A Dream

It could’ve been North Africa or Afghanistan or Iraq or Siloso beach. Any place with a lot of fine sand. I found myself with my buddy in a foxhole with an M16 slung over my shoulder. I was scanning the horizon but I didn’t know what for. It could’ve been tanks or bikini babes. Either way, I was totally focused when, as it always seems to happen in the movies or dreams for that matter, something exploded nearby. A patrolling soldier went down. I turned in alarm to my buddy and saw fricking Robert Pires staring back at me. The thought of getting an autograph flashed across my mind. Not the most appropriate thing to do in the circumstances I decided. We bounded out of the foxhole with me screaming “Medic” and him “Medeeeeeeeeek” in the way that only a Frenchman can.

We got the medic - Zinedine Zidane (?!). I took this revelation in my stride admirably (which begs the question – what was I smoking at the time?). He started cutting the soldier’s (thankfully, he remained nameless) fatigues with an old pair of scissors. But there was no time to watch. We started sprinting back to our foxhole. It must be noted that Pires’ running style is kinda weird. It’s weird on the pitch and even weirder when he’s dressed in army fatigues. It’s sort of gangly, like an ostrich running with its wings outstretched.

So we jumped back in and started firing. At what, my brain didn’t care to inform me. I just emptied magazine after magazine and, well, that’s about it really because, in the way that dreams always seem to end, an air raid alarm sounded which turned out to be my clock.

Ok. Back to work.