I find myself in a brothel with BB. Initially, I have no idea that the girls are hookers, I wonder innocently why they have so many boy-friends, but the fact slowly dawns on me. One comes to speak to me. It is KG from school.
Some others in the brothel leave – there seems to be an argument about something, and they head home. I walk out of the building and discover the brothel in set up in a church.
The church is on a hill that overlooks LA; it is night, and I can see the orange strips of light in the distance – the boulevards of LA.
Some people leave and I decide to do the same, I then seem to be driving through a tunnel, looking for the airport, LAX.
As I walk the streets (the driving part quickly stopped) I worry about being attacked and robbed. Two men immediately do so and I decide to fight back. I kill one of my attackers.
My hands have what should be the murder weapon covered in blood gripped tightly, but as I look, I see the evidence is English money – about £25 in notes – covered in runny shit. I know I have to ditch the evidence.
As I bend to drop the shitty cash down a drain, a voice warns me “don’t do it, man. They always check the drains”
I seem to have an accomplice. He warns me about not disposing of the evidence there, and I scarper into the alleyways behind some buildings.
By this time, I realise I am not in LA anymore – I am back in WSM, hiding behind some buildings on the high street.
I notice the police are closing in, and they are in LA uniforms. I then seem to be under questioning. I decide to blag them off.
The chief detective fellow is supremely confidant and assured. He has blonde hair and asks me about my phone. He wants to know if I have made any calls that night. This question seems to be connected to the dead attacker – but I have no idea why. I say I haven’t made any calls, and he asks me for the last numbers I dialled and when. I have the feeling they always knew I had done the crime and that they were just playing with me.
At this point I seem to switch between the person being nicked, and a phantom observer. The person now arrested is a chubbier version of the policeman who asked about my phone. Short blonde hair, but this guy has glasses.
He is arrested and taken to the airport (my original destination) for extradition to the UK.
There is a media scramble, this guy – the blonde with glasses – seems to be a celebrity of some sort; dressed flamboyantly like Elton John.
His hair is amazing. It looks like a peacock’s feathers wrapped against the back of his head. And his hair extends high above the top of his head. On top he is bald, with a few thick black hair – rather like cables – are sticking out. I have the feeling that he has or needs hair replacement therapy.
The media scrum moves through the airport, and one member of the party is Graham Souness, the former footballer.
I have no idea about this dream – and haven’t attempted any sort of interpretation, or searched for any links or meaning and so on.