Electric dreams are made of this: coffins, women's underwear and Morrissey freebies

My ageing brain (what's left of it) seems to be turning into a squishy mush of music ephemera. Ephemera? Is this the right word? Could be ... Yeah, like a lot of people who've grown (uneasily) into middle age, I've struggled through to my sixth decade with little more than a rag-bag of musical odds and ends to help me along. A fleeting memory of the video for the Clash's London Calling sandwiched between Spit The Dog and Chris Tarrant on Tiswas one Saturday morning. The odour of patchouli oil at some of the hippie-ish post-punk gigs in Coventry in the mid-80s. Familiarising myself with the Medway scene "faces" (and Sean Hughes) at Thee Headcoats gigs in Tufnell Park in the late '90s. Yep, like I said, a rag-bag. Strictly speaking it's all useless junk. But my brain evidently thinks otherwise. Stuff like this is endlessly sifted through, churn churn churn.

An actual image of my nighttime brain gnawing away at a juicy morsel of pop ephemera

Consequently I'm having increasingly odd dreams. I recently mentioned a John Maher dream (Twitter's undoubtedly to blame for that one), but what about my latest nocturnal monstrosity - a Morrissey fright-dream involving me buying a new recording of his. In real life there's zero chance of this happening, but in the dream this new Morrissey "single" was duly delivered to my house but turned out to be a huge rectangular box (vaguely coffin-shaped) with all sorts of items in various compartments. In the dream I'm surprised and delighted to find the purchase is some kind of mega-package, like the record-plus-t-shirt-plus-tote-bag "bundles" that bands are always trying to flog on Bandcamp these days, only far more varied and far better value. In the dream I'm gleefully plunging my hand into all the compartments, pulling out various things - vinyl, small packages, mystery items - including, rather amazingly, a whole bunch of women's underwear. It must have been the Tom Jones compartment. That, dear reader, is when I woke up. I guess it was all too much for my fevered brain - Morrissey, coffin-shaped packages, women's underwear. Oh dear. Pity my poor analyst - likely to have a nervous breakdown if they ever read this blog. What can it all mean? Is it some kind of coded psychic message from Mozzer about the need to heed his dire For Britain-related warnings? Blimey, let's hope not. No, it's obviously just more of the same. Delirious symptoms of an ageing mind gnawing away at the same old bone in the restless nighttime hours. Gnawing, chewing and worrying - this pop morsel, that music titbit. It's hardly very edifying, is it? To have lived so long, yet to find my dreams are made only of this.