I dreamt I was in an ice cream parlour, and I'd just bought an enormous strawberry sundae. A huge, beautiful bowl of ice cream and fruit, smoking cold... delicious. I couldn't wait to get back to my table to eat it.
Just as I was walking back to sit down, this hulking great Italian bloke ran right at me, threw himself at me and knocked me flying - the two of us hit the deck, and my sundae splattered all over the floor.
So the two of us were lying there covered in strawberry sauce, when the owner came running over, and suddenly the Italian guy's on his feet, babbling, praying and making those daft finger-and-thumb gestures. The owner takes one look at this, and he's all like Hey, why are you knocking over my customers, you Scottish tosser? You must apologise to this nice Italian gentleman, and buy him the most expensive item on the menu.
The next thing I know, he's forced me to buy two more strawberry sundaes, one for me and one for the Italian guy.
I was feeling pretty hard done by at this point, but then it all turned really weird... the Italian bloke tucked into his ice cream looking all smug and pleased with himself, and when I looked down I realised that I'd actually bought myself a shit sundae, and I'm going to have to chow down on it while the Italian stuffed himself with strawberries.
I'm at a loss to explain what this could mean... It certainly can't relate to yesterday's football match.
If it had been about the football, the Italian guy would've spent the last fifteen minutes of my dream standing in the corner, throwing himself to the floor and rolling about whenever anybody walked past.