Generally I’m not a big one for sharing my dreams. There’s two reasons for this. Firstly, most people’s nocturnal soap operas are beyond boring, mine included and secondly, when occasionally they are mildly diverting, you might regret sharing.
I’m still regretting going public about my sleep-time erotic encounter with the then Chancellor Gordon Brown.
But I had a horrible dream the other evening. I was in a noisy and garishly lit hangar where the World’s Best Elvis competition was being held. There were dozens of them all in the tight catsuits and rhinestones. That was bad enough.
Then there was a professional Lancastrian shouting above the din of “uhu, thankyavermuch”. (Although the Panther would protest that professional Lancastrian is an oxymoron – stress on the moron.)
You know what Vernon Kay, for it was he, kept repeating? He called the costumed contestants “Elvi”. That alone brought on the night terrors.
But the very worst cold-sweat, know-I-want-to-scream-but-no-noise-comes-out moment was the one when I realised that I was footing the bill for this hideousness.
Thankfully it’s only a dream and I’ll wake up soon and find the BBC – for which I pay – would never even consider such utter garbage… not in their wildest dreams.