Last night, I had a dream about Victoria Beckham. She was sitting on a stool at her breakfast bar, in her kitchen. (No idea if she has one of these in real life). She was in her scruff, un-straightened hair, baggy black t-shirt, the lot. Although she still looked nice. Vicky would look good dragged through a hedge backwards, wearing a bin bag. She wasn’t with David though, which upset me. She was with some bruiser.
Later on, still in my dream, I was in some nightclub thingy and she’s scrubbed up and walked in there with him. They began to have a tiff and it turned into a mega argument and I was tiptoeing around them. When people are having an argument in public, we pretend it’s not happening, suddenly, we become deaf, dumb and blind.
So, anyway, I left the nightclub thingy, as unobtrusively as possible, secretly bemoaning the fact that Vicky had split from David and was now with some sexist, gold-digging thug.
And then I woke up.