I'm accused of, despite talking continuously. I become more annoyed. 'Just tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done!' The lady is in the room with me and I'm aware of what she might think of the whole situation. The guy goes on at length again, he is eloquent and wry, witty even, but I still have no clue from what he says and protest again. We sit and I ask why the room is so dim. From the corner of the room, his secretary produces three kittens and I am meant to handle them as some sort of test. By this time I am naked from the waist down. I start to pick up the kittens and the first two are ok but the third squirms and digs its claws in. I am fumbling around in the near dark, anxious to avoid this kitten getting a hold of my dangly bits. After more manoeuvring I manage to get all three kittens into their pen.**
'I would do that again, it was fun' I say. 'Though obviously I'll wear underwear next time.'
There begins another round of questioning and I slightly change tack. I start to become as eloquent as he is, and drop words like 'prevaricate' and 'extemporaneous' into the conversation. He is appreciative of this and I'm encouraged that my defense might offer a twofold benefit, namely: the young lady would be impressed by my vocabulary and ability to talk myself out of a situation, and the interrogator would realise I am not some crude oaf, but a man of words.
Because by now I begin to suspect the problem is that I may have made some casually offensive remark, innocuous for where I'm from but perhaps verboten in their more stringent PC environment. For them to have brought me to book about it, though, must have meant they were eavesdropping with sensitive equipment, because it was in conversation and by no means loudly. After some more bantering back and forth, the atmosphere becomes lighter, and I am invited, along with the lady to eat in the staff restaurant.
We sit down to a delicious meal. Course after course of beautifully cooked dishes, and I remark upon this to the park staff around me. An old boy has come to meet me and I say 'the last time I ate this well in a staff environment was at Colgate Palmolive in the UK, which is of course American owned.' He nods appreciatively, and I explain that it was back in the mid-80s.
We are then drying out on some sort of concrete esplanade, still within the park. My companion has a lovely wrap skirt and black shoes and she says how she needs to 'freshen up'. It seems we have been at the park for days with no opportunity to wash or change clothes. A young boy beside us, who has somehow been instrumental in the ordeal but has only just come to the fore is also wet and dirty. Perhaps we have been on a water ride. She asks if she can borrow his boxer shorts and he looks down and says 'I'll have to check if they're clean'. Suddenly I recall I am naked and say 'I have a spare clean pair' For some reason I never got around to putting them on. But she makes an excuse not to use them and I am slightly perplexed by it.
** I had seen something similar on the Alan Titchmarsh show three days earlier, where they had six or seven kittens in the middle of the studio. They began escaping and the guests had to retrieve them, while carrying on their business of discussing something or other. Alesha Dixon managed quite well but this other guy ended up with one squirming and scratching in his lap. It was pretty car crash, but they laughed it off quite well.
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