Nightmare at Primark

YOU’RE WALKING DOWN a crowded street and to your horror, you notice the people looking at you and laughing. They’re pointing at your nether regions and when you look down, you notice that you are not wearing anything but a skimpy sleeveless vest.
For an unfortunate few this is painful reality, but for most of us this only happens in our night time imaginings.

A harmless dream or evidence of a damaged psyche? Certainly, the fact that you are walking may be evidence that you possess a damaged cycle. You should always carry a spare inner tube. In fact, going to bed with a full bicycle repair kit and a pump can work wonders for your sense of security. Besides which, it could be fun. And never forget the Allen keys.

If you are truly bothered by this dream, why not try a little mind manipulation to alter it? Actually go out dressed as you were in the dream. After a few days of nonchalant shopping trips, and some narrow escapes from the police, you will find yourself fully-dressed in your dreams surrounded by a half-naked multitude.
One’s dreams change subtly as one matures.

The under-dressed one is an old classic repeated more often than Only Fools And Horses, but my inner security must be improving because now, I dream of walking into town wearing just striped pyjamas. No socks or slippers. Just pyjamas.

If this increase in security follows a logical pattern, then the dream scenarios that lie in wait become obvious.

At the age of forty-five, the patient can expect to be in striped pyjamas and a pair of checked slippers. By fifty-five he will be attired in a cord dressing gown whilst puffing on a pipe. And so it would go on, until the most cocksure dreamer marches through Oxford Street in full nocturnal regalia, plus a nightcap, a hot water bottle and a mug of cocoa.

However, lack of clothes in a dream is not the only sign of insecurity. Naturists toss and turn, assaulted by nightmares of being fully-clothed. Trendsetters, such as yours truly, are often traumatised by dreams about going into Primark. And buying a jacket!
Items of clothing are very significant dream symbols. A polo neck sweater with a reindeer motif suggests that your mother has not long to live. Neck ties are seen as phallic symbols, whereas bow ties mean a vasectomy is on the way. Either that, or a very nasty accident.

Different people experience insecurity in dreams in different ways. Page Three girls dream they have been turned into the financial pages. Mike Tyson wakes up shivering from the haunting image of turning into Ainsley Harriott. A gut-churning drama involving a speck of dust falling onto one of her cakes in Sainsbury’s causes Jane Asher to put a small crease in that perfectly arranged duvet. The night fears that harass Sooty are of Matthew Corbett growing long fingernails. John Prescott’s worse nightmare is of being himself.

Above all possible dream experiences, most people have the old one of going totally unprepared into an exam. The trouble is that many of them are simply reliving the terrible truth. And, unless it was a bicycle repair exam, no amount of rubber tubing, glue and spanners would be sufficient to rebuild their battered subconscious.

Cartoons and caricatures by Simon Ellinas

Aries
You’re known as the Roger Bannisters of the bedroom. You’re quickest off he mark, but after four minutes of huffing and puffing you feel like you’ve run a mile!

Taurus
You’re turned on by the colour red and love strong silent types. Taureans have been known to conduct lengthy affairs with letter boxes.

Gemini
You are versatile, eager to experiment and often spend hours in the local Accident and Emergency waiting for household objects to be extracted. your X-Rays change hands for exorbitant sums.

Cancer
You never got over finding out Mummy and Daddy actually ‘did it’. Your insecurities are legion. You even suspect Teddy is carrying on with Golly behind your back.

Leo
You are nature’s dramatists and love performing in front of mirrors. Even your groans and ecstatic squeals have been rehearsed. A lucrative career as a porn star beckons.

Virgo
You are addicted to order and routine. Your spontaneous embraces need planning weeks in advance. your favourite love-making slot is the commercial break during News at ten.

Libra
You are attractive, well -balanced and like to see both sides of things at once. This leads to serious back strain in bed and a high incidence of bisexuality.

Scorpio
You are the sexual athletes of the Zodiac. you are passionate, devastating and completely irresistible. Needless to say this tosh is entirely on your say-so.

Sagittarius
You are restless and thrive on one night stands. You feature heavily in petitions for divorce and account for half the case notes in VD clinics.

Capricorn
You are conservative and keen on Victorian values. You have a first edition of Fanny Hill and like dressing up as a maid, whatever your sex.

Aquarius
You are the most independent of the star signs. few partners can match your high ideals. Onanistic practises feature highly in your working day.

Pisces
Dear me! You do believe in love at first sight, don’t you? May I recommend a video of Brief Encounter and a large hanky?

Cartoons and caricatures by Guy Carter

Prince Nigel is the Queen’s second cousin, twice removed (twice removed, forcibly, from Buckingham Palace. He now lives in Battersea). After leaving the famous public school, Martindales, he settled into his bedsit with his collection of anoraks and proceeded to read the entire Inter City and regional railway timetables. Here, he relates how he entered into the world of society and met girls for the first time.IT WAS MY mother, Princess Tabitha, who encouraged me to sow my wild oats. Unfortunately, these seeds always spilled onto barren ground. But I had great success with pansies. Being a normal product of the public school system (normal to public schools, that is) this was simply par to the course.

I REMEMBER THE day when mother interrupted my study of the Liverpool Street to Ipswich timetable. I managed to throw the thing out of the window before the burning pages reached my fingers. She has such a sense of humour! When she told me that I needed to get a sex life, I told her I already had one. She said that it should ideally involve more than one person. Such a hilariously bizarre idea!

“You must get out more, Neil! Preferably permanently. I’ve company tonight. Brendan, Sean and Declan are moving in.” Mother was keen on helping Britain to improve relations with Ireland. She somehow thought that offering sexual relations to the navvies digging up the road outside would be a good place to start.

I barely had time to notify her of her error in calling me Neil, before I found myself spreadeagled on the pavement outside. A few seconds later, my clothes followed and formed a perfect rosette around me where I lay. (A panel of judges on the other side of the road held up numbers: ’6.0, 5.8, 5.9, 6.0, 6.0, 5.6′. It was the best rosette of clothes around a recumbent figure they had seen in that street). My last thought, before I lost consciousness, on seeing a trunk hurtling towards me, was: “I hope it’s not full.”

I woke to find myself covered in newspapers. A headline caught my eye: “Palace Sensation: Prince Nigel still a virgin at 36″. I can’t begin to describe my mortification. I was 34. I dusted myself down, gathered up my belongings and went to see two important people.

Firstly, I went to see my lawyer for advice about this slander. He told me to issue a libel suit at once, but my tailor didn’t know how to make one. I decided to send them a morning suit, instead.

Next I went to see my doctor about my sexual problems. We both arrived at the conclusion that whereas the tabloids have done nothing to help the love lives of Royal Family members, the tablets might help to improve mine.

Thus advised and equipped, and from a newly-acquired rented broom cupboard near Clapham Junction (Princess Tabitha was incommunicado, wherever that is), I set forth to conquer the opposite sex.

A slow build-up was essential for a person with such little experience, so I frequented shopping centres and practiced chat-up lines on the shop window mannequins. Fearing the ever-present paparazzi, I disguised myself in a long brown mackintosh, wellington boots and storm hat. This outfit seemed to inspire respect, as people would stand up and leave buses or railway carriages when I came in. I could walk through busy streets without fear of collision, as the crowds would part like the Red Sea before me.

When my already unnatural gifts of charm and repartee had shown signs of improvement, I managed to steal a mannequin out of Top Shop and bring it home. Melinda (for that is what I called her) had a chip on her shoulder. Her left forearm was missing, as well, but this afforded some good practice at living with someone’s imperfections. The subsequent newspaper headlines did not require legal action as they were quite impressive: “Prince Nigel living in sin with model girl”. But after three weeks of watching television on the sofa with her, it was time to pluck up courage to go and get a real girl. I decided to become a habitué of London’s nightclub scene. Tramp seemed like a likey venue for a person with my recent fashion sense, so off I went.

The music was loud and so was my suit, the lights were flashing and so was I, the women were arresting and so were the police officers who were trying to drag me away. However, convinced of my explanation of a faulty zip, they let me go with a caution: “Never buy the first round”.

And so the weeks passed, with nightly visits to the capital’s hotspots increasing my reputation as a ladies’ man. Wherever I went, people would laugh uproariously as I arrived and cheer devotedly as I left. I discovered that a sense of humour is the most important quality that women look for in men. So I always dressed as Coco the Clown and arrived armed to the teeth with whoopee cushions, handshake buzzers, exploding cigars, fart and itching powder and X-Ray Specs. As you can imagine, this makes quite an impression and people do sit up and take notice. Actually, most of them stand up and leave, obviously incapacitated by my wit (particularly after the joke laxative sugar cubes).

To date, I have dated only one woman, Melinda the shop window model. Perhaps I set my standards too high. Perhaps women are intimidated by my connections with the Royal Family. Certainly, I’m sure they aren’t confident that they can live up to me, let alone with me. Perhaps I am too exacting about my requirements in a woman. But my quest is only fourteen years old, so there’s plenty of time yet.