The plot thickens

Van Santo here, Breeze Van Santo. I’m just taking a break while on the set of Steven Spielberg’s latest movie. I’m standing in for Ricky Gervais in his role as the husband of a highly regarded opera singer that is in a coma after an accident. The couple get horribly shunted into from behind by a lorry while stopped in a traffic jam. The crushing emotional rollercoaster he rides while fighting every doctor’s advice and opinion in order to keep his wife alive is powerful stuff and will show Gervais in a whole new light as a serious actor. It is due for release in 2012 and with Susan Boyle playing the stricken wife, ‘Rear end Diva’ is sure to be a huge success.

Anyhoo, back at the penthouse we had finished breakfast and I finally managed to piece together the whole of the dastardly plan that this pair had dreamed up. I was to collect a pot of Warwick’s special love cream and bring it speedily back to Lulu, who would … well you can work out the rest. Once the baby was born Derek would use his theatre connections to let the story slip. They would first of all charge the News of the World thousands for the story, before using the results of a DNA test to sting our hapless Hollywood friend for millions.

I was absolutely stunned, how could they come up with such a cunningly ruthless, hateful and worst of all shit plan? “Really though? I mean Warwick? Why him? I’m working with names such as McGregor, Gervais, Spielberg, and Clooney and you want a love child from an evil leprechaun?”

“Hey Van Santo, don’t you think we have thought this through?” Lulu’s agitation was unnerving, “I’ve got to wreck my body having this bastard, the stretch marks and damage to my boobs are going to be with me forever – I’m damned if I’m also wrecking my fanny laid out in agony giving birth to a full sized baby - no way! I’m having as small a baby as possible thank you very much, pass the bonsai bugger a rope and it can abseil out without touching the sides, thank you very much!”

“Er, wow! You know I really don’t think that’s how it works; I’m pretty sure that…” My voice left me as I sat astounded at the level of ignorance I’d just witnessed. I wondered how I had got myself into this mess and then Lulu uncrossed her legs, providing me with the full Basic Instinct, and just for a moment I could see her point. I shook myself, “No – this is madness, you two are crazy, and I’m leaving just as soon as I’ve finished my cup of tea!” With that said I reached over and grabbed the last Custard Cream.

Lulu’s tears filled the room and completely drowned out the dramatic effect that I had been trying for. “But you promised, you absolutely promised – ‘oh it’ll be easy’ you said, ‘me and Warwick are like that’ you said, ‘I’ll pump it out of him myself if I have to’ you said. But it was all hot air just to get a feel of my arse, wasn’t it?”

“Er, well hang on – is there still a chance of that then?” Somehow I knew that I had blown my chances though, so I sat back and drank my tea in silence. Could I really do this? Could I really set up an innocent victim to help someone as deranged and socially intolerant as this? Could I really pass up the chance of copping a feel of her arse?

Derek walked over from the corner that he had so silently been sitting in until now; he clearly was not aware that he seemed less intimidating in his paisley towelling pyjamas than he had in his Nun’s costume, because he fixed me his most theatrical glare and announced “You will do it Mr. Van Santo, because there is no try – do or do not and if you do not then you won’t but if you do then you will, comprend-ey?”

“Er, run that by me again?”

“You will bloody do it Breeze or I’ll bloody well put caps into your bottom, and blow you!”

“Er, no - still not quite got it …”

“What Derek is trying to say, Breeze, is that we have your balls in our hands – listen to this…” at which point a Dictaphone was produced and turned on. I sat and listened to my slightly drunken voice as patches of conversation were played and forwarded past until what was being searched for was found…

“I bet you 10p I can make your tits wobble without touching them…. Get it? She thought she had said it ‘wares’ the soap… Do you know how connected I am? Of course I’m friends with Warwick Davis… Don’t you worry, Breeze Van Santo won’t let you down, I’ll pump my little chap until your cup is full to the brim, and you’ll be up the duff quicker than footballer’s girlfriend!”

I had to admit their evidence was strong; I was well and truly cornered. If they went to the press with that I’d never work again.

I needed some air and some time to think, so I grabbed my jacket and made for the door. I turned and took one last look at the vision draped across the sofa, my heart head and ‘Little Breeze’ started a full on argument, a row that would probably be going on for days. I left.

The drive back home was a lonely one full of dark thoughts. I was almost home when something caught my eye. My brakes slammed on and I just sat and stared, maybe things were going to be alright. Just perhaps… yes, this could work…

Oops, got to go, SuBo needs a hand with her corset.

Ciao

minor grammar issues

Late last night I was on my way to bed when I heard Jo’s voice calling down ‘carefully’ from the bedroom. I thought to myself – ‘sounds like trouble’ – Jo only uses her careful tone when she is about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.


“I’ve just been reading your blog…”

Immediately I knew what the problem was, Jo had found a mistake. Facts are facts and here they are: I left school at 16 and ran away to join the Navy, then I got married and had kids while working as a telecoms engineer. At the age of 38 I suddenly decided that I fancied writing stories. I’d always enjoyed writing daft things, and now I wanted to try and take it to another level. Let’s compare that to my wife, who stayed on at school to take A Levels before heading off to University for a degree and a career in teaching. The fact, therefore, is that Jo is infinitely more academic than I am and a million times more accurate with grammar. Jo spends her days teaching literacy and so cannot help but notice when her husband uses bad England. This is not a bad thing at all; she has earned the right to be better at English than me, in all fairness I’m probably better at electrical engineering than she is.

The point is that she will spot my mistakes.

Isn’t there a rule somewhere about wives mentioning their husband’s failures? I’m sure it’s supposed to be illegal? For a while I used to ask Jo to edit my posts before I published them, but this very nearly caused a divorce and so for the sake of a happy home, we decided it was better just to let me write and accept the occasional grammatical faux pas or blatant typo.

You see, I write because my head is full of daft ideas and I know I can create silly things, but technically I am aware that my knowledge of English is limited. This is why I know that I am a blogger, rather than a bona fide writer; I have a lot to learn before I can really call myself a writer. I left school a long, long time ago and haven’t read anywhere near enough to self develop so I’m really playing catch up. I prefer to let myself go and lose myself in writing, get the ideas down without worrying about the technicalities of writing. Let the story out – so to speak.

Sadly, it just doesn’t work like that.

As a blogger, we are not just the writer are we? A blogger is writer, editor, producer, publisher and distributor! So many hats and you have to take responsibility for all of them – not just one. At this point the majority of non family members who will view your work are all writers too, and if they have made the effort to come and read then they deserve a bit of effort. You guys, quite rightly, expect me to know when to use there or their or they’re or where or wear or ware or weather or whether or your or you’re or when to drop the grocer’s apostrophe - don’t you? English is such a tricky language. DAMN IT – WHY COULDN’T I HAVE BEEN BORN FRENCH?

In last night’s case, you probably expected me to know the difference between a miner and a minor didn’t you? No doubt it came as a surprise to anyone who read yesterdays post, before I edited it, to discover that a load of Chilean children were trapped down a mine. Jo spotted it immediately, as would most people I imagine. Sadly spell checker didn’t see it at all! I am so reliant on technology to spot my errors that it is scary. I need to go back to school, keep on practising and reading harder, or at least find myself an editor that I don’t also love.

UPDATE: should "yesterdays post" have been 'yesterday's post' ?  Probably, I managed to sneak that one past Jo  :-) I spotted one in an earlier Breeze yesterday as well, where "two Nun's were in a bath" - Nun's?  That bloody apostrophe is a menace, I have removed the offending item but Heaven knows how many more I've misused and missed.  

Hollywood dreams

Hello there and I’m here with a quick thought for Monday.


What will the Hollywood version of the Chilean miners ordeal be like? I mean, clearly it will be set in America or at least with an all American team sent in to drill them out (probably with Bruce Willis in charge – just a guess), but what else?

How many underground explosions will there be? What will the love interest ladies get up to on the surface? Will they or won’t they be stood waiting when the miners are rescued? When the men are fighting for the last biscuit down below, will the American supervisor be able to control the situation and talk them out of it with an awe inspiring speech that could double up to represent the struggles between all of the world’s races, and how we all need to do more to help the impoverished?

How close will it be to disaster at every turn, will they won’t they, can they can’t they, should they could they?

The story of those guys survival so far, is unbelievable and an amazing account of the strength of character of these people; it does not need ruining by Hollywood to make it a truly awesome film. Get gritty and just show the truth, theatres will be moved to tears and full night after night. As it stands, right now they are suffering this ordeal with greater dignity than I can manage if we run out of coffee at work, and yet they still have months to wait, never knowing for sure how it will all end. This truly is an un paralleled tale of human strength.

It really doesn’t need Kelly Brook in almost emotional shower scenes, although – having said that… Oh Okay then, I’m sure we could squeeze that in if it is essential to the plot, having thought about it!

The White Horse

It’s Friday O’Clock so it’s time for the oldest joke in the book, but one that I still hold dear as one of my most favourite.


It involves a salesman.

A BMW Z3

And a horse.

A white one.



If you have worked out what the joke is because you have heard it, then please head straight to the comments section and tell me your favourite joke – there is nothing more for you to read here today.

If you are still a little unclear then read on but be prepared not to laugh too loudly.

A salesman was driving home one night after a particularly bad sales pitch that had not got him anywhere. His mood was foul and the rain meant that he had to have the roof of his BMW up, so his mood was darkened even more.

Just as he thought things couldn’t get any worse his car broke down in the middle of nowhere. He got out and pulled his jacket collar up to protect himself from the rain. The bonnet of the car was popped open for no reason as our man knew nothing about engines. Feeling wretched and with no signal on his mobile to call for help he slumped against the car.

“Check the Carburettor!”

The voice had come from nowhere; the salesman looked desperately around him but couldn’t see anyone.

“Check the carburettor!”

This time the salesman did a really thorough check around him but all he could see was a white horse looking over a nearby gate. He laughed and asked the horse if he was some kind of engine expert.

“I can get by, yes” said the horse.

The salesman stood and stared, unable to believe what he had just seen and heard. Slowly he composed himself enough to ask what a carburettor was. The horse explained what to look for and what to do. Five minutes later the car was started and purring like a fully creamed kitten.

“Thank you so much ...” But the horse had gone already so there was no one to thank. Instead our man got back in the car and drove on to the next village where a welcoming looking pub beckoned him in to dry out with a drink. While finishing his drink he told the barman all about his experience, expecting to be laughed out of the bar. Instead the barman asked, “Was he a white horse or a black one?”

“A white one – why?”

Are you ready?


Sure?
“You were lucky there, the black horse don’t know shit about cars”

Oh get over yourselves, I love that joke – think you can do better? Get yourself into my comments and tell me a better one.

Have a good weekend.

The Nun and the Ewok

Hi there, it’s me – Breeze. I’ve only got a few minutes this week as I’m on the Eurostar and we are nearly at Gare du Nord. I’m doing some body doubling for Ewan McGregor on his new flick with Kelly Brook; it’s about two lovers meeting and developing their fast paced romance over the course of twelve hours. The screenplay was taken from some top socialite’s memoirs and so ‘one night in Paris’ looks, on paper, like it will be a huge success.


Back at the penthouse I was suffering. The Dawn came up and sunlight forced its way through the blinds, piercing my eyes like some demented psychopath jabbing them with red hot pokers. For some reason he was whacking my head with a mallet and had stuck his sandal into my mouth too, you could have scraped enough fur off my tongue to carpet Ten Downing Street. I tried to sit up and every muscle I own demanded to know why? Sleeping in the chair had not turned out to be as smart an idea as it had seemed. Where was Lulu? Where was the Nun? Slowly the fog cleared and the answers played themselves back into my head, as the sounds and smells of bacon frying hit my senses.

It had come as quite a shock to discover that the Nun’s name was Derek. Lulu’s brother had come straight from a dress rehearsal at the Old Vic, where he was preparing to stage a one man ‘monologue’ style version of Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit. They both looked at me expectantly so I said that it was not quite what I was into, but as long as he kept the Wimple and heels on, and didn’t get his parts too close to my face, I’d give it a try.

“No I don’t quite think you understand!” Lulu seemed suddenly to be losing her patience, “We need to talk”.

And so she talked. Lulu, I discovered, could talk for England in the Olympic breathless oration event. In fact she could enter that event for one of the countries that might actually win gold at the Olympics, such as China or America, never mind England.

The hours ticked by, I watched as her lips moved and wondered when I would be able to get a word in so that I could tell her the joke I’d remembered about Nuns in a bath looking for soap. I watched her impressive chest as it defied physics by remaining in the dress. On and on the words continued, she had turned to look out of the window so I studied her arse and wondered if I was ever going to get my hands on it. Suddenly I was aware of silence, I looked up.

“Well?”

“Er – well?”

“Well, what do you think?”

I looked at Derek with raised eyebrows, which is internationally recognised as a way for men to ask other men if they knew what the woman had been talking about and help them out. Derek shrugged his shoulders and I knew that he hadn’t been listening either.

“Surely you must have some idea how to help me with my problem?” Lulu sounded quite upset so I thought quickly.

“Apparently natural yoghurt can help, and don’t worry I’m sure we can think of something to do until it clears.”

Silence filled the room so loudly that I thought my ear drums would burst. I’d missed something important. I thought back quickly, I’d not heard any mention of food, breasts or lesbians so I’d not tuned in properly at any point but wait, what was that one line that had sunk in? She had used the ‘C’ word hadn’t she? I’d got excited about that but then I’d quickly discounted it, because the cake in question had only been a metaphorical one that you couldn’t own and eat at the same time. With impeccable Hollywood ‘last minute’ timing, I remembered that I’d heard her mention she had seen my IMDB page and she knew I was going to be doubling for Warwick Davis in a new adaptation of Butch and Sundance. She wanted something from Warwick…

“Oh yeah, Warwick – no problems, I can sort that out no problems, leave it with me.” Getting his autograph would be child’s play, but somehow the look on Lulu’s face made feel uneasy. Lulu looked just too damned happy, she ran over, kissed me and then poured some more wine.

“Are you sure you can get him to do it? What will you tell him?”

“Er, well, I’ll just say it’s for a fan, these actors get asked for this all the time, he’ll be more than happy to do it for you”

“Do they? Wow that’s brilliant! Here, take this sample bottle – get him to put it in there”

This was the point that I should have just put my hands up and asked her to clarify things a little, but the combination of Lambrusco, Clinique Happy perfume and a cleavage to curl up and die in, made my brains switch off and enjoy the moment instead. Derek had walked off and was on his phone jubilantly informing someone that they were going to be rich, presumably he’d miscalculated how much an Ewok’s autograph will get him on Ebay. I decided to leave him do it and concentrate my mind on more important matters – namely the ever present dress on my hostess.

It all got a bit blurred from that point on until I awoke in the chair, fully dressed and seemingly still untouched by Miss. Grigio. I put this thought to one side because she walked in the room wearing only a very tiny silk slip and carrying a plate of bacon sandwiches. There are very few men can resist sights like that and I’m certainly not one of them. The silver plate reflected the sun brilliantly, with its ruffled edge almost covered by the thick beige crusts of the flowery bloomer bread; each perfectly triangular slice clinging so eagerly to the succulent thick cut meat within. Steam floated softly above the plate, as the aroma drifted casually from the eight delicate halves of heaven and brushed seductively against my nose. I think Lulu’s slip was green. With a distraction like that I put all my questions to the back of my mind, except for the one about ketchup.

Somehow this was going to end badly, I knew it, but for now I sat back and indulged in one of my favourite pastimes; looking at beautiful long legs while eating bacon.

Ah, here we are in Paris, see you next time… Ciao

A husband's life is thankless

It is a tough life being a husband sometimes. I’ve just spent a weekend as sole parent, because my wife was away on a girl’s weekend. I had tried to convince Jo it was a bad idea to go away by asking questions like “Where do we keep the children’s dinner?” and “how much washing up liquid do you put in the dishwasher?” but it didn’t work.


I told the boys that their mother had gone away because she didn’t love them anymore with the girls so we would have a boy’s weekend instead. I know how they work so the first stop was the fish and chip shop. They were mighty excited by this and putty in my hands – I’d won them already.

With that done the weekend was really fun, they amazed me by even being patient as their father tried to tackle the weekly grocery shop with two young children – completely by himself and without a list. Rarely in life are us men put in such positions of power, and I was determined to succeed. I’m generally only allowed to go to Tesco with a pre authorized list and strict instructions to obey it. I’d been given the unprecedented task of choosing the week’s groceries, not just fetching them. This essentially tripled the length of the store visit from what it otherwise could have been. The boys were brilliant, and maintained only a low level of noise and physical violence towards each other, as I sweated over what brand of laundry detergent Jo would normally buy for about ten minutes.

Jo’s parents came over, and as Grandpa helped me fix up some new sliding doors for the lounge, Grandma made cups of tea and played whatever games the boys could think of – absolutely brilliant.

Of course, when their mother phoned and asked them what they had been doing, Daniel only had one thing to say… “We had fish and chips last night and then Dad took us to a Chinese Restaurant for tea tonight!” Nothing else came to mind, just that. Never mind all the playing they had done, or the new doors. When praised for their behaviour in Tesco (I’d mentioned this already) Daniel then gave a list of all the treats I had bribed them with – what a grass.

On Sunday after Rugby, I managed to tackle the ironing as well as about half an hours milling about in the bathroom with some bleach and probably the wrong cloth, trying to make the toilet smell like it does when Jo is around. I stood back and smiled to myself, oh how proud Jo will be of me, how much bragging she will do in the staff room the next day.

Eventually Jo made it home just as I was serving up Sunday Dinner (which this week turned out to be burgers cooked on the BBQ, and potato wedges – which count as a vegetable portion).

After the initial furore and excitement of her return to the family that loves her had died down, it became apparent that I was not to be heralded as a god for completing these tasks so competently, no staff room boasting would be forthcoming the following day at school. I made some hints in order to illicit some praise or reward, but to no avail. Eventually I decided to just raise the subject, as her lack of gratitude was troubling me. It turns out that the bathroom gets cleaned every weekend whether it needs it or not (who knew?). Apparently the shopping gets done without a list and for about half the price I paid, every week. It turns out that all that work gets done AND the house gets tidied and hovered and dusted and proper nutritional meals get cooked as well. The boys get played with, helped with their homework and reading and I get cups of tea without her mother having to drive over and make them. I asked her if she was sure about all that as I hadn’t noticed any of that, at which point, it seems, her point had been made; though I’m still not completely sure how, why or what that point actually was.

I pointed out that she’s never, to my recollection, fitted a set of sliding doors, but this did not really help maters.

I’m telling you – Husbanding truly is a thankless job.

sexy bears

http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/840999-meet-the-bear-that-does-yoga

What can I say?

Something tells me that one 'pic a nic basket' is all you would need and you would be in like Flynn.

I can't help thinking that I've woken up with worse in my time!

Happy Mondays!

The penthouse liaison

Catch up on earlier BVS episodes HERE.

Hi it’s me, Breeze Van Santo. I’ve just got back from three weeks filming in Thailand. I was the stunt double for little Daniel Radcliffe, who has the part of Lai Dee – a gifted young musician, struggling with teenage angst and dreaming of becoming a famous drummer. My job was to stand in for him in the scenes when he practiced his technique while at work among the roosters at a chicken farm. It wasn’t fun at all I can tell you, nasty little buggers, my ankles have been pecked to Hell. I’m not sure when it’s ready for release but with Lindsay Lohan as the love interest, “Lai Dee boy bangs cocks” is sure to be hit.


Anyhoo, let’s talk about the penthouse. A few months back I flew into Gatwick after a two week charity trek into the Black Forest, in aid of Sex Addicts Anonymous; a cause that I’m happy to say I’ve spent three highly rewarding years as the patron of. I wasn’t feeling too great after surviving on nothing but Schnapps, Bratwurst and Gateaux in the wilderness, while escorting eight Swedish Nympho’s past three secluded lakes and one luxury Spa hotel with the biggest private hot tub you have ever seen – in fact I was knackered! The hardships of the jungle were soon forgotten after bumping into a goddess, while waiting for the baggage.

We both reached out and grabbed at the suitcase at the same time, locking hands on the handle. “Oh excuse me, I er….” I faltered as I fell a million miles into the interstellar beauty of her eyes. “No, excuse me,” she said, “It seems we have the same taste in luggage, oh it’s gone…” we realised that we had now missed the case altogether, and watched as the leopard print & Diamante edged Gucci disappeared around the carousel. I struggled to regain myself as I stood staring at this vision of five feet six inches of glorious perfection. Her hair was fiery red and the natural curls reached right down to her beautiful pale shoulders, which was mysterious because I thought she was supposed to be blonde. “You need to concentrate on your continuity” she whispered sexily into my ear, before grabbing the freshly returned black rucksack and walking away. Now that is mysterious I muttered, as my leopard print Gucci came round once more, her bag had looked nothing like mine, so what had all that been about? I stood transfixed watching her perfect size 14 curvy bottom walk out of my life. Had her nose really been that cute when she smiled? Could her eyes possibly have been bluer? Would I ever get hold of those Double Ds? I was in love, no doubt about it.

I put my hand in my pocket to find a pound for the trolley and found some paper instead. On it was a telephone number, the name Lulu and “Call me”. Gasps around me told me that it hadn’t been a good idea to go commando under my thin summer shorts after all, I needed to think of something else – fast.

A few days later after the chance meeting with the owner of this blog, I pulled up at the plush Southbank apartment of this very mysterious angel and grabbed the Tesco ‘Finest’ Carnations and a bottle of Lambrusco Bianco from the boot and headed to the door (I know what you are thinking, well I may be old fashioned but I believe in spoiling a lady on a first date).

Lulu’s breathy voice purred sexily through the intercom and I was buzzed through to the lift. My heart raced and pounded in anticipation while the lift slowly inched its way to the 16th floor. After an eternity the lift doors finally opened with a ping and there before me was the doorway to paradise. I swiftly spat my chewing gum into a pot plant and with a huff of air into my hands and a sniff, I was able to declare my breath to be fine and rang the bell.

Checking my breath had been a waste of time, the vision inside took it away anyway. Lulu stood silhouetted by the city of London through vast windows, the light pouring seductively through her flimsy dress to reveal legs that would make even the staunchest gay reconsider. Her chest strained heavily to escape from its inadequate cover and the halo of light around her beautiful hair forced Kate Bush’s Babooshka straight into my head. I stood and gaped, unable to speak. Eventually I managed to regain control and compose myself. “This is some apartment!” I said as I walked casually over to view the impressive sight of St. Paul’s in the sunset.

“Why thank you Mr. Van Santo, it certainly suits our purpose!” I span around, my mouth once more agape; the voice had not been Lulu’s. In the corner stood an enigma, well actually she was a Nun, but she stood at an unrealistic 6 feet 6, with Amazonian shoulders and was far too hot to make sense. Her ruby red lips pouted as she waited for me to finish describing her, Lulu smiled a mischievous grin. Eventually my eyes discovered that the last 6 inches of the Nun’s height was being provided by some very high Stilettos that failed to hide the fishnet stocking covered perfectly manicured toes and “This Way Up” tattooed upside down on her ankle.

As Lulu poured all three of us a glass of Lambrusco with a giggle, I thought to myself that perhaps the ‘two for one’ offer on Ferrero Rochers wouldn’t have been too much of an extravagance after all. This was going to be an interesting night…

Tate Modern

Today I decided it was time I got myself some culture. I’ve been loitering about in the doldrums of the under stimulated for too long. I decided to visit Tate Modern in London’s Southbank. The world famous (is it really? Have you heard of it?) Modern art gallery is right next to my office block and I decided that it was time I took advantage of its presence, so I popped over for a quick look during my lunch break.

I’m not really sure I’m its target audience though – or at least I hope I’m not. The Tate is a truly annoying mixture of pretentious crap scattered among truly stunning works of the imagination. There are many strikingly amazing pieces of work to be seen here, even if you don’t really understand what it is supposed to be it is still stunning. As an example, here is a photo of a piece of work (I forgot to note its creator - sorry whoever you are). I really do not know what it is supposed to represent, even though I read the information, it did not make me think deeply about anything or anyone. However it was beautiful. Its smooth perfection and micro detail blew me away. I just thought that this is art, that someone extremely talented had poured hour upon hour of their craft into this object. That is impressive.

However, that piece was just around the corner from this pile of crap.

I felt annoyed that I was being insulted like this, that someone was sat laughing at my stupidity for standing here, looking at two sheets of steel they had found and propped up against the wall.

Then there was the video. A whole, and very popular, room devoted to showing a movie clip that apparently “examines issues of personal identity and femininity through art that is rooted in nature”, and which in fact is a naked woman pouring fake blood onto herself before rolling in feathers. Oh my goodness, now I’m not one to complain about any film that contains a naked woman in it but come on? I saw a distinctly noticeable difference in the room around the corner that was showing a film of flags and kites blowing in the wind. People weren’t quite so keen to sit and watch that one; perhaps they needed a naked woman to be holding the kites.

A little further on I saw the exhibit that finally broke my will to live. Sitting in its own large space, the single piece of what I shall for the sake of it call art, sat laughing at me. I read the blurb. Apparently this piece “might be seen to comment on the proliferation of commercial signs and the self-obsessed nature of American society”.

                                     Or maybe it’s just a waste of my life.

I walked out of the room a broken man and headed towards the exit. Suddenly I was saved. I was reminded about the deeper inner soul searching that true art can demand of you. The juxtaposition between the highly developed environment in which I had found myself and the origins of our species was truly questioned. I found myself demanding to know how we, as a race, had allowed ourselves to be so entrapped by our own greed. I stood transfixed for nearly ten minutes taking photographs until I realised with regret that I had to stand aside and let someone else enjoy it.

Maybe I’ll get some culture next week instead.

Just being there

Your heart breaks, your eyes fill with water as you see the fear in your child’s face as they desperately try and cover up for their bully’s behaviour. “It was just an accident” becoming an all too frequent phrase to describe the latest bruise that has appeared. The same name has provided the bruise.

Why do you have to send him to school? Why can’t you be there with him, keeping him safe? That’s your job isn’t it – to protect him?

Slowly the truths come out, with each disclosure comes another, this has been so much more than you thought. You discover that your child had cracked and hit their tormentor back, only to be seen by the teacher in exactly the same way that the bully had not. The tears flow, the heart breaks again. The guilt for letting your child down like this is overwhelming

What do you say?

What do you advise?

What do you do?

Hadn't you been through this too? It was all so long ago, what did you do, what would you have needed your dad to say? Only one thing comes to mind so you do it, you have to reach out and hold him, let your warmth be your words, let your love be your advice. There will be no cross words or blame today, no anger, no worry.

Just one big cuddle.

Chocolate dilemma

http://www.chocolatemission.net/2009/06/june-11th-burtons-wagon-wheels.html

Whatever happened to Wagon Wheels? Can you still buy them? Last time I saw one I remember being absolutely gutted to discover that I could eat one without so much as a smirk, never mind a grin. “So big you have to grin to get it in” that’s the slogan isn’t it so why was it suddenly so small? Maybe that’s why you never see them anymore; you have to go to specialist dwarf shops to buy them, just so that they can maintain their advertising. By the way, I do apologise for any offence caused by me undoubtedly choosing the wrong term there – ‘people of understated height’ maybe?


I’m feeling all nostalgic in the chocolate department today after a conversation sparked a memory last week that caused an itch that I still have not scratched. In one of those rare and almost troubling moments in any commuter’s life, I started talking to the person sat next to me on the train. I’m not sure how it started, I just remember panicking when I realised what was happening and that it was too late to stop it.

The lady was an Opera singer, set to head out to Japan on some tour; I think she wanted to talk about it with someone who is easily impressed. She got lucky. Somewhere along the circular conversational road that kept returning to Japan, she mentioned a Caramac. I’m being a little cruel, she was quite nice really and kept offering me Revels, anyone who feeds me on a train has to be alright. I’ve no idea what the feed line for the Caramac was as I was firmly applying the ‘Man Listening’ method of conversation. ‘Man Listening’ basically requires me to sit thinking about ploys to cajole my wife into bed whilst only actually ‘hearing’ what is being said if any of the following words, phrases or subjects are mentioned:



Food

Beer

Sex

Breasts

Tell me about your blog

I tried being a lesbian once.

Food again

ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?



My ears pick up on any of those and an automatic signal gets sent to my brain telling it to tune in. “Caramac? Really; why?” I ask, much to her puzzlement, as it had surely been obvious why she had said it (I’m pretty certain she wasn’t married and hence might not fully understand how men work).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caramac

I was instantly transported back to my youth. I don’t know why but for some reason we always bought Caramacs after swimming, they were our swimming treat. Mum would take us to Grove Swimming pool in Balderton, and we would absolutely love it. Afterwards we would always head up to the café that looks over the pools via the vending machine. The vending machine was full of wonder, so many amazing shiny things were contained in that beautiful box of wonder. We always chose a Caramac. I could taste it, I could smell the chlorine and hear the constant noise of children in a pool, I wanted to be eight again and have my mum take me swimming.

A Caramac is a bar of soft, solid caramel and I never chose it at any other time. You could take me into any sweetshop in any town and I would never ever choose it. Sherbet, Swizzle Lollies, Rolos, and those ridiculously huge, gigantic Curly Wurly’s were my bag (they’ve shrunk too). After swimming though, only the one treat would do.

Since then I’ve been craving one, but just don’t know if I’ve got time to drive two and a half hours to my Mum’s and convince her to take me swimming, just for a chocolate bar that they sell in my local Budgens.

http://www.shinyshack.com/product.php?prid=213285&pn=Curly-Wurly-Pack-of-2

 
Flog Your Blog hosted on the brilliant Ramblings of a stay at home Mum.
 

Just call me Breeze

Hi, Van Santo here, just call me Breeze; Breeze Van Santo.

I bumped into Glen a while back, when the Porsche blew a tyre. I was driving along the Southbank, headed to a blonde’s penthouse suite. I had my white linen suit on and had no desire to mess that up while the white van drivers of London amused themselves at my expense, so I certainly wasn’t going to change the bloody wheel myself. Luckily there’s always some geek about who is so desperate to get hold of a bit of real petrol head heaven for five minutes, that they will do it for you. I sat back as this bloke droned on about his blog for twenty minutes while probably getting off on touching a real 911 wheel brace.

Eventually I cracked and promised to check out his blog. As I suspected (I’ve seen it so often), successfully manage to breed, hold a marriage down for more than a week and use spell checker, and suddenly they think they are Terry Pratchett. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could figure out what that little wiggly line means when it’s green, instead of just ignoring it. Glen takes three attempts on Spell Checker just to write the word grammar, never mind use the bugger. “Oh my kids are so amazing – I must tell the whole world about them!” KAK – Glen’s Life my arse, if you had a life to talk about mate, you might get somewhere!

Out of sheer pity I have agreed to chronicle a real life for the Internet to discover right here on Glen’s Life, the home of mid life frustration and bemused parenting clichés.

Every week I will be drawing you a little deeper into my world, exposing myself in front of you. Calm down ladies, I’m not talking about Little Breeze, only the very finest Yummy Mummies get an audience with ‘LB’. Glen has asked me to write a weekly column for him and I’ll try my best, though my life can be quite hectic so I can’t promise anything.

Last year I racked up enough Air Miles to frickin buy BA, crossed the date line so often I’m now twenty years older than my father and used enough condoms to stretch from London to Bermuda. I was aiming for Miami if I’m honest, but it’s been a tough year. Hey, everyone hits a dry spell now and again, and my dry spell has a name! Lulu Grigio – more about her and our penthouse liaison later.

I live on the road, moving from one movie location to the next, living life to the full. Oh didn’t I say? I’m a stunt double for Danny DeVito. I’ve also worked for Bob Hoskins, Ray Winstone, Barry from Eastenders, and Tom Cruise, all of whom were absolute gents. Okay, I’m just joking about Tom Cruise – he was an arse. To be fair though, him and Nicole were having issues at the time of shooting the film and having to stand back and watch me romping with his naked wife can’t have helped, especially with us having to do all those retakes when the director kept coughing or falling asleep. I won’t go into details, but to kick off this blog I’m going to let you into a secret that I’ve kept ever since that shoot - Nicole Kidman ain’t no natural blond; I certainly made a point of keeping my eyes wide open if you know what I mean?

Anyhoo, that’s my intro written, I need to turn over now or the tan will be uneven, so I’ll sign off and hand you back to Glen. I’ll be back soon, to start telling you about the crazy world that I live in.

I’d love to read your comments and get to know you crazy guys some more – so please let me know what you are thinking below…

Ciao.

Camping is for the clinically insane

      Hello – Today I’m over at Real Bloggers United with more tales of my camping woe. I’ve taken you back to the beginnings of my canvas based misery, and led you right up to the point when Jo booked our latest camping adventure detailed HERE last month. There is, very nearly, a graphic, gratuitous and highly arousing sex scene in this one…Almost.


       I would absolutely love it, and probably have a quietly joyful cry, if you were to CLICK HERE and read it. I won’t say what I’d do if you commented as well because this isn’t that type of site, let’s just say I’d be very happy, and leave it at that.

Happy Mondays.

attracting the cow

Walking past the cow / bull (I still haven’t worked out what he / she is) in the field this morning, I noticed Daniel Mooing and flapping his arms about in a dramatically feminine way (at least in what an eight year old boy perceives as a feminine way, which basically involves having one hand on your hip, waving the other about to the side and walking on tip toes).


“I’m trying to attract the bull” he explained.

“Huh?”

“Are you sure it’s a bull though? Maybe it’s a cow; do you think it’s a cow?”

“Er, well, I’m not er... huh?"

At this point Daniel went back to his mooing, but this time it was in his deepest possible voice, and accompanied by puffing out his chest and flexing his muscles.

“MOOOOO LOOOOOK AT MY MOOOOSCLES”

Most worryingly of all he then shouted “MOOOOBOT” and set about doing the Robot.

I admit, at that point I did look over to see if the animal was coming over to see us, the display seemed quite convincing to me. I am pretty sure I saw the horse shooting Daniel some pretty fierce looks, I can imagine it having a few words to say later on, accusing the poor beast of ogling at passers by with smaller backsides etc.

Sometime soon, I suppose I’m going to have to sit and have a little chat with my boy, not yet though. Until then, ladies – check out my mooscles!

Find out the story behind the cow & horse here. Why was he doing the Moobot? Click here to find out.


Have a great weekend.