The Birrell Road Bowl
[Dream target date - Wednesday 6th February 1980]

Alcohol helped cushion the shock of waking up in Ivan Pastuch's room. Fully clothed and covered with an old sleeping bag, I studied the ceiling swirling above me. Ivan's anaemic skeleton was shuffling around in a corner of the room as sunlight filtered through threadbare curtains. I propped myself up on my elbows. "Oh you're awake, do you want some coffee?" Ivan asked politely.

There were so many objects littering the place that it was difficult to focus on any one thing. I began by studying the dressing table, which possessed all the qualities of a shrine. It was covered in books by Alistair Crowley and other occultists, pages stuffed with hastily made bookmarks and scribbled notes.

Ivan made his way downstairs. "Come down when you're ready." he said. I stood up and tried to decipher some of the notes Ivan had copied from the books, there were garbled references to mythological beasts and magical spells. I found it difficult to believe that anyone could take this stuff seriously and put it down to drugs or something?

Ivan Pastuch Pics

The steep, narrow staircase looked familiar, it was the same style as those found in the terraces in Mansfield Woodhouse, though I knew that my Grandmother would have been horrified by the comparison. Ivan carried two mugs of coffee into the lounge, his hands shaking from the effects of last night's party. "Looks like Mac had chips last night." He said, elbowing sickening bundles of greasy newspaper into the middle of the table. The lounge was actually a mirror image of my Grandmother's house and I kept drawing comparisons, as if I'd slipped from the heavenly abode of my childhood into some terrifying, hellish doppleganger.

The coffee failed to settle my volcanic guts. "I'll have to use your loo before we go, Ivan" I said. Ivan pointed to an ominous blue door at the end of the kitchen. The door opened to a psychedelic grotto, adorned with pictures of Marc Bolan, Ziggy Stardust, David Bowie and John Lennon. The montage provided a welcome diversion from the stinking cell I found myself in.

I teetered on my toes, legs shaking to maintain a safe distance between me and the toilet bowl. I was convinced that direct contact with the seat would result in death or at very least, life threatening disease. The enamelled surface of the bowl was stained to the extent that it looked like it was carved out of wood, a dark mahoganny extending back into the U-bend.

In spite of the attraction of the skillfully crafted glam-rock montage, I was glad to escape into the relative comfort of the living room. Ivan was upstairs talking to Mac, his mysterious flatmate. He emerged a few minutes later with a canvas bag flung over his shoulder. "Mac's a miserable old bastard when he wants to be." He muttered contemptuously.

"You're off to Sheffield today aren't you?" I asked, as the front door shut noisily behind us. "Yea, Tony's driving me and Cathy up there to have a look 'round." As we walked the short distance to college, we talked about the urgent need to build up our portfolios. I hadn't yet chosen any degree courses, but it seemed very likely that I would be doing fine art rather than graphic design.

Peter Bench's art history lecture was well-attended considering last night's drunken excesses. Only Les Hughes was missing. He was last seen staggering around the Park dressed as a Rabbi and we wondered whether he had been picked up by the Jewish police he'd been warned about?

As the day progressed, my stale party clothes grew more dishevelled and uncomfortable. By six o'clock I was quite relieved to catch the bus back to Blidworth home for a hot bath and a comfortable bed.