Any Dream Will Do

I was in the middle of a particularly vivid dream this morning when the alarm went off. It's never nice being roused in this way. It does, however, mean you can remember said dream in glorious HD-ready quality. I dreamt I was playing tournament tennis against late Tory minister, and serial philanderer, Alan Clark.

The game took place in brilliant sunshine. We were in a huge ground that was slightly past its best, and there were very few paying punters around to watch the spectacle unfold. The right honourable member started off brightly enough, but after two points, his service game fell away somewhat. I'm being kind; he went to pieces. Not only did all his attempts at service miss the service box, they barely troubled the court at all. The final indignity was a huge looping service attempt that landed hopelessly out, bounced over the thirty-foot perimeter wall at the back of the court and then disappeared forever.

I felt terrible. Poor Alan - a once virile and dangerous opponent and I was beating him without laying racquet on ball. He hid his emotions behind a huge pair of jet black sunglasses, the kind that only teenage girls and very posh retired gentlemen can get away with. I didn't sense any anger in him, only resignation, as if my besting of him was the final confirmation he needed that the sap had left the building with a one-way ticket tucked into its hatband.

I don't know what this dream says for yours truly, but let's accentuate the positive. I beat a deceased old man at tennis. In your face, New Right. You made an implacable enemy of me when you came to power in 1979. I swore then I'd ruin you and your loved ones. This is only the beginning.