As some of you know, we were ill recently with something akin to or maybe affiliated with Covid. One of those old school viruses or bugs that leave you with a throat full of broken glass and no strength. One of the other  symptoms was weird dreams. Mr van de Ven assures me all my dreams are weird and he should know but these were characterised by a fever rather than the usual nervous excitement nonsense. I had a week of dreaming about famous people. People I am not remotely interested in kept popping up. Isabella Rosellini offering me her coat as I felt cold. Sir Ian McKellen insisting I was talented at something and shouting, ''well when are you going to do something about it?!'' Playing some game of words with Rowan Atkinson and Paloma Picasso. Random shite. On and on they went until I found myself in an old pub one night with Oliver Reed. The pub could easily exist somewhere like the New Forest, all old beams and layers of history. I was given some task to do which involved writing out Christmas cards to more well known people with instructions from Reed that I had to be, ''active aggressive''. A kind of reverse, ''well that's him/her off my Christmas list'' threat. More a, ''Dear Jacob, what's your f#cking problem?'' kind of style. Mentioning things like, ''money is your God'', and, ''want want want, that's you all over''. Not very Christmassy at all. And then, the best bit. I signed them, ''yours, Mick Lynch.''