There’s normally nothing more fucking tedious than having to listen to someone else dreams, however I have decided to share one of last nights with you as it still leaves me with a warm fuzzy feeling and a huge throbbing erection.
Imagine, if you will, a dark dirty workshop lit by the dull red glow of forges. The workshop is full of twisted, evil dwarves fashioning the word “CUNT” out of sharp shards of glass, discarded cow bones and rusty, jagged fragments of metal.
They have been working on them for some time (possibly many months) and have a large pile of them now.
Now imagine Robbie fucking Williams tied to a chair in the freezing well of a cooling tower-he looks like a bit bruised and bloody as if he has been quite badly beaten. His eyes are bulging with fear and the bonds are quite tight, so he is struggling to escape.
Slowly we see the evil dwarves peering over the rim of the cooling tower, cackling and muttering in low voices whilst holding huge black iron cauldrons full of their work. There is a sense of menace, a sense of an as yet unknown purpose about their manner.
As if in slow motion the contents of the cauldron are then tumbling down the atrium of the tower, their sharp edges glittering and spinning in the air as they fall, gradually gaining speed.
As Williams looks up he realises each piece represents the same word and that word is now easy for him to read, and he knows its significance.
He knows that each word is a condemnation of his very presence in the world-he knows now why someone has chosen to do this to him.
Robbie’s mouth is now a desperate mask of despair, abject fear and terrible realisation. He hopes, in vain, that someone will care enough to rescue him.
No one comes.
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