Today’s audio Dollop has a bit of a French Feel.

Download it here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I’m writing this on the way back from Broadstairs Folk Festival, and I am pleased to report that I did not sleep with a morris dancer. This is a reference to yesterday’s Dollop incidentally, just in case you didn’t read yesterday’s blog and so thought that I was admitting to a weird compulsion to have sex with morris men.

Broadstairs festival was fun. We had some deaf children in our gig who had someone signing for them. Goodness knows how the signer coped during our French shanty, which is sung very fast and in very badly pronounced French. I also did a yodeling solo just to confuse the signer and the children even more. Personally I believe that one of the few privileges of being blind is being able to take the piss out of the deaf. It’s a form of therapy, a cathartic release, and come on, it’s not like they can hear me.

Tomorrow, Ben’s French girlfriend’s mother is coming to stay for a few days. When I say “Ben’s French girlfriend,” I mean Ben’s only girlfriend, who is French. I thought I better clarify this, just in case Elsa is reading. She’s probably already annoyed at Ben after yesterday’s scaffolding/ladder revelations, without adding insult to injury by making her think that Ben has a number of girlfriends of different nationalities, and that Elsa is only the French one.

The reason I bring up the fact that Elsa is French is because it is relevant to what I’m about to write about. Elsa’s mother is also French, which is only to be expected really, given that she’s Elsa’s mother.

The original plan was for Elsa to take the two days off work to spend some time with her mum, but she was unable to get the time off, and so during the day it’s going to be Me, Ben and Elsa’s mother in the house. Elsa’s mother doesn’t speak much English apparently, so it’s going to be an interesting couple of days, given that Ben’s French is terrible, and my French is simply limited to what I learnt at school. I’m not sure how interested Elsa’s mother is going to be to learn about how I have two brothers, or that I have a bed, a wardrobe and a desk in my bedroom. I’m not sure how long I can eke out a conversation about whether she has any animals or what food she likes eating, especially given that if she goes into any detail then I will be hopelessly lost. I might have to just lie to her in order to keep a conversation going. I can pretend that I have lots of animals which I can then list in order to kill some time: cat, dog, goldfish, fish, cow, horse, sheep, pig …

Other conversational gambits. I can tell her that I like to play football, and that I am a frequent swimmer. This isn’t true, but at least it’ll give me something to say to her. They say you should never ask a lady her age, but then these people weren’t trying to desperately eke out a conversation with their housemate’s girlfriend’s French mother, with nothing but their secondary school French to help them. I can ask her how old she is, when her birthday is, and whether she’d like to go with me to la discothèque. I hope she answers “non” to this question, but knowing my luck I’ll end up going on a date with a woman in her sixties to a disco, while Ben stays at home, laughing at my stupidity.

You might think that, since Ben has a French girlfriend, surely his French will be a lot better than mine. But no, it’s even worse. The only time Elsa seems to speak French to Ben is when they’re having an argument. Then, as her irritation with him escalates, her voice will grow louder and she’ll start speaking more and more French. Sadly, I have no idea what she’s saying to him, because it has nothing to do with wardrobes or disco techs, and I don’t know the French for ladder or scaffolding.

Anyway, wish me bon chance – That means good luck by the way. You see, I know a thing or too. It’s not like my French is terrible – That’s French for terrible, by the way. Maybe I’ll be fine after all. Au revoir. That means goodbye. Oh, I’ll be absolutely fine. This French lark is a promenade dans le parc.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Today I have mostly been experimenting with Death Metal reworkings of Unthanks songs, and holding a ladder. What’s that you’re saying? You’ve spent your day doing that too? Really? Or are you just trying to be funny? OK, you’re just trying to be funny. Hmm, no disrespect but how about leaving the jokes to me? You’re only embarrassing yourself, or at least you would be if anyone else could read your thoughts. Fortunately for you it is unlikely that they can. It’s just a weird gift that I seem to have which manifests itself from time-to-time when I’m writing these blogs. Suddenly a funny feeling comes over me – I won’t go into detail about that, in case there are children present – and then I gain an insight into the thought process of one or a few of my blog readers. Yes, I know it’s a bit weird, you’re right, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Oh, and yes, your bum does look big in that, by the way.

The reason I was doing death metal re-workings of Unthanks songs was for The Young’uns In the Mix, a musical experiment combining folk with pop, taking place on Saturday 20th August at the Folk East Festival in Suffolk. It shall also be available as a podcast in August.

The reason I was holding a ladder was for my housemate Ben. Now, given that I know what some of you are thinking, I want to point out that the ladder holding was purely utilitarian; it wasn’t some kind of kinky pastime. Ben doesn’t get turned on by seeing me hold a ladder, OK? I just wanted to quash that idea right there. Now if it had been me supervising some scaffolding, then granted, that might be different. But scaffolding ain’t cheep, plus if Ben’s girlfriend Elsa found out then we’d be for it again. Fortunately, Ben is ambivalent when it comes to me holding ladders, so he was able to concentrate on the task at hand, which was painting the upstairs window sills. The ladder is rather tall but very narrow with not much room for manoeuvre, and a bit unstable, so I was making sure that he didn’t fall.

After half an hour, I heard Ben shout to me from the roof, “David, I’m ready to go down, pull it out and get ready to take me.”

Oh dear, maybe I was wrong about Ben and ladders after all. He clearly had been aroused by seeing me with a ladder, and now he was asking me to pull it out while he went down. I felt guilty for leading him on. I hadn’t meant to, but I clearly had given him ideas. I began to think about how I could break his heart gently. I’d have to be careful about rejecting him too abruptly. After all, he was standing on the roof; he might jump. I carefully considered my words, but my cogitations were interrupted by Ben shouting at me once again. My god, he is insatiable.

“David, did you hear me? Can you pull the ladder out, I want to climb down. Get ready to take my weight”

Ah, I see, he wasn’t making a sexual declaration after all. I got the ladder and positioned it ready for Ben to clamber down, while I let out a big sigh of relief.

“Stop the heavy breathing David,” said Ben, as he touched the ground, “I’m not turned on.” What an absolute cheek, imagining that I’d be interested; sometimes Ben’s arrogance astounds me.

Just then, we realised the time. Elsa would be back from work soon. We better put the ladder away quickly before she came back. I know that what happened between us before was scaffolding based, but it’s not worth risking Elsa’s suspicions; I’m not sure she’d really appreciate the distinction.

I am now in The Young’uns van, heading to Broadstairs in Kent, where we are performing tomorrow. The distinctive thing about Broadstairs Folk festival, in contrast with many other folk festivals, is that everything takes place in locations within the town, rather than on a separate site. This means that on the Friday and Saturday nights, the streets are alive with an unlikely combination of drunken teenagers and twenty-somethings out clubbing, and old morris dancers, jingling their way to one of the pubs. I imagine as the night goes on and alcohol consumption increases, the night will take a very peculiar turn for some of these revellers, leading to some rather interesting morning after conversations.

“Oh my god, I pulled a geriatric morris dancer. This better not get out. I’ll be the laughing stock of the college.”

I have a friend who got really drunk and slept with a morris dancer. She doesn’t remember much about it, but reckons that if she saw him again then bells would start ringing. Can you believe I’m giving all this away completely for free?

Today’s audio Dollop is a must-listen for parents, as I uncover some startling evidence which will help you protect your children from evil forces. I know most of these Dollops are light-hearted and humorous, but sometimes they also have a serious and important message to impart. Today’s Dollop is one of those Dollops. Do not skip this Dollop; it might just save your life, or your loved one!

Download it here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Today Sheffield Wednesday were playing at home. Despite having lived in the same house in Sheffield Since April 2015, today was the first time I heard the shouts and chants from the stadium carried on the wind. I couldn’t make out the individual chants, but it got me wondering what Sheffield Wednesday fans chant. Footbal clubs with United in the title, such as Wednesday rivals Sheffield United, will often shout “united, united!” This works well as a chant, as the word “united” is a strong word, a unifying word, a word that represents collective strength, singing with one voice, which is what these fans are doing. But shouting “Wednesday Wednesday!” over and over again doesn’t really have the same gravitas. You’re essentially just shouting a day of the week; and not even one of the good ones

I’ve just Googled ‘Sheffield Wednesday chants’, and it turns out that they actually do just shout Wednesday very enthusiastically.

They also do a version of hey Jude, only instead of singing “na nar nar nanrnarnarnar narnanrnarnar, hey Jude,” they’ve cleverly altered the lyrics to be, “nar nar nar narnarnarnar narnarnarnar, Wednesday!” You see what they did there?

I wonder how these chants become accepted and part of the fans’ collective repertoire. Presumably there must be times when someone tries out a chant, starts singing, optimistically hoping that it will catch on, but then it completely falls flat and fails to get anyone else joining in, and it just embarrassingly fizzles out, leaving the poor person who tried to instigate it feeling a bit awkward.

“We are the Wednesday, my friends, we’ll keep on fighting to the end, We are the Wednesday, We are the Wednesday, No time for Losers, Coz we are the … come on guys! No? Oh, OK. Er …”

If you came to Sheffield, having no idea about Sheffield Wednesday, you’d be rather freaked out to suddenly hear loads of voices on the wind all shouting “Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday,” especially if it wasn’t Wednesday, although it would be really weird even if it was. You’d also be pretty weirded out when you heard them sing that other classic, “Shoes Off If You Love Wednesday.” Why? Since when has anyone expressed their liking for something by taking their shoes off? Is this a recognised denotation of appreciation that I’ve somehow not picked up on? I once chatted to quite a nice girl, who at one point in the conversation mentioned that her feet were aching and so took off her shoes. Maybe this was just an excuse, and I missed an obvious sign, and we should be married with children now.

Sheffield Wednesday sing some crazy shit. For instance, Humpty Dumpty sang to the tune of the nineties pop song No Limit by 2Unlimited. There’s a song called You’ll Never Lick The Beaver. Another one called Mrs Halls Toffee Rolls. ” And, a song which rather aptly goes, “we’re Wednesday, We’re Barmy.” Too right you bloody are.

There’s also a chant that goes, “stand up if you hate the police.” The story behind this relates to the fact that the Police covered You’ll Never Lick A Beaver on one of their B-sides, and never paid royalties or gave credit to the Sheffield Wednesday fans. The Sheffield Wednesday fans have been furious with Sting and his cronies ever since.

“Hey guys, I’ve got another idea for a chant. I think this one is really going to capture the hearts and minds.”

“How many times mate, you’re chants are shit.”

“I thought We Are The Wednesday my friends was pretty good.”

“No, it was shit. Now piss off.”

“Hang on, let me just try this one out on you. It’s Madonna’s Holiday, only I thought we could change the word holiday for Wednesday. So it would go: Wednesday, Celebrate, Wednesday, cele …”

“It’s shit mate. Seriously, piss off. Right lads, now that idiot’s gone, how about singing this one? Let me know what you think. It’s called Mrs Hall’s Toffee Rolls.”

“Oh brilliant, I like it already.”

“I’m pretty proud of it. I can imagine this one spreading around the stadium like wildfire. It goes like this: Mrs Hall’s Toffee rolls are the best,
Mrs Hall’s Toffee rolls are the greatest,
She takes strawberry milk from the breast,
And her husband does the rest.”

These are the actual lyrics to Mrs Hall’s Toffee Rolls by the way.

“Oh my god mate, you’ve done it again. That’s fantastic! That’s even better than You’ll Never Lick The Beaver. And that’s saying something. We’re all going to be singing that one for years. You’re a musical genius. You want to get that copy righted before that bastard Sting rips you off again.”

I’ll leave you with the lyrics to another confusingly crazy Sheffield Wednesday song, Somebody’s Pissed In My sombrero.

Somebody’s pissed in my sombrero,
I told him you twat,
You pissed in my hat,
And he said I don’t fucking care-o…”

Ah, they don’t write them like that anymore.

I am still massively jet lagged and really tired, having only slept 14 hours in the last 4 and a half days. If I try and write a description of what’s included in today’s audio Dollop, I will probably end up falling asleep before I get a chance to publish. So, why not take a leap of faith and just give it a listen regardless? After all, it can’t be any worse than yesterday’s Dollop. Or can it? Listen and find out.

Download it here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

Apologies if there is anyone who religiously waits for these Dollops to be released everyday, only to be disappointed when a Dollop comes in a couple of hours late. The reason for today’s late arrival is due to Katherine, who has read every single Dollop and has commented on a great deal of them. She was at Sidmouth Festival, where we perfomrered today, and we got chatting, and before I knew it, it was half past twelve. I felt that, given that she has listened or read, or even apparently often listened and read every single Dollop, this should excuse me from feeling too guilty that the Dollop was late. I suppose in a way, she was getting her own personal Dollop, although a part of me was wondering whether she was disappointed with the physically present me, maybe thinking, “he’s not as interesting when you actually meet him in real-life; in fact, he’s rather dull. He hasn’t even mentioned his kettle once” I wondered if she was constantly comparing me to the other David Eagle, David Eagle the Dolloper. “What is he going on about? The Dolloping David Eagle wouldn’t have said something so stupid.”

Currently, the physically present me is an absolute wreck. I have had approximately 7 hours sleep in the last 80 hours. I WAS feel tired but I am just unable to sleep. Eventually I managed to fall asleep at 6am, but at 8 my alarm was going off. It was time to set off for Sidmouth Festival. Even though I knew it wouldn’t serve any purpose at all, my brain was screaming out for me to hit the snooze button, giving me an extra six minutes in bed. If I didn’t hit snooze then I would have to get up immediately, as I knew that staying in bed for another six minutes would result in me falling asleep again. I’d spent 6 hours lying in bed, praying for sleep to come, and now, ironically – and yes Alanis , this is the correct use of the term “ironic” – my body and brain was desperate to go back to sleep, the prospect of getting up made me want to cry. My head was aching and everything felt heavy. There was no time to snooze, I needed to get up now, and so I chose not to use the snooze option.

The next thing I was aware of was the sound of my phone ring tone. Shit! I should have pressed the snooze button. I had presumably lost the fight to get out of bed, and without the snooze alarm waking me, I had been allowed to fall into a deep sleep. How long had I been asleep for? This was clearly Sean calling to find out where I was.

I answered the phone, putting it on speaker so as to quickly get dressed while he spoke, in order to try and get out of the house as quickly as possible. Just how late was I. I jumped out of bed and threw a shirt over my head. I heard Sean’s voice coming over the phone’s speaker. Unfortunately I couldn’t make out what he was saying because of the sound of my shirt rustling against my ears as I desperately tried to quickly pull it on, which resulted in me getting the sleeves tangled, and taking mic taking longer than the second it should have taken. I was clearly ridiculously tired, because I was really struggling to get this shirt on. My arms were now poking through a gap in between the buttons. And all the while, Sean was talking, probably wondering where I an. I was in a massive tangle inside the shirt, and if I kept trying to get out of this fabric maze, I would completely miss what Sean was saying, which would make him even more annoyed than he surely already was, for I dreaded to think how long I’d overslept for. So I left the shirt to dangle abserdly over my head while I tried to make out what Sean was saying.

He had received a call from someone from Gatwick airport saying that the accordion and the guitar had been found, and that they could get them to Sheffield for 930. The original plan had been to allow plenty of time to get to Sidmouth, perhaps managing to cram in a couple of hours of sleep when we got there – Sean had hardly slept the day before either – but now we had to wait for the missing instruments to be delivered. It appeared that I hadn’t really gone back to sleep, because it was only five minutes past eight. After condluding the call with Sean, I untangled the shirt and tried to wake myself up with a cold shower. I was so tired that I felt as if I was going to be physically sick. I chose a cold shower because I feared that I’d fall asleep if it was a hot shower.

Even though today’s Dollop is clearly unfinished and very shambolically written, I am going to leave it here, as I keep falling asleep at the computer and then waking up a few seconds later,. I shall continue from where we left off tomorrow. I will have to publish this now, before I completely crash out, slump over the computer and properly fall asleep.

David’s Daily Digital Dollop: Dollop 217 – Everything, Including The Kitchen Sink

Today’s Dollop has everything, including the kitchen sink: there’s an epic drama involving watery mash potato, an anecdote about my trip to the shops earlier today, and a tiny preview of The upcoming Young’uns In The Mix taking place at this year’s Folk East festival on 20th August. Come join me in the kitchen my friends.

Download the Dollop here

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

The lady from Canmore would be disappointed in me today, as due to having gone 24 hours without sleep and my brain being rather addled as a result, I made loads of typos just typing the title of today’s Dollop.

We arrived back in England earlier today, and more or less as soon as I stepped off the plane I was greeted by Jeremy Corbyn. It was a text message. Perhaps he’d started reading the Dollops and was texting to share his views on kettles maybe. But no, it was just a standard public message, asking whether I’d vote for him. I haven’t really checked the news much while I’ve been in Canada, and have largely enjoyed three weeks of blissful ignorance, but now I’d only just stepped off the plane in England, and already I was being jolted back into reality, instantly reminded about my country’s political situation.

The reality jolt was also helped along by the surly and abrupt nature of the airport staff. The Canadian airport staff had seemed very friendly and hospitable, but the English airport staff were much more austere and loudly barked instructions at us. A Canadian man, presumably a bit groggy after the flight, accidentally went in the wrong queue and was barked at by one of the women supervising the line. He apologised to the lady for the mistake, but she merely responded with, “quick, you’re holding up the queue, move into the other queue sir.” He meekly apologised again and joined the correct queue, lining up behind me. “Welcome to England,” I said to him, smiling. The man chuckled. I think it was a reassured chuckle, although if I got my smile wrong and did the constipated psycho killer instead, then it might have been a nervous chuckle, and in actuality, I’d only served to make things worse for the poor man. I never got the chance to properly find out, because I was being barked at to come forward to get my passport checked.

Our passports were verified, and we were welcomed into the country with a bark of “next,” to indicate that I should move on and let the next person have a turn at being scowled and barked at. We then waited by the luggage carousel for the Accordion and guitar. One hour later and we were still waiting. There was no sign of the instruments. The carousel had deposited all the cases, but there was still no accordion or guitar. Sean went to find a member of staff to see what might have happened. An announcement came over the PA reminding us to keep all our personal belongings with us at all times, otherwise they might be removed or destroyed. But we had no idea where our personal belongings were. There was a part of me worried that they might have gone missing for good. But then there was another part of me that realised that I didn’t really have anything to write about today, and imagined how good it would be if I could write a Dollop about my Accordion in its hard case being mistaken for a suspicious item and blown up. Yes, that would be a good dramatic story for the Dollop, and would probably get me a lot of extra visitors to my website, and maybe even media attention. I began to think up jokes, just in case Sean came back and reported on the destruction of my accordion. Maybe I’d could make a joke about the member of staff at the fragile items desk asking me whether I was checking anything in of significant value, and how maybe I could have found a better choice of words than, “oh yes, this is worth a bomb.”

Eventually Sean returned. They’d said that the instruments might not have been checked on the plane and were maybe still in Canada. We then had to sign a long form, detailing what was in the case, the dimensions and colour of the case, and the estimated value of the items; I decided that now wasn’t a good time to do the “it’s worth a bomb” joke, and so just wrote the price of the instrument. We also had to provide our flight details, and our names, phone numbers and addresses to send the items to, should they be found.

“We’ll do our best,” said the man, which didn’t sound particularly reassuring. They’d somehow already failed to simply put the instruments on a plane and then take them back off again when it landed, and now they were charged with the job of trying to locate the cases somewhere in Vancouver airport, put them on another plane, take them off the plane and get it delivered to our address, which was a lot more complicated than the first easy bit that they managed to mess up.

. As we walked out of the airport, I noticed that the escalator was no longer telling us to take extra care when using it. Perhaps someone high up at Gatwick Airport reads these Dollops and made a note of my escalator observations and dealt with it ready for my return. If you’re reading today’s Dollop, my friend, then maybe you could do something about the barking, surly staff, and try and ensure my accordion doesn’t get blown up. Although, Michael’s guitar on the other hand … feel free; do us a favour.

I apologise if this Dollop hasn’t been up to the usual high standard, but I haven’t slept for over 36 hours and I’ve drfited off quite a few times while trying to write it. Back tomorrow.

Download the audio version of today’s Dollop here

I got another surprise comment in my inbox yesterday. It was from someone based in Canmore, where we were playing over the weekend, responding to yesterday’s Dollop about the woman who was intrigued by me being able to type without looking at the keyboard or screen.

“This is an outrage,” said the commenter, “I shall complain to the festival and make sure you are never booked again.”

I then spent the next half an hour trying to work out why this person had got so annoyed. I reread the blog and didn’t think I’d said anything particularly offensive. I called the woman “bloody weird,” but that was a playful, jocular statement; I didn’t think it warranted this kind of outraged reaction. I then spent some more time pacing around the room, mentally composing responses to this person. Maybe I would just be all contrite and apologise for any offence caused and state that it wasn’t my intention to offend. Or maybe I would pick them up on their use of the word “outrage,” and then include a load of news headlines about terrible events that have happened this week. Maybe I’d include a load of quotes from Trump, and ask the person what word they’d use to describe those statements, given that they’d used the word “outrage” to describe my innocuous blog. Surely they’d lost their sense of perspective.

I tried to grapple with how this person had come to this conclusion. Presumably they had seen us at the festival, liked us enough to Google us, and then found my blog, and decided that they were interested enough to give it a read. But then, somehow, they had gone from being a fan to being a foe, due to these few hundred words I’d written, and they were so incensed that they messaged me to say that what I’d said was an outrage and that they’d complain to the festival so that we were never booked again. I read the blog again. Was it just that one line that had offended them: “thanks? but you are bloody weird.” Was that it? If I hadn’t written those few words would this person be angry? Or was it the whole thing? I was feeling rather down that someone had managed to get offended by this.

Why is it that the only time we ever get a complaint is when we’re performing outside of Europe? When we were in Australia, one woman complained to the festival that I was sexist, because of a comment I made on stage (see this Dollop for more on that) and now we’re in Canada, and someone is going to make a complaint to the festival because of a little blog I’d written.

I decided to wait until the morning to respond, but then, unable to sleep due to this person’s comment, I decided to go into the web stats and see where the comment had been sent from. There was something niggling away at me about this comment. I was starting to doubt its authenticity. And then I saw it, and my niggling suspicion was confirmed. The web stats tells me the email address of the person’s comment, and I now knew that the comment had been sent from the UK, not Canada. And I knew who it was: it was regular Dollop contributor Katherine. Relief flooded my body. It was quite a messy business, but once I’d got cleaned up I was able to sleep soundly, safe in the knowledge that the comment had been a wined up and wasn’t genuine.

My sound sleeping didn’t last long because I was disturbed my a disconcerting dream. I’ve dreamt this same kind of dream for years, and I’ve spoken to other people who have this sort of dream as well. I get a letter in the post or a phone call telling me to come into school next week to sit my exams. At first I am totally confused. I am thirty-one, why would I be going into school to do exams? But then, slowly, I begin to remember. How could I have forgotten? I knew I had exams when I was thirty-one. I’d had all this time to revise, and now the day of the exam was almost upon me and I’ve done nothing towards it. I look at my life. What the hell have I been doing with my time? I’ve been wasting it writing blogs, travelling the world doing gigs. I am an idiot? But then I get a feeling of indignation. Surely I am doing well. I have created a life for myself, and I don’t need exams to validate me, because I am living my life perfectly fine without them. There must be a get-out option. I try calling the school and explaining to them that I work for a living, that I’ve got gigs in the diary, that I’ve got commitments and important things to do, and that surely I don’t need to do exams in school when I’m clearly doing fine. But they are resolute and inssistant that I have to take these exams. I am thrown into a mad panic. I am a failure, I’ve been wasting my time, frittering it away with gigs, blogs and podcasts. I thought I was doing well. I’d moved away from home, to a different city, I travel the world performing, we’ve won awards, I have loads of friends all over the world, I am making enough money to live. But now my life has been thrown into disaray, because I have to go back to school in Hartlepool to sit some exams. I try bargaining with them, telling them that surely I don’t need to sit the English exam. After all, I write a blog everyday. But they just laugh derisively and tell me that I’m hardly helping my cause with that argument.

I hate this dream, and I always wake up feeling really down. It seems to me as if this dream is a way of highlighting my vulnerability and fragility. I’ve built up this construct on which I prop up my feeling of self-worth and identity. I do what I can to give myself the feeling of having choice, of being individual, but this dream taps into my fears and insecurities that my life could crumble at any moment, that the facade could come collapsing down at any time, and I am forced to confront that other part of me, the scared child who is back at school sitting his exams, waiting to be judged and compared to everyone else. That small scared child who never really went away. I’d pushed him to the back of my mind. I’d forgotten he was there. But then I have the dream, and I am reminded of his presence.

Sometimes our own brains can be our greatest enemy. Why couldn’t I have had a nice dream about flying, or sex? Or even better, a dream about having sex while flying? But no, my brain would seemingly rather remind me of the fragility of my existence instead. Thanks brain, you are bloody weird.