A Nightmare On Beatty Road

It must be the recent change in the weather. I guess that sleeping with the window closed with temperatures way above those of last week has created a stuffy atmosphere in the bedroom and this has caused my disturbed sleep. And the tension of knowing that it's now less than 17 days before The Great Leader's 10th anniversary in power can't have helped, either. Whatever the cause, I had a dreadful nightmare last night.

My dream started out OK. Tony and Cherie were planning a picnic in St James's Park and they invited me to attend as their special adviser on foie gras and fillet steak. I helped them pack the hampers on the table in the Small Dining Room at Number 10 and then, with the assistance of several domestic staff, we all set off in a gilded coach and decamped outside Clarence House, where the servants laid out a blanket for the food and produced several magnums of Louis Roederer Cristal in ornate silver buckets.

As we were settling in and nibbling at the smoked salmon and rocket sarnies, we heard a high-pitched squeal. Kate Middleton came tripping across the lawns and fell into Linda's arms, sobbing relentlessly. "He's left me", she blabbered, "he's more in love with the army than he is with me." Linda did her best to console the poor girl. "Never mind", she explained, "we'll be pulling out of Iraq soon and I'm sure he'll soon change his mind again once he's back in civvy street. Have something to eat, dear. The foie gras is absolute heaven."

The next bit is a bit fuzzy. The clock had leaped forward by several months and somehow we had ended up in Trafalgar Square in the middle of a huge crowd, waving and cheering. I could just make out the figure of Nelson Mandela on the podium beneath Nelson's column. Apparently, things had got a bit out of hand after Tony Blair's arrest and trial.

Gordon's decision to call a snap election despite advice to the contrary from George Bush had proved an absolute disaster, Macaroon being installed in Number 10 with support from the SNP. After the worst of the rioting had died down and the fire service had finally extinguished the fires in Brixton Prison, Nelson Mandela had flown in to act as a peacemaker.

But instead of calming the mob he seemed to be inciting them further, with shouts of "Nous sommes les enragés" and "Vive les sans-culottes" (whatever that means). Fearing for our lives, Linda and I slipped quietly away from the crowds. They looked very angry and we were genuinely fearful for our personal safety had the mob sniffed out our personal stash of truffles.

The final part of my succubus took the form of a strange role reversal. Having escaped the anger of the Hackney dispossessed, I found myself in bed in my house in Speldhurst Road, in a body that was strange to me and a little less flabby than my own. It was daybreak and I'd been awoken by a noise in the street outside.

"Come on Jules", came a muffled voice from below, "it's Luke. Open the door, I'm freezing out here. I've brought your bloody Easter egg." Pissed off because that fat oik Akehurst had disturbed my beauty sleep, I staggered down the stairs and opened the front door. But Luke Akehurst wasn't there.

Instead, the scene that greeted me was Sam Tyler and Gene Hunt, perched on the bonnet of a Mark III Cortina, with armed backup just a few yards behind. "Put yer 'ands up, Pipe", shouted Hunt, "you're nicked, my son." "But what the hell for?", I managed to ask, quivering as I stood there in my pyjamas. "You're up on charges of corruption, embezzlement, fraud, vote rigging and failure to pay maintenance for all the children you've fathered", came the reply. "We've got you banged to rights, my son."

"Oh my God", I screamed. At that point I felt a sharp pain in my side. "Roll over", groaned Linda, angrily, "you're taking up the whole damned bed. And open the window, it's getting really stuffy in here with you thrashing about all night."

You can't imagine the relief I felt. Back from Mars and firmly on planet Earth. Nice stories about Pete Doherty and Kate Moss on the front page of The Hackney Groveller, rather than lurid tales of misdoings on the council. Phhheeewwwww! One thing's for certain. I'm never going to bed with the windows closed again.