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Robot Invasion
May. 21st, 2010 10:30 amOur mortgage handler has finally found the various bits and pieces of paper she needed behind the door and under the kitchen sink, and has scraped them together to deliver us a letter of commitment just one day past the deadline after we'd been ready for a month, satisfied with just getting the repayment rate wrong. So, happily, the closing can still go ahead. The stress from all of this seems to have manifested itself in my brain becoming even better than usual at coming up with off the wall dreams, from its neurons just misfiring and spinning off rapidly at random.
Last night started off with my old minister and his wife hosting a chat show from their living room, but it wasn't long before a swarm of spider-like robots invaded - they looked somewhat like the Media Monsters from a while ago. We ran away, but eventually one of them had us cornered in a dead end corridor with a large plasma screen behind us. It scuttled around the corner and looked ready to pounce.
Just then an armored bulldozer burst through the wall, driven by Gordon Brown, and he violently pinned it to the opposite side of the corridor while firing rockets at it. After it twitched under the onslaught and eventually collapsed to the floor, he kept ramming at it until finally convinced to stop, but just when it looked like all was quiet, it came alive again because it had a spare battery. The ex-Prime Minister responded to this by jumping out of the bulldozer, picking the thing up by one of its legs, swinging it round and jamming it on to the missile launcher of another robot that was passing, and it shattered to pieces from the explosion.
More robots were on the way, and we had to convince a boat somewhere out at sea (that was perhaps inadvertently spreading the infection?) to destroy itself before it landed. Somehow I could see this boat in the middle of the room, but we were communicating to it over the radio, and it was apparently crewed by some people from the North:
Eh up, Foggy?
Aye?
There's a man on t'wireless says we have to blow t'boat up.
Oh? All right. Compo?
Aye?
See this boat?
Aye?
It's your mum.
Oh, aye.
>KABLADABOOM<
By this point, the self-titled Yahtzee Croshaw was reviewing proceedings as they went on. He concluded that whatever it was we were starring in wasn't related to anything that he'd done at all and was just using his name in an attempt to sell itself, along with having a number-based title. This entire sequence of events was called The Eight Lost Embers of Chiswick.
What are you doing, brain?
Last night started off with my old minister and his wife hosting a chat show from their living room, but it wasn't long before a swarm of spider-like robots invaded - they looked somewhat like the Media Monsters from a while ago. We ran away, but eventually one of them had us cornered in a dead end corridor with a large plasma screen behind us. It scuttled around the corner and looked ready to pounce.
Just then an armored bulldozer burst through the wall, driven by Gordon Brown, and he violently pinned it to the opposite side of the corridor while firing rockets at it. After it twitched under the onslaught and eventually collapsed to the floor, he kept ramming at it until finally convinced to stop, but just when it looked like all was quiet, it came alive again because it had a spare battery. The ex-Prime Minister responded to this by jumping out of the bulldozer, picking the thing up by one of its legs, swinging it round and jamming it on to the missile launcher of another robot that was passing, and it shattered to pieces from the explosion.
More robots were on the way, and we had to convince a boat somewhere out at sea (that was perhaps inadvertently spreading the infection?) to destroy itself before it landed. Somehow I could see this boat in the middle of the room, but we were communicating to it over the radio, and it was apparently crewed by some people from the North:
Eh up, Foggy?
Aye?
There's a man on t'wireless says we have to blow t'boat up.
Oh? All right. Compo?
Aye?
See this boat?
Aye?
It's your mum.
Oh, aye.
>KABLADABOOM<
By this point, the self-titled Yahtzee Croshaw was reviewing proceedings as they went on. He concluded that whatever it was we were starring in wasn't related to anything that he'd done at all and was just using his name in an attempt to sell itself, along with having a number-based title. This entire sequence of events was called The Eight Lost Embers of Chiswick.
What are you doing, brain?
