A celeb-packed nightlife

What's wrong with my subconscious? I only ask because lately, my dreams have been positively plagued by famous people. As was noted in my previous blog, I recently had a dream in which I was sharing a flat with Mark Kermode. Having lived on my own for over 3 years, it was slightly odd to be returning to what seemed very much like a student flatshare, but I woke up thinking, 'Aww, that was fun!' Then had a momentary worry about who was going to clear up after the party. And then a realisation that there was no party, and ergo no clearing up. It's a lot to pack in before 7.30am, is all I can say.

I then had a dream about Howard from Take That. Yeah, I know, Howard, the one who everyone forgets about. In the dream, I was standing about like a spare part next to various members of Take That at a party (this, at least, would be true, given my previous form when trying to converse with celebs), and then sharing a cab home with Howard because we lived near each other. Neither of us had said anything for ages, at which point I asked him if he was OK because I suddenly noticed he was looking a bit teary. He was worried that all the new TT success was going to go away and he’d be left back in the wilderness, so I started giving him career ideas, including being the new judge on X-Factor. I also cheered him up by putting my arm around him.

So, thus far, my subconscious is telling me I should go to a party, possibly accompanied by a man in drag, and be kind, supportive and give advice. Well, that's OK.

But then the other day I had a dream in which I had apparently told Steve Merchant (of The Office, Extras and other TV BAFTA-accumulating comedy projects) that he had a fat arse - I came in at the point where I was apologising profusely and he was gazing at me, aghast. I spent the rest of the day feeling a bit guilty for having been so rude, in the way you do when you've had such a vivid dream that you can't quite shake the feeling that it's actually happened.

The nocturnal version of me seems to have eclectic acquaintances, but also to be a bit of a liability, frankly. Still, it'll be interesting to see who turns up next. My money's on Stephen Hawking, whom I shall berate for not being interested enough in pop culture. I shall be shoving a copy of Heat in his face and offering to phone up and say that I've seen him wheeling his way through Westfield for the 'Spotted' column, in order to boost his popularity among the Twilight generation.