I had a vivid and haunting dream the other night. It happened on a night when strong Santa Ana winds buffeted the west coast. I’ve labelled it ‘The Wizard of Hollywood’ for all its metaphors and symbols that represent my unconscious belief and opinion.

In it, Britney Spears and her agent Jason Trawick were pictured together for the umpteenth time, riding a  quad-bike down a poppy-lined road, made of brick and painted yellow. Dozens of munchkins wearing ‘Press’ badges ran merrily behind.

In the darkening skies that hovered above this scene of happiness, there were not flying monkeys but pigs with wings, soaring through the skies in great numbers. Oinking.

In a menacing castle on a rocky hill, a crystal ball filled with red gas and tomorrow’s headlines appeared: ‘BRITNEY’S LOVE WITH JASON’. And a woman dressed in black, wearing a green face-mask, stood above this ball, cackling like someone who’d cast a spell.

Suddenly, on showbiz news desks, something strange happened. Journalists willingly swallowed rumour. Fans cheered. Britney was happy. Headlines heralded true love. Love had saved Britney. Newspapers followed-up, one after the other. Like sheep. Rumour presented as news was cemented as fact, everywhere.

In the sky, the woman clad in black, and still wearing a green face-mask, wheeled on a broomstick and wrote a message from wispy clouds: “B-O-L-L-O-C-K-S’. On the streets below, crowds pointed, gasped and gawped, wondering what on earth she could mean???

A showbiz reporter dressed as a lion wanted to confront her – but didn’t have the courage. “I…I…I’ll just wr-wr-wr-rite up th-th-the love story,” he said. ”

You lazy-assed pussy!” I shouted in my sleep.

At that moment, I found myself in this woman’s castle, armed with a bucket of water. She taunted me with a future where any old rumour made the news. She showed me visions of reporters being fed by spoon. Panicked, I hurled the water, drenching her. She moaned, withered, groaned – and melted.

I woke, drenched in sweat. Shit me, I said. That dream was so vivid that it almost seemed real. For a minute, I thought the world – and journalism – had lost leave of its senses. I actually thought that professional journalists had become scarecrows without brains, engaging in perpetuating a fairytale.

I laughed at how ridiculous I’d been. Jason Trawick: a true gent, professional, rock, protector, chaperone and all-round good guy to Britney. She’d have been lost without him. But her true love & serious boyfriend? Only in your dreams.