I had this entry in my written diary dated Tuesday 18 May. I thought it would be an interesting post. It goes like this:
I told Fiona (my flatmate) about this dream I had, involving Andrew Neil.
I had a dream. For some reason I had either moved to Australia or gone on holiday there, and the place we – for I was not alone, though I don’t remember who I was with – were staying at was like a high rise flat, with a fantastic view of blue skies and plenty of Australian sunshiny heat.
I remember wondering how to call the UK from Australia on a mobile phone.
Then Andrew Neil, the former Sunday Times editor and political broadcaster, was going to come over, and his mother was to visit too. So, Andrew Neil arrives at our beautiful villa in the sky, all a-fluster because his mother’s also due. He’s sporting something of a Terylene top that doesn’t conceal his leathery, portly torso. He decides to nap and sunbathe. For some reason, there’s a platform across from our balcony, perched at a similar elevation, as if on the top of some kind of pole or plinth. To get across it, Andrew Neil would have to climb over the protective railings bordering our high-rise patio.
This he does, rather innocuously, for the dream does not reveal that he has skipped, clambered or flown across. I only know he’s across, chilling, maxing out, soaking up rays.
Then Neil’s mother arrives. It’s strange, because in the dream, she’s a sprightly, kind of foxy 50-something-year-old woman. Andrew Neil himself is 61, so this is pretty strange in reality. In the dream, though, it makes perfect sense.
Andrew Neil’s mother is full of smiles and planning her time. She has this weird habit of almost skipping, clambering over the railings on the balcony and walking around the outside, clinging to the barrier, happy and childlike as she chats and smiles. Skittle, skittle, blah, blah, blather, she goes, nimble around the edge of the balcony, swapping between the inside and outer edge of the balcony.
Meanwhile Andrew’s sleeping and snoozing. In the dream, I’m thinking, maybe this balcony isn’t that high off the ground.
Then, Neil’s mum takes a step in the wrong direction. She just steps out into mid air and plummets. She seems to be falling forever. She’s gone. We are that high up.
Oh my god! We’re thinking, panicking, wondering how to tell Andrew Neil his hotty mum is dead. We’ve got to wake him up and tell him. We lean over the railings and raise Neil from his slumber. We tell him what’s happened.
He gets up in a start. We explain the situation. He realises he has to sort things out immediately. Then he steps off the plinth thing and falls to his death too.
In the dream, I’m both horrified and thrilled. In the dream I realise I have a great deal of power. I can break it to the world that Andrew Neil is dead. I think: I’ve killed Andrew Neil. I want to text people to tell them that there’s no This Week this week, like I know something cool that they don’t.
But I also know I need to tell the authorities. We call the ambulance and explain the two deaths that have happened “in under half an hour” is about the phrase I used in the dream.
We go downstairs to street level. Neil is dead in a barrel, like an oil drum. He’s fallen into it. His face has fallen off. Some metallurgist, like a silversmith has cast his face in some grey, soft metal, like lead or solder. His face is that of a dead man, and disconnected from the rest of his head. He’s dead all right.
The dream ended there.