Living the Radiohead Dream.

My Radiohead alarm clock rang at seven.I waited until the guitar solofinished before i murdered it.It was difficult to get out of my woozy Radiohead dream state. I disappeared under the duvet, the screams and voices of schoolchildren unable to penetrate myYorkian snuggle-bubble.Eventually, i had to get up to doa No.1 which was co-produced byNigel Godrich, it began with a groovyelectro-ping-ping effect reminiscentof the Great Post-Kid-A manufacturing process. After a glassof refreshing glacial Radiohead water, i ate a Radiohead probioticyogurt with organic englishstrawberries neatly shaved into brain tissue sized slivers.My luscious Radiohead digestive florawere soon inspired to lay downa fresh demo in the rear studio,echoes of The Bends were evident inthe skewed reverbs and nuggets of muffled bass notes.I had to admit, it was a good session,detoxifyingly thrilling.I wore my favourite Radiohead trainerscustomized with the entire lyricsof Amnesiac. I brushed my teeth withRadiohead enriched enzymes whichdissolve all traces of foreignbodies such as government propogandaand jingles by Ronald McDonaldwhere he appears in a multi-culturalkindergarten in a duet withBritney Spears.I walked to the station listeningto seven tracks from In Rainbowsin a new playing order (as far as i'mconcerned three of the tracks areredundant fillers that pander to theolder geezers that still hark backto Pre-Kid-A material.)The Radiohead Express was 10 minuteslate due to an unconfirmed suicide.All of the seats and standing spacewas plagiarised with Radiohead-itespacked like sardines in a tinreading Waste Products Merchandising,surfing the net for decoded, encrypted hyperbolic lateral interpretations of Radiohead lyrics.I noticed above me, an advertisementbeside the city routemap of a nude nubile girl clasping anelectric guitar with a rainbowstretching across the green pasturebehind her. I was convinced that this had some significance becausein white folio bold condensed lettersemblazoned across the sky it read :HAVE YOU FOUND IT?I avoided the escalator, and ran upa zillion steps through the turnstileand into a sea of sodden rats.Inside the black cab Radiohead'sAll I Need was ricocheting againsta bombardment of sponsored by Al Goreacid free rain. It tasted kindacitrusy, yet greasy.On the cabbie's dashboard was a shotof all the members of Radiohead.He wouldn't let up - what a pallava,Radiohead this and Radiohead that.I couldn't get a word in edgewaysor even softly-softly.Finally, we arrived at corporate HQwhich is now owned by a conglomerateof chinese peasant farmers. I askedthe cabbie how much he wantedfor a tip? he smiled - 40 quid willdo very nicely. How could i refuse?I gave him a crisp fifty note whichwas defaced with Thom Yorke's facesporting a pair of carbon-neutralRaybans. The gloomy pall of RadioheadAlto-Cumulus was broken by patchesof Constable Blue and a seedy breezeof chicken-wings and stale beer.Inside the steel elevator, non-profit Radiohead Muzak instinctively fondled my erogenous zones and massaged my tense nano-synaptic tendrils. The thought of another daytrapped inside my battery cageanswering pointless emails and wasting hour upon hour in viciousbloody meetings was unbearablyunbearable. I wanted the elevator tocontinue rising and rising and risingto the pristine pearly gates ofRadiohead Heaven. I should be gratefuli thought, after all things could beworse. I could be a gerbil trappedinside Elton John's pants.