This last week I've had LOADS of crazy dreams, and now I'm wishing I had noted every single one down. It'd only help as evidence for the day I'm locked in a rubber room with some therapist trying to get in my head.
Dopey and slevery, I rolled round in bed the other day and Jen remarks on me being a "sleepy baby". My reply? "How can I... be a sleepy baby... Sleepy babies wouldn't make it all the way to the football in Copenhagen..."
Sound logic there.
The same morning I woke up in a sweat, upset enough that Jennifer actually had to comfort me. I was in a real flap. Why?
"I dreamt we'd had a baby... A fat and ugly baby!"
Friday night on the eve of the Old Firm match, I have another classic. Despite not being a fan of either of Glasgow's ugly sisters, I dreamt I was at the match in the Celtic end.
Weirdly, it wasn't actually a football match in a stadium - it was just a player from each team, with Neil Lennon looking on in a coaching role as they competitively chased a ping-pong ball around an old church. Seriously.
Naturally, two priests were the match officials. They had to step in when the crowd started rioting and chasing the ping-pong ball too.
Another one last night - that I was at a training conference with my work and through the room next door, Marilyn Manson was playing to about 50 folk.
Makes perfect sense, eh?
So the organisers of this Manson concert - who had so sensibly organised for the concert to be in a room next to my work's training conference - had been asking £40 a ticket, but seeing as he'd already started, they only wanted £17 now.
As I snuck off from training for a piss, I peeked in - extremely jealous that I couldn't be there.
I bumped into my mum and told her she HAD to go in - for £17 she'd be seeing one of the best live acts of all time. So she did, despite being more into Donny Osmond and David Cassidy than Marilyn bloody Manson. My pals Cat and Laura were in the middle of sneaking in for free, and my mate Gav was storming past in a huff, moaning about what a rip-off £17 was.
I went back through to training and tried to get them to "hurry the fuck up" so I could go watch Manson.
None of these dreams are quite as strange as the night I was muttering during my sleep on holiday in Ireland. Only 14 at the time and in a thick Donegal accent that no-one knew I could do, I angrily moaned: "Let me through to the bar... Let me through to the fucking bar!"
A worrying insight into my subconscious.