Last night, Robert Dougall, the former BBC and ITV newsreader, stole my Aston Martin. Other than the fact that I don’t drive, let alone an Aston Martin, and Robert Dougall has been dead for fifteen years, this didn’t seem to bother me all that much. Later on that day though, I was determined to find it, and found myself stomping around in a swampy wood full of mangrove trees and mist.
A car then tore by. My car. Robert Dougall was at the wheel. Four people were leaning out, shouting and leering drunkenly as it tore through the foggy evening. The roof had been cut off and the seats replaced with tatty old deckchairs, the exhaust was hanging off, the pretty alloys were gone and every remaining panel had a massive dent in it.
Then, without warning, it veered off into the undergrowth and crashed. I raced over to find a bloodied Robert Dougall trying to extract himself from what was left of the driver’s seat, covered in bruises and cuts and laughing hysterically. Then, without warning, the alarm clock went off, I put my trousers on, then I had a cup of tea and went to the shops to fetch some milk. Puzzled as hell.
I’m told reliably that, when we dream, it is the result of an active mind not shutting down properly, and this explains a lot recently. Regularly, I can fly, and it’s something soaring over Birmingham staring down at the massed ranks blissfully ignorant of me. I have played table tennis against myself and lost, engaged in conflict with a Baywatch helicopter in Red Dwarf’s ‘Starbug’ and fought a battle against a giant robotic Charlton Heston with the aid of the cast of “Auf Wiedersehen, Pet”.
I have also won the Albanian Grand Prix driving Herbie, and flew over London in Dangermouse's Mk III flying car with Kevin Keegan in the passenger seat. As well as this, America won a contest where other countries just gave them points for no apparent reasons, and Britain came 54th, as usual. These are the sort of dreams you have after washing down a wheel of brie and a whole quarter of edam with a pint of Benylin and rum. I think I would like to have met Sigmund Freud, who probably would have deduced I was stark, raving mad.
And this year, he would have had good reasons for assuming so, because this is of course my last blog of what has been a year where a hell of a lot has happened. To be honest, unless you got married, engaged, or won a Ferrari filled with Maltesers and vodka in a radio phone-in, it’s unlikely to have been a year you’ll remember fondly. It was filled with huge, grim events. So is every year, of course, but in 2015 it seemed there were fewer light moments to offset the enveloping dread.
And everyone has just seemed so angry, all the time. A whole planet, gritting its teeth. Hundreds protesting. Thousands marching. Millions waiting to attach their internalised rage to a hashtag at a moment’s notice. Celebrity deaths by the bucket load, war, the so-called refugee 'crisis', Jeremy Clarkson, Kate Middleton had another baby (why is this world so fertile and set my seed never gets sown ??) Isis. Syria. Gaza. Economic meltdown in Greece. It's a wonder that Billy Joel hasn't released a sequel to "We Didn't Start The Fire" yet.
We also had a General Election which proved nothing more than confirming politicians are less popular than Rolf Harris in a Veterinary Surgeon's practice. With the exception of Nigel Farage, who isn’t in the House of Commons, and Russell Brand, who isn’t even a politician. And speaking of politics, we have the horrifying prospect of Britain being led by Jeremy Corbyn, a man who rides a bicycle to work in shorts and probably has vegetables growing out of his arse, and America being led by Donald Trump, who looks like he's smeared superglue on his bonce and spent an afternoon breakdancing on his local barbershop's floor.
We could all use a lie-down more than a knees-up. With so many horrific stories around this year, it's no wonder we were side-tracked by baking, selfies, bombings, massacres, murders, more celebrity child abuse cases and high-profile deaths. One after the other, after the other, after the other, no wonder "The Great British Bake Off" is so popular …
… and that's only what's happened in the NEWS.
This year, the company I work for moved offices, I went to Wales, Slough, Loughborough and London twice where I met Benedict Cumberbatch and Peter Capaldi, amongst others, got my heart broken by a young woman who not only blew me off on my own birthday after I asked her for her hand but subsequently buggered off to Norway to be with her hairy 17-stone woodcutter boyfriend (after wearing out the batteries in my sonic screwdriver with her cleavage !!), met three other former Doctor Who actors, two of which for the second time, got recognised by Jack Donnelly from "Atlantis", spent a lot of time with some fine fellow Whovians in the Burning Skies Cosplay group, saw my nephew start school, saw my brother-in-law set up his own business, saw my cousin announce she was having another baby, saw my sister-in-law actually have yet ANOTHER baby, got to put my arm around the goddess that is Jenna Coleman, went to see a lot of various films at the pictures ranging from art-house to superhero blockbusters to gentle dramas to spy thriller to Star Wars, drank about 300 pints of Guinness and about 50 bottles of whiskey, and travelled to a lot of places with a lot of people.
So, who am I going to say thanks to for the fact that I am ending yet another year somehow with my sanity still intact ?? Well, no need to name them all here, you all know who you are, thank you, and I love you all very much.
Let's see what 2016 has in store.
Happy New Year everyone !!