In Dreams

Yes, it's time for No. 3 in the occasional series 'dreams I've had in which unlikely famous people appear'!

This week's entry: Julie Andrews. No, I've no idea why either - unless it's because I read some unflattering reviews of her O2 show, which was about... 2 weeks ago? My subconscious is clearly on a go slow. Or just fucking with me again. I was in some sort of class which Julie Andrews was taking. She was paranoid about paparazzi taking photos through the windows (of which there were many - windows, not paps; I think she was trying to big herself up), so we had to pull the blinds down.

It's a dream which, I'm sure you'll agree, is striking mainly for its staggering mundanity.

In other celeb news, the other day I passed Michael Portillo in the street (who managed to look smug even whilst walking down the street - quite an achievement) and I shared a lift with noted geezerbloke (and recent headline-grabber) Danny Dyer. Who managed to be a twat, even in the short space of a 3-floor lift ride (also an achievement). He gets in the lift and presses '3'. I get in after him, affecting not to notice him. He faffs about with his hair in front of the mirror at the back of the lift. I still ignore him. We arrive at the third floor - the doors open and DD remains transfixed by his artfully scruffy visage. 'Is this you?' I enquire, gesturing to the vista before us (which contains a dumpbin full of free books and little else to distinguish it). 'Um, I dunno, mate' he replies, gazing blankly out. God, why do some blokes call women 'mate'? It's an absolute pet hate of mine. I'm not your mate, I'm not up for some blokey joshing about birds and football and booze and I'm not a bloke. I maintain that only blokes can call each other 'mate'. And even then, I bet there are loads of them that hate it.

Anyway, I try to ask him who he's going to see (I presume that our receptionist told him which floor to get out at - and by the looks of it, he might conceivably have been in the building before, as he's on his own, rather than with some agent/PR/manager person - so there was a reason for him picking '3'. Rather than, say, it's the furthest he can count to). He grunts at me, says, 'I guess this is me' and shuffles off.

Which is better: always assuming that Danny Dyer was a twat, and having that confirmed, or always thinking Danny Dyer was a twat and then having him suddenly revealed as actually perfectly pleasant? I think I prefer the former. Although now, obviously, I've got the horrors that he's doing a book. Let's hope it's not a relationship guide, eh girls?