My Worst Nightmare

I woke up this morning in a blur after a hot and sticky night. So. Where are we at? – I wondered hazily as my brain whirred slowly and sluggishly into operation.

Boris is PM I thought, recalling his rumbustious speech in Parliament yesterday. Michael Gove is effectively his Deputy, in charge of ‘No Deal’ preparations in case the EU refuse to negotiate seriously. But what else?

But instead of answering, my mind returned to the horrible recurring nightmare I had endured throughout the long night.

In my awful dream, the country I lived in had gone completely mad. It wasn’t just that the lunatics had taken over the asylum. They had broken out of the asylum and taken over the government, the police, the media, academia & every other organ of our society.

Everything was distorted and crazy. Words had lost their meaning and taken on new distorted meanings or were completely meaningless. Words like ‘racist’ and ‘fascist’ were hurled by the lunatics at good, honest, kind people whilst the zombie hordes, standing silent nodded in acquiescence condemning the innocent victims with their compliance.

The country was being run by someone who some believed was a robot, cyborg. At one point in my fevered dream my brain had conjured up a wild scene in which I turned on a television in front of me to see the Prime Minister on some kind of foreign visit in Africa.

The heat and dry air had clearly played havoc with the cyborg’s circuit boards and she was jerking around as though in some perverse frenzied dance. The African folk around, trying to smother their embarrassment, had started imitating the strange gyrations in the hope that the millions watching behind the assembled cameras in far off lands would think it was some kind of native dance. I heard the sound of crazy, insane laughter and my face felt strangely wet.

Then I realised it was my laughter and my tears.

At another point in my nightmare the police started arresting people just for saying things. But they were the same things that politicians and the media would say to millions. It didn’t matter, the police arrested them and charged them anyway. All logic and sense had gone.

And then it got really weird. If you had a penis you used to be defined as being a man and if you had a vagina, a woman. It was a simple system. There were always some who felt their gender or sexuality or personality didn’t match their body. I personally had, for many years, felt like George Clooney inside but looked disappointingly shorter, fatter and baggier on the outside.

A biological formation from Redditch called Dave decided he was a goat. Everyone agreed and nodded in acceptance. To criticise Dave for his life choices would have been wrong. No worse. It would have been sane. You had to laugh. And dribble and hope no-one noticed you thought it was all badly, badly wrong.

It was the most horrific, awful nightmare. The most contorted, insane and disturbing vista of confusion and nonsense that my fevered mind had assembled due to the hottest night of the year following the hottest day in the country ever recorded. Ever.

But it was ok. It was all just a horrible nightmare.

I reminded myself that we had won the EU Referendum after an exhausting campaign. Boris had taken over as PM following David Cameron stepping down and Michael Gove was his roving deputy.

As I slowly came to, I looked around me. My wife had kindly left me to sleep, knowing I had been tossing and turning in my violent dreams during a long night. She had kindly, quietly gone out and bought a newspaper for me so I could read it when I awoke.

I reached out and unfolded the Daily Telegraph. The date at the top of the front page caught my eye.

How ridiculous I thought. They have printed the 6 upside down. The date said July 2019! How absurd I thought, smiling to myself.

And then it hit me. I remembered.

I slumped back onto my pillow. Thankfully the nightmare was over.

Image above was adapted from a Creative Commons image from DonkeyHotey –

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