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Indie Cemetery Dream

I was listening to a radio interview with a singer from a Scottish band, perhaps Franz Ferdinand, who was talking about his new business, which was a graveyard for atheists. People who were appalled at the thought of being mistaken for Christians after they had died simply because of the dozens of crosses and stones with appeals to God on them that would surround them in a normal graveyard would be able, for a mere 25 pence, to be buried alongside other non-believers in a large plot of ground called Indie Cemetery.

Then I was walking through the cemetery, which was in the west end of Glasgow. The graves were overgrown with weeds and thorn bushes, but little hidden speakers, activated by motion sensors when you neared a grave, played music that had been chosen by the deceased. I stood between two graves, one playing something by Belle and Sebastian and the other playing a Lloyd Cole song that made particularly heavy use of steel guitars.

Notes for Freudian Analysis

Listening to Vic Galloway's show, Air, on Radio Scotland last night, I thought that it was remarkable how much decent music is made by extremely unfamous Scottish bands. It was a little depressing to think that, for a lot of them, being played on this programme was the most exposure they'd ever get.

I used to know Vic quite well but I haven't seen him since I met him at a Jello Biafra spoken word show in 2002. I was alarmed to hear his voice on the radio last night, as I assumed that he would have been part of the strike action at the BBC. Could Vic have turned into a strike-breaking friend of the bosses? A running dog lackey? A scab? Happily, it turned out that the show was pre-recorded.

Later, for reasons of her own, Ellen chose to deride those strange, boxlike rectangular steel guitars that country and western musicians sit on a stool to play, saying that they were a pointless affectation that had been invented by some stupid man for no good reason.

Iraqi Dream

I was standing in line at the check-out in my local Scotmid. In front of me was a woman who I recognised as Hannan Shihab, an Iraqi teenager who was horribly burned during the bombing of Baghdad and who has been brought to Scotland for facial reconstruction treatment. She was telling the check-out operator about the war and how she had been burned. The operator asked who had done it to her and she replied indignantly, "The Americans!"

Notes for Freudian Analysis

Obviously, the unpleasant prospect of having to vote tactically to try to stop my pro-war MP being returned in today's election caused Iraq to be on my mind last night. Okay, subconscious, I get the message already! A tactical vote it is!

I first saw a picture of Hannan Shihab on the cover of the Evening News, which is stacked beside the check-out in Scotmid, and, yesterday evening, I had to wait in line there behind two squabbling teenagers.

A year or so ago, I watched a documentary about a seven-year-old boy called Ali Hussein whose face had been smashed in by shrapnel when an American helicopter blew up his family's farm. A doctor who was trying to recreate his nose asked him who had done it to him and he replied, "the Americans!" in the same indignant way that the woman in my dream did. Therefore, I suppose, my dream contrived to present me with two disfigured Iraqis for the price of one. Alright! Enough! Message received!

[Update - 6 May: No joy. Odious MP held the seat, although his majority was down from 6,000 or so to 400.]

Forth Dream

Ellen and I had stolen a speedboat and were crossing the river Forth in it, heading roughly east from Edinburgh to Rosyth. Later, after we got to Fife and several exciting things had happened that I can't remember, I told my parents that I was thinking of voting Liberal Democrat in the general election on Thursday.

Notes for Freudian Analysis

On Saturday, Ellen and I went for a walk along the shore of the Forth, from Cramond to South Queensferry. Early in the day, I suggested -- stupidly, as it turned out -- a short cut that ended up leading us through the private estate of Dalmeny House, which meant that we had to cross electric fences and sneak through the house's garden in order to reach a path that would take us to the shore. During the most ridiculous parts of the escapade, when there were only a few rhododendron bushes between us and the house, I was reminded of the German film, The Edukators, in which three young people break into rich people's houses, rearrange all the furniture and leave right-on notes saying things like "Your days of plenty are numbered". Obviously, it's a fairly politically immature film, but at least it's immature in a left-wing way, unlike most films. (For example, how about Bogart's speech in Sabrina [see the previous entry], about wealthy capitalists basically being philanthropists because, without them, poor children in Brazil would have no shoes? I gasp, splutter, choke in amazement.)

There are two versions of the film in cinemas at the moment. (SPOILERS AHEAD!) While the one that is on release in most countries ends with a suggestion that they are going to go to an island where they can carry out a tremendous bourgeoisie-annoying mission that will stop all European television broadcasts, the one that is on release in Germany is a later cut and actually shows them stealing a boat and heading out to sea. Reading about the other ending, I was quite glad not to have seen it, particularly when I saw a terribly cheesy still from it.

The next day, I learned that there was a chance that my MP, an unpleasant Cabinet minister, could lose his seat to the Liberal Democrats. Hooray! However, until I read this in the newspaper, I had thought that the fact that he has a notional majority of 6,000 meant that I needn't concern myself with tactical voting as he would definitely be returned. Evidently, however, this is not the case. So, do I make a positive choice and vote for one of the parties whose policies I broadly agree with or do I vote negatively against a Labour minister because he thinks it's okay to blow up people in Iraq? And, if I do vote Liberal Democrat, how will I break it to my parents?

Having mulled over the issue of how to vote throughout the day, it's not surprising that I invented a situation in a dream in which it was possible to steal some rich guy's boat and head off on a student-style act of peaceful anti-corporate revolutionary terrorism, which is a much more attractive -- but much less likely -- option than voting Lib Dem.