Saturday morning saw me awake to the usual raging thirst and half expecting to be in the company of Eric Morecambe 
who I had been dreaming about. Unlike most dreams that are soon forgotten this one has stayed clear (as clear as any dream can be) in my head.
All the time I was vaguely aware that it was just a dream but, could not convince Eric of this and neither could I tell him that he had died first and Ernie Wise 
had been left behind. Eric kept telling me he wanted me to be his new partner and that I would be fine. He taught me all the routines and had me dress in the top hat and tails to perform on stage. I was rubbish: I couldn’t remember my lines and the timing of all the gags was more akin to time lapse photography. Strangest of all was Eric insisting I was doing great and even more bizarrely the audiences loving it. At every miserable performance they roared with laughter and no matter how hard I tried I could not convince Eric it was all wrong. With sadness I tried to tell Eric he was dead but, couldn’t and was trapped by this sense of loss, failure and unbelievable success.
Analyse that Sigmund Freud. 