Stinking Pitt

I had a strange dream about Brad Pitt last night.

My band Enormous had a gig at the Royal College of Music and Brad, being a fan, had contacted our management to ask if he could come with us as part of our road crew – I think he was doing some research for a part in a movie.

Bizarrely, it transpired – with the help of some Fantastic dream-logic – that Brad knew my mother quite well, so it was arranged for him to be picked up from her house in Mansfield. When we arrived, he was waiting at her front door. She was fussing all around him, looking him up and down and tutting constantly in that expert way that mothers do. In one hand she held her purse and in the other, her nose. ‘Hi, mum, Brad,’ I said cheerfully.

‘He stinks!’ she protested, to no one in particular.

And indeed he did. I don’t know if it was Audrey who had broken wind and the noxious aroma had invaded my dream or something, but the stench coming from the handsome film star was of the worst kind.

‘It’s his jeans!’ she went on. ‘Look at the state of them! I insist that you let me buy you some more, Brad.’

I felt slightly uncomfortable standing there in the rain, staring at Brad Pitt’s famous legs, but it was true: his ruined denims were in tatters and it was obvious that the offensive smell was coming mostly from that area of his body.

The band and our entourage sat in the van and had to wait while I, under orders from my mum, was forced to escort the unfortunate Mr. Pitt to the local Tesco’s to buy him a new pair of trousers. ‘Right, shall we go to the shop then, Brad?’ I asked him.

Too touched by my mother’s charity to say anything, he merely coughed his embarrassed assent and we walked to the supermarket in silence, twinned by our awkwardness.

He chose the cheapest pair of jeans he could find (only £3.00!) and on our return to the house, we jumped into the van – the two of us pleased beyond words with our frugality – and sped off with the rest of the band down the motorway towards London.

From then on, my dream was even more anomalous. The gig was the usual fraught experience due to my forgetting all the chords and lyrics to our songs and the audience was dressed as warthogs. Brad disappeared into the mists of semi-consciousness, and later on, I had sex with a beautiful blonde-haired student of the violin who said she was the Queen of England – which was rather pleasant. It all got a bit weird after that.

I do remember this though: after the gig, as we were loading the various monitors, guitar amplifiers and drum cases into the van, Brad was nowhere to be seen.

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