Hallowen

Okay - I have a pumpkin - now what?

I can't quite claim all the credit

There is nothing I won't do for a marshmallow

By the way - eventually, after much persuasion by my wife - yes I did let the kids join in and help.

The scary face, no not the one covered in flour, was designed by the boys – Daniel on eyes and nose and Jamie on the mouth. I did the cutting though, so I deserve some credit at least!

Fun.

Sometimes that is all that life should be.

My new hero



wagner-carrilho.co.uk

 Finally a celebrity I can identify with. At last I have a hero! I’ve been waiting a long time to have a singer in the charts that I can emulate and idolise, and now it is looking like I’m getting one.


For those of you who are unlucky enough not to watch the mighty Simon Cowell’s X-Factor every Saturday here in Britain, I guess it is time to educate you about Wagner Carrilho.

As far as I am concerned Wagner is a god. Not the God obviously, just a god.

This man is everything I’ve always wanted to be, in short he is Breeze Van Santo personified. In a few years, when I’m smiling patronisingly at J.K. Rowling, and asking her how she gets by on such small earnings, it will be Wagner that is playing Breeze in the films.

This is a guy who in no way shape or form can sing a single note in tune, looks awful, can’t dance, and genuinely believes that women adore him. Oh no, I’ve just realised he isn’t Breeze at all – he’s me! The thing is that he makes me laugh out loud. I absolutely love his misplaced confidence and self belief. I’ve already said why that is on my post about body image. I think that it is just the same in men as it is in women. Confidence in yourself, is the biggest most important hurdle to jump. Once you have it you have everything.

Every week he has to patiently stand there while his so called mentor (who probably spends 20 minutes a week standing in the same room as him for the cameras) gets his name wrong. Okay let’s put it like this, those of you who don’t already know (either about this guy in particular or just the name in general as he isn’t exactly the first famous musician to use it) probably have read this and, in your heads, have been pronouncing the W in Wagner. If I were to tell you now that the W is said as a V and so his name is therefore pronounced Vagner, I’m thinking that you are all intelligent enough to understand, accept and remember that – right? I think that from now on when you see me write Wagner you will internally think it as Vagner. And yet those who are on stage telling him how great he is and pretending to have his career in their best interests, especially the one man who shouts loudest that he is this man’s mentor, cannot get it right. How rude? How can you stand there pretending to spend all your time with someone, moulding and shaping their future, when you haven’t even listened to his name? It shows you just how false and misleading these programs are, how staged and corrupt the system is. I may be cynical, and indeed I am, but if you ever wanted proof that the ‘judges’ don’t really spend their time with the acts, but instead the teams of minions do it all – there it is.

Wagner is an absolute arse, but you get totally enwrapped in his personality, you can’t help yourself. I love that he thinks that he acts so coolly about the sexy dancers around him, but needs eight crane drivers in scuba gear to reel his tongue back into his mouth. This guy is not cool, he is not good looking, he has no talent and yet I want him to win. Essentially, I want me to win.

I did actually write in to Simon Cowell asking for a job as one of Wagner’s backing dancers as it looked like the kind of job I could enjoy (for non Brits there appears to be a bit of a theme with his dancers involving breasts which is right up my alley). I haven’t heard anything back yet but I will keep you posted.

Anyway, fingers crossed my man will go on to have a huge career after his time on the show. If he does then perhaps the tables could be turned, maybe I could play him in the film of his life?

Oh yes come on!

The perfect moment

Hi there it’s me again – Breeze Van Santo. This week I’m filling in for Harrison Ford! How cool is that? It isn’t for a film this time, he’s knocking on a bit and as Calista often says “It won’t fill itself Han!”


Anyhoo, back at the penthouse my brain had heard the message from my lips loud and clear and only had one word for me… Marmite! Her lips and breath stank! Who can possibly kiss a girl that stinks of fricking Marmite? I coughed as I fell back from the couch. The spell was broken, the perfect moment lost.

Lulu looked at me in horror, her face scrunched in confusion as she tried to work out what had just happened. I had to think fast. Half a tube of toothpaste and a couple of days eating real food would soon cure her rank breath; I couldn’t risk throwing it all away now for something that could be so easily cured. There had to be a way out of this. I racked my memory for lines from some of the movies I’d seen or worked on for something that would help. The only film that came to mind was ‘Back to the future’ and suggesting that kissing her was like kissing my brother just didn’t seem like a good option.

“It’s not right Lulu, I just can’t take advantage of you like this, you are upset and vulnerable, I couldn’t face myself – I couldn’t treat you like that! I want you to want me for the right reasons; I want this to be perfect!” They were lies of course, had she cleaned her teeth I would probably have already finished taking advantage of her by now, but they were good lies. I had to turn away from her because I just couldn’t contain the grin that had spread across my face for coming up with such good lines – I really am brilliant sometimes. Behind me I felt her hand on my shoulder and then it moved to be joined by the other hand around my waste. “Breeze, I’m so sorry that I blackmailed you before – you are such a nice man. Thank you so much for giving me some self respect back. I will be feeling better soon, I want to see you again, I want more of this Breeze, I want to do everything with you!”

I’d cracked it, now I had to resist the urge to offer her a mint and then ask if she was feeling better yet, I had to leave the room quickly before LB realised what she had just said.

Wordlessly, I took her hand and kissed it, turned and walked out of the flat. I knew that I had played it perfectly. She would want more alright, and she would be getting it, just as soon as I thought I could get away with it.

I decided I needed some air, so I walked home. I’d got a taxi on the way on the assumption that I was going to be there for the night, but I decided that a long walk home would be nice. I needed to think, to sort out this mess and decide where it was going. After all, this woman had many faults. She was somewhat intolerant of people who didn’t fit into her vision of ‘normal’ for starters. Then she had tried to blackmail me so she wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy person in the world. Her limited understanding of family planning was worrying me, although I figured it would be quite a lot of fun trying for a baby with her. The problem was that for every fault, she had an answer. Lulu entraps you in her presence, beguiles you without a word, just by a single bat of her perfect eyelashes. I’ve never been near eyes that stunning, or a neck so delicious – don’t even ask me about that arse!

I walked for miles without once looking up. I was lost in thought, my world was destroyed, I would never be my own man again – from now on I was hers and I knew it. I laughed as I realised that I’d actually left that room thinking that I’d played her – of course I hadn’t, I’d never at any point been in control. I was Lulu’s, I was hers completely.

I laughed again because I knew that I wanted it this way, I wanted to be owned by this woman, and I wanted it bad. The best thing about it was that it really was going to happen. I could clearly see that all barriers were down. It would only be a matter of days before we would be together. Lulu wanted me, I wanted her. Everything was perfect. “THANK YOU LIFE – I LOVE YOU WORLD!” I screamed into the air as I looked over at the Thames shining perfectly under the perfect moonlight.

It was then that I shivered, the night may have been perfect but it was also cold. I went to pull my jacket around me but quickly realised I wasn’t wearing it. No wonder I felt cold, I’d left my jacket at Lulu’s. Confused from the heat of the moment inside her arms, I’d completely forgotten to pick it up when I left. The thought of having an excuse to go back and pick it up warmed me as I finally worked out where I was and found my way home.

When I got in I poured a warming Brandy and sat back in my comfy chair to congratulate myself on being so brilliant. The phone rang and I let it go to answer phone. “Breeze its Lulu. You absolute bastard, I can’t believe you have done this to me… I need you back here RIGHT NOW! Get your arse here FAST!”

The Brandy spilled onto the floor as I dived, just too late, for the phone. What the hell? I had not been ready for this; all expectations had been overwhelmingly exceeded. The gentleman inside realised that I’d worked up quite a sweat walking home so I dashed to the bathroom and gave LB a quick wash in the sink. I grabbed a pack of ribbed condoms, Lulu was special after all and deserved only the best. I pocketed some chewing gum as well, just in case she needed it, grabbed my keys and ran out of the door. Life was just about to get interesting.

Right I have to go and take Calista a burger – never stops eating that woman.



Ciao.

Troubles in the night

Ever the hero, I jumped out of bed and raced for the bathroom. It was nearly two in the morning and this wasn’t the first time Jamie had woken us up to the sounds of vomiting.


We had a bit of a broken sleep last night; my six year old apparently has a bit of a tummy bug.

My wife had got up the first couple of times that he had been sick and so I reluctantly got out of bed to take my turn and go to do some back rubbing and cuddle giving. I resisted the urge to have a little man to man chat with him about the fact that he had completely cramped my style earlier. Jamie had  awoken and complained of a stomach ache, just as I had finished spending half an hour running around shutting windows, cranking the heating up, putting small lamps on the floor, lighting candles, fetching wine, giving foot rubs, checking that Mars is aligned with Jupiter and all the other odds and sods required to convince his mum that perhaps tonight could be ‘treat night’ ( note to self – now that I’ve seen it written down, I’m beginning to see why asking for ‘treat night’ doesn’t work, perhaps it’s time to change the name). For some reason the possibility of a young child coming running past, spraying sick everywhere at any moment, wasn’t conducive to a sexy mood and so the idea was scrapped. One look in Jamie’s distraught eyes as he bent over the toilet, was enough for me to forgive him (forgiven, not forgotten though you little monkey – kids are the best damn contraceptive on the planet!)

My bravado, when I patted Jo on the shoulder so early in the morning and told her to “leave this one to me – you go back to sleep love”, didn’t entirely pay off. My boy was just finishing what looked like a pretty straight forward operation, so I gave him the love expected and merrily congratulated myself at my all round heroism. In the peace of the night, my son turned to me and said a sentence which will probably haunt my sleep for some years…

“There is a little bit of sick on my bed Dad, it’s under the covers”

OH

A little bit?

This was possibly one of the biggest understatements since the head of mine safety at a Chilean mine rang up his boss and said “We’ve had a bit of an incident boss, nothing major but I could do with you coming over and having a look at something”.

I spent five minutes of hell, scraping chunks off his sheet and stripping his bed while suppressing the noise of my retching and heaving, in order not to wake his older brother. I found clean pyjamas and did my best to look strong and fatherly while holding soggy sheets out at arms length en route back to the bathroom and fighting involuntary stomach contractions.

Eventually, after far too much blood sweat and tears had been produced, much to my son’s amusement, the bed was changed and a cute little monster was snuggled back up in it. I spent another few minutes scrubbing my arms and hands before returning to bed. I tapped Jo on the shoulder again to let her know what I’d done. She didn’t sound anywhere near as impressed and grateful as I’d imagined so I told her again, just in case she hadn’t properly understood. It seems she had. I hid under the covers and pretended to be asleep until she had calmed down; eventually I drifted back off to sleep.

Half an hour later…

I could hear him throwing up again and Jo was death sleeping. Death sleeping is a little like deaf sleeping only without the snoring. Either way you cannot hear what is going on and so do not wake up, but with death sleeping you are also completely still and quiet. It says only one thing – I am going nowhere because I am dead, you deal with it!

I jumped out of bed again and headed for the toilet, only to find Jamie stood on the edge of the hall carpet facing into the bathroom. He hadn’t made it. Not only had he not made it, but he was still going. I picked him up and lifted him over the pool of mess on the floor and repositioned him in front of the toilet. This time I admitted defeat. I knew I was way out of my depth here. There are times in a man’s life when he has to face the facts, swallow his pride and call in the cavalry. Luckily I had some big guns in support to bring on and as usual she was cooler than The Fonz and faster than Usain Bolt. Before I could blink, the floor was clean, the toilet was clean, Jo was clean, Jamie was clean, clean pyjamas were deployed, and everyone else was back in bed. I stood there flapping my arms about for a while telling imaginary people not to panic, and then sat picking chunks of carrot out from between my toes. Eventually it sank in that the whirlwind that had just passed through, had in fact been that multi tasking anomaly that I’m lucky to call my wife. It’s a little like having a reverse Tasmanian Devil come past you, your eyes can’t pick up on what is happening, all you can see is a dust cloud, but afterwards everything is tidied and sorted and fixed. Nobody actually knows how wives do this; it is one of those mysteries that would even stump Thelma from Scooby Doo.

Any way, the stress of very nearly having to sort out a floor covered in sick wiped me out and I genuinely didn’t hear a thing for the rest of the night, though I believe there was at least one more incident involving the carpet. This morning I remembered that I needed to be in work a little earlier for some reason, and legged it out of the house as fast as possible.

Don’t worry though, I’m pretty caring and brave, so just as soon as I was safely at work and had drank a reassuring up of tea, I texted to find out how things were going. Mother and child are recovering from their ordeal nicely and dad had better buy some flowers (and not from the petrol station either) on the way home if he is hoping for another attempt at ‘treat night’ this year!

Body image

Recently I have read quite a few blog posts about body image. Specifically about women and the image they have of themselves. On the whole this is pretty good news, because as part of their ‘self healing’ they are busily posting photos of themselves in their underwear to prove a point. What most women always fail to realise when they run about being all self conscious and comparing themselves to airbrushed models, is that men don’t actually have such high expectations of them at all. In fact we really are very easily pleased. It always amazes me how fickle us men really are. Actually I’d better be careful here and help my brothers out by changing that. I don’t want any lady readers turning round and giving their men grief for this – it’s all me, just me – no one else does this….


The thing is I just cannot be consistent with which body bits I like! Sometimes I’m a boob man, often a bum man or even a leg man. How are you women supposed to know what to look after to attract me? Sometimes I can simply be transfixed by a woman’s eyes or her hair. The really tricky thing is that it changes daily and differs from woman to woman. I guess on the plus side it helps because it means that there is usually something I can find attractive in a woman!

Don’t get complacent though; one day I’ll like a nice pert small bum, the next day I’ll fancy something a little meatier! Some days I’ll see an olive skinned Mediterranean type lady and think WOW, another I’ll see a pale, freckled red head and fall over smitten. You can add any combination of skin tones into that mix – you might as well, trust me at some point I’ve thought to my self that “you’d do” which is one of my highest compliments.

Sometimes my habit of falling in lust with a body part can go wrong though. The other day I noticed a girl in the window seat in front and to the left of me on the train. The girl’s shoulder and neck could clearly be seen through the crack in the seat, and it was lovely. A really nice neck leading to a smooth shoulder displaying the suggestion of a bra strap was all it took to drag my attention away from my lap top. I was just approaching that dangerous point where you begin to cross the line from being a normal bloke ‘noticing’ a pretty woman, and turn into a disgusting letch when ‘it’ happened. She turned to look out of the other window. I even saw the man sat on her right flinch and move over a bit to avoid being smacked by it. Her nose was huge! Way past Roman and headed straight towards Pinocchio after an hour’s blog commenting. This thing was massive and was clearly scaring the man next to her every time she moved it towards him, I almost tapped her on the shoulder to ask how such a pretty slim neck can support the weight of it? Needless to say the magic was lost and I was able to stay on the right side of the pervert fence. I don’t think I’ve ever been specifically smitten by a nose, maybe that is the only part that I can say that about.

So ladies, are you wracked with a lack of confidence about your post baby bodies? Are you covered in stretch marks and wobble in places you shouldn’t while not wobbling in places you should? Trust me these things don’t matter. Undoubtedly there is something beautiful about you, whether it’s your eyes, your neck, your hair, your feet, your bum, your boobs, your knees, your smile, your legs, your shoulders, your hands or dammit, even your personality! Yes ladies even your personality counts – okay so it’s not the thing we notice as you walk by in the park – but it certainly matters once we stop to chat to you. So stop all this lights off, self defacing hide behind supporting tights nonsense and get confident about yourself! Confidence is the sexiest body part of all! Once you have got past that initial moment of ‘across the room attraction’ everything changes. When you truly are in bed with a woman you love, personality overrides plastic body parts every time. We love you, you soft bunch of nutters! We want you exactly how you are, warts, wobbles, wrinkles, lines, hairs, stretch marks, knackered pelvic floors, cellulite and everything! We just don’t care – get in bed and get them off and we are happy! Seriously – just be confident and we will melt in your arms. I mean fair enough, if Sandra Bullock turned up we would be off, but apart from her you are safe. Luckily for me I am blessed, because my wife has all of those things and more, so I wouldn’t so much as look elsewhere - ahem – hello love!

Ladies, as long as you don’t have a big nose you will be fine.

Can love begin like this?

Hello there, it’s me Breeze Van Santo. This week I am in London filming Tim Burton’s new version of ‘Gone with the wind’. Helena Bonham Carter plays Vivien Leigh’s part of course, while Joe Pesci reprises Clark Gable’s. I’m standing in for Joe in the scenes where Rhett flies the helicopter. Apparently Tim has kept his new film true to the original book rather than the classic film, so it may shock devotees of the Movie version at first, however with Tom Selleck playing the evil wizard it is sure to be a huge success.


Anyhoo, I raced over to Lulu’s with my heart pounding. She had sounded so sincere on the phone, she needed me. When she opened the door I could see she was a different woman. Gone were the long flowing low cut dresses and heels. Stood before me was a woman in distress. Lulu had jogging bottoms and trainers on, a baggy T-shirt bore the slogan “Happiness is a deep bath and a bathroom door that locks”. Her face was pale save for the heavy mascara around her eyes. Her hair looked unkempt and greasy. I was shocked; I’d always thought it took years to turn glamorous women into ‘Mums’.

“My goodness – what the hell happened?” I demanded, carefully walking her to the sofa. This was a woman really not taking well to pregnancy it seemed. “Morning sickness really doesn’t look good on you.”

Lulu’s heavy tears told me that perhaps she hadn’t needed or wanted me to point that out, but I could hardly retract it now so I decided to keep digging instead “I mean you look great , maybe just wash your hair or something, bit of lippy and you’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

“I’m not pregnant Breeze”

“Are you getting enough vitamins? You need vitamins don’t you – Iron? I bet its just Iron deficiency, here you lick my belt buckle while I pop out and fetch some steak…. What?”

“I’m not pregnant”

“?”

“I spent a fortune on these clothes; I did loads of research on what pregnant women wear by watching Jeremy Kyle. This make up doesn’t do itself you know, I spent half an hour applying it and then washing it off really badly with cheap cleanser, before smudging round my eyes with a tea towel. Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through to make my hair this bad? I’ve done everything, EVERYTHING! I’ve walked around like this for weeks, eating nothing but Hula Hoops and Marmite sandwiches because I decided that is what I should crave. I drank that little bastard’s entire love cup and for what? I swallowed every last drop, even scooping the little that had dribbled onto my breasts back up and licking it off my finger… what’s wrong? You have gone a bit pale are you okay? Anyway, all it did was give me unpredictable mood swings, one minute I’d be happy then grumpy then…”

“? Wibble… ? ……… I mean ………….?”

I’ve done everything right but here I am, NOT PREGNANT!”

“AHEM… Okay, well these things happen, maybe you should have saved some in the freezer or something and tried again next month, you can’t expect to get pregnant first try?”

“The girl on Jeremy Kyle got pregnant first try and it wasn’t even with her boyfriend but with his Grandfather instead, so it can’t be that hard now can it?”

“It’s nice that you have modelled yourself on such quality role models but sometimes life just isn’t like that is it?”

Lulu looked at me and I saw hope fade from her eyes, she knew I was right. Slumped back in her seat Lulu looked refreshingly real. For the first time since I had met her she looked like a woman, rather than a dream or a nightmare. A beautiful woman none the less, and a beautiful woman in distress, it was like my prayers were finally being answered. I put my arms around her and drew her in for a strong cuddle. I felt her crumble within the embrace as I took on the role of the father giving comfort to his child. For the next 25 seconds all thoughts of sex would be forgotten as I squeezed her worries away. I had to be her rock and make everything alright.

25 seconds later…

My head started to spin as the heady aroma of Clinique Happy once again forced itself into my loin. LB sent an email to my brain asking if there was anything it wanted him to do right now, along with a lengthy list of suggestions. When it got no reply it sent another note to say that it was proposing a vote of no confidence in the decision maker’s abilities, and had put itself forward as a potential candidate for the position. My brain was struggling to remain in command, the political coup in my trousers gained momentum with my hands declaring their support of LB, by inching slowly down Lulu’s back.

Could this really be it? Right here and now was I finally going to get hold of that arse? Lulu looked up and caught my gaze, her eyes drew me in deeper than the deepest ocean and when her lips parted and moved towards mine they gave my brain the final piece of information it needed to make that decision…

…But that is for later, right now I have to go and put on my PVC confederate’s uniform.



Ciao.

Clandestine agendas

Clandestine - now there’s a word. I love that word. Clandestine is one of those words that is simply perfect for its purpose. As soon as you say it you feel the dark jiggery-pokery and shenanigans that it describes. It just works.


Another one used to be an Orange. How perfect and simple a name is that? Perfectly fits its owner, so much more so than any other fruit. Let’s face it you hear the word Apple for the first time, look at a tray of fruits and would struggle to pick it out after three attempts, but if you were asked to pick the Orange you would get it one right? Sadly, the ridiculous people who run our orchards decided that was too simple, too common. Now we have to pass a Naval or a Tangerine, try correctly selecting a Satsuma on a tray of Clementines inside four attempts if you can.

Don’t even get me started on Pomegranate – what the hell is that supposed to be? How the hell are you supposed to work out what that is from its name? Mind you Gherkin works, for some reason Gherkin seems to fit itself amazingly well.

Sorry to be coarse but gusset is another one. No doubt about it, gusset is a perfect word that instantly does what it says. Actually the imagery on that is so clear, I’m going to have to go and have a cup of tea before I continue.

So why is it that some words fit so perfectly while others are just nonsense? An example of that can be seen in the wonderful world of computers, where we have laptops and desktops. One of those names fits perfectly as we do indeed sit and burn our laps with it but the other? Who keeps a desktop PC on the desk top? No one, that’s who – in fact you are 99% more likely to use a laptop on a desk top than a desktop and that is a FACT! (Bob told me that in the pub after three pints of Guinness)

Another one, which isn’t a real one at all but came to mind when I said about making a cup of tea and won’t go away until I write it down, is ‘The Makings’. I’m sure this slang phrase is used all over the place but I remember The Makings from my time in the Navy. It is a simple term used to cover everything you need to make a good cup of tea. The Makings consist of kettle, water, full fat milk, sugar, spoon, large mug, tea bags and Digestive biscuits. Why bother asking if someone has all those things when you can just ask “Have you got The Makings? I’m spitting feathers here” I know it doesn’t really fit the subject put it does work perfectly and the notion refused to get out of the way so I could think of anything else to write, unless I wrote it.

Any way this whole post has been a clandestine attempt to find out what your most perfect words are and which ones you hate. Which words do you think fit their purpose spot on, and which make no sense at all?

Is jiggery pokery a real word? Spellchecker doesn’t like it but if it isn’t – why isn’t it? It should be – just saying.

Please let me sit down!

Why do people keep arguing with me about reserved seats? What is all that about?


Twice in the last month I have had to have a debate with someone, in order for them to let me sit down in an empty seat. Do these people think that I simply don’t understand how seat reservations work? Yes I get it, the seat is reserved, fine, now can I sit down?

About three weeks ago I got onto the packed train at London and shuffled my way through the carriages looking for a seat, finally clasping eyes on a beauty by the window. I politely asked the man sitting in the adjacent seat to excuse me…

“That seat is reserved”

“Yes I can see that, can I sit there please”

“But the seat is reserved from Reading!”

Reading, I should point out is the next stop on the service and nearly half an hour’s journey away from London. The seat was not even reserved out of London – making it an empty seat.

“Is it you complete and total arse? That's okay, can I sit down there please”

“But I just said – it is reserved from Reading, there’s no point you sitting there”

At this point my manner may have changed into a tad less friendly if I’m honest, but I was tired at the end of a long day, and really couldn’t see why I wasn’t being allowed to sit down in an EMPTY F***ING SEAT!

The man got the message and let me sit down but not without mumbling that he didn’t see why I’d want to sit in a seat that was reserved from Reading…. I went into my automatic tosser ignoring mode and pretended not to hear him when he repeated his theory to the other people around him. I did, however, manage a big fat smug smile in his direction at Reading when the seat was not claimed, and my fat arse stayed firmly put.

I assumed that this was a once in a lifetime conversation, surely no one else will actually argue with you when you want to sit down?

This week I spotted a reserved window seat, just after we left Paddington. It contained what looked very much like the bags of the girl sat next to it.

“Excuse me, are those your bags or is someone already sat down there?”

“It’s reserved”

“Excuse me, are those your bags or is someone already sat down there?” I assumed she must not have understood the question first time around.

“They are mine but the seat is reserved”

“Yes I can see that, can I sit there please”

“Why? The seat is reserved”

“Can I sit there…”

“But it’s reserved”

“AAAGGGHHHHH”

“Are you okay?”

“Can I sit down – I don’t care if it is reserved, that is fine, I just want to sit down, chances are the person who reserved it won’t turn up and if they do I’ll move and let them sit down – that’s how it works. I realise there could be a very small amount of disruption caused to yourself, for which I am sorry. I am also sorry that your bags will not be able to have their own seat and that you might actually have to sit next to someone, especially someone who smells like they have been at work all day followed by being crushed on the underground. This is the way of the world though, and perhaps I am actually doing you a favour here by helping you to understand the workings of society just that little bit better. Now, can I sit down?”

At this point she nodded and did what I have to say was one of the funniest things I’ve seen for a while – easily allowing me to forgive her. She wasn’t being rude, she was simply thick.

Instead of standing in order to let me in the reserved seat – SHE MOVED OVER! She moved into the risky ‘reserved’ seat herself and let me sit in the free seat. Now if I was a cynical man I’d suggest that she had reserved that seat herself and had simply thought she deserved the extra space, but I really don’t think she was bright enough to have come up with a plan that detailed. I actually giggled as I tossed a virtual coin in my head to decide what I would do if the seat’s real owner turned up. Would I watch as the girl was evicted? Could I do that? Could I have shrugged my shoulders and acted completely innocent as the poor girl walked away scratching her head in confusion, or would I have walked away smiling and let her slowly work out how to move once more so that she could remain seated, like a true gentleman would have.

The coin came down heads

I’ll let you decide what that meant…

Life is good dammit



Do you know what? Life is a really odd thing. For some people life can be simply awful, full of despair and hurt. For some it can seem absolutely fine but be occasionally blotted by utter terror (anyone who reads Wanderlust or some of the many tear jerking blogs about people’s ability to cope with the worst illnesses knows this already). However for some life can be a constant joy.

What I want to talk about today is a good thing, an amazing thing. A truly gobsmackingly throw your underwear at an elephant moment of sheer joy.

I’ve mentioned it before, but now the truth is fully revealed, the enormity of the moment can really be seen.

I’m talking about the Chilean miners.



http://news.sky.com/skynews/



I don’t know how the media are covering their rescue in your neck of the woods, but here in Britain it is pretty big. And the thing is … It should be! I overheard a girl at work (who singlehandedly feeds the world’s need for paparazzi) complaining “God, can the media make a big enough drama out of it?” I was absolutely shocked, how can she not see that this is in fact the biggest drama out there? This is actually important – not who is on the X-Factor important – really important! The story of these men’s survival and ultimate rescue is mind boggling. It has to be even more impressive than when the Uruguayan rugby team’s plane crashed into a mountain (you may have seen the film of the story – Alive), when they looked at each other at breakfast the next morning, all they could see was Hanna Barbera style hog roasts. I’m joking of course, but the point is these people have managed to survive what would have been my own personal worst case scenario (being somewhat claustrophobic, scared of the dark and constantly hungry) with an unbelievable amount of dignity and humanity.

Would a bunch of Brits or Americans have managed the same?

It looks like they should be set for life as far as financial rewards for their appearances and story, and thank goodness for that. I couldn’t be happier that this is the case. How could they possibly go back to work? For one thing they weren’t even getting paid while they were down there – do you really think lawyers for you would be able to help them? No they are going to have to sell themselves to feed their families and I hope it works because heaven knows that the care and treatment they are going to need to let their heads recover from the trauma they have endured, and the world wide fame being thrown at them, is going to be expensive.

What could possibly be going on in their heads? Hopefully I’ll never know trauma even half as bad as that, and I think I’m slowly getting to my point.

Most of us have some crap thrown our way from time to time that knocks us for six, but in reality that crap is trivial, there are people I’m seeing on the news and in blog land that are fighting real soul ripping battles and are winning. Some people are free, some people are still working on it.

These people amaze me – they are everything I wish I was and more.

To the people who are truly surviving the worst that life throws at you, I absolutely salute you and thank you for reminding me how lucky I am.

To the rest of us – cheer up, diet isn’t working, the washing machine is on the blink, your boss doesn’t value you, money is tight but dammit…

Life is good.

The cocktail climax

Hello again, it’s me – Breeze. Forgive me if I’m brief this week but I’m currently laid up with a sprained ankle and it’s quite painful. I slipped on a wet floor while on the set of Sandra Bullock’s new film. I was standing in for Clint Eastwood who plays the part of a lonely Sheik in Dubai. He is looking for love and falls for Sandra’s character, but she is trying to come to terms with her own sexuality and feelings for the Sheik’s maid. The Sheik slowly learns that even though everything in his palace, the ornaments, the kettle and even the showers are golden, he cannot buy her love. I’ve forgotten what the film is called, but with Helen Mirren as the maid it is sure to be a huge success.


Anyhoo, Lulu walked over and kissed me, a long lingering hot kiss from the softest lips in the world – “Thank you Breeze, for everything, this is going to change my life and I want you to know I will always be grateful – if there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, just tell me now and I’ll do it”

LB jumped up and down, furiously trying to get my attention, but the guilt parrot on my shoulder was keeping him at bay.

“Er… Lulu…There’s something, er maybe…”

“Yes, what?”

“Er… If it’s a boy call him Willow – right, I have to leave, maybe see you soon?”

I heard her call out that she’d call me, but I was already through the door and into the lift. I studied myself carefully in the mirror on the lift’s wall but couldn’t see much that I was proud of, so I looked away. I’d crumbled and run away instead of doing what I should have done and stopping her going through with it. Perhaps it could have worked between us, perhaps? If I’d stopped her from having a Bukake baby then just maybe we could have been together, yes she would have been furious at first, but she would soon have realised that I’d saved her life. Right now I could have been sharing a post coital pizza 60/40 with the hottest women I’d ever met. Instead I felt terrible, I sighed deeply as I climbed into my car and drove away.

As I drove, I thought about how things had gone, what I could have done differently, but most of all I thought about why I’d done it. The further I drove away from the perfume that had put such a spell on me, the more confident that I became in myself. She had deserved it. I’d been set up from the start and been given no choice. She may have been hotter than Nicole Kidman in ‘Days of Thunder’ but she was nastier than Kathy Bates in ‘Misery’. I was well out of it, my head, heart and now finally LB, were all in agreement (Okay LB still had a bit of a sulk on).

By the time I got home I was happy again, and I when laid back on my bed and looked up, I could see a man of worth looking back down from the mirror. I curled myself up in my black satin sheets and the sleep that followed was the easiest, deepest and least troubled sleep I’d had for days.

Somehow though, I was different. I got myself back into the London party scene, and enjoyed a few nights with some of my old regular lady friends. It all helped get me over the whole escapade; somehow though, my mind kept drifting back to Lulu. I had a cocktail night with my old pal, Kevin Spacey and we were really having fun until he had one Tequila Sunrise too many, and started moaning about his disastrous decision to let an unknown actor stage Sister Act 2. The show had been a complete train wreck from the start, over budget, delayed and in the end – shit. “I mean, we are used to putting pretentious crap on, but usually the players can at least act with some level of competence, this guy’s dancing was dreadful and he couldn’t even sing!”

Hearing about Derek’s failed attempt to light up theatre land reminded me, yet again, of those dark few weeks where my life had been so ruthlessly turned over. I finished my Banana Daiquiri, made my excuses and went home only two dances and a Mojito later.

The next morning as I lay in a lonely bed nursing an awful cocktail hangover, my phone hammered its Star Trek ringtone deep into my skull, and refused to stop until I answered it.

“Breeze, it’s me, Lulu; I really need to see you…”

Sorry, but I have to go now, Clint needs someone to stand in for him with the loofah in the girl’s golden shower scene, and Helen is jumping up and down impatiently.

Ciao.

thanks you lot

I’d just like to say a big thank you to all of you who read and left lovely comments on Friday’s ‘sometimes’ post. I really do appreciate you doing that. The piece was a reflection of how I was feeling on Tuesday afternoon, when I wrote it. I’m glad that you were able to work out its point, which is that occasionally you just feel a little lost but just can’t explain why.


I was sitting on an extended train journey after a rubbish day, not knowing who I wanted to be anymore, Glen the writer, the telecoms engineer, the dad, the husband, the man or what? As Fallen Monkey pointed out in words I would use myself if only I understood them, the central point of it was indeed, supposed to indicate that it was temporary, that in fact all is well with the world – I was simply having an off day.

Sometimes I write things like that and discard them as they don’t really say what I wanted them to say at all. In my normal ‘Glens Life’ style, wittering on about nothing is fine because that is, after all, what light hearted comedy is supposed to be like. However, there have been a few occasions where I have experimented with putting more serious feelings down on paper, and actually thought that it was good enough to share. This was one of those occasions and it troubled me more than anything because it actually meant something.

Comments are the sausage in a blogger’s ‘Toad in the hole’; they give us a slight bit of feedback in the otherwise empty darkness of Internet space. I’m happy from my stats that I do get read, but I don’t solicit a huge amount of comments on a daily basis. This is fine, not everyone wants to comment and I’ll take readers over “Hi – nice blog – come and read mine” any day.

On my normal posts I tend to get a couple of comments and that is fantastic – I love that people find the time to let me know what they think of my every day thoughts. I don’t get many comments on Breeze at all, and the thing is I get that too. Breeze is completely different to anything else on this site and it hasn’t surprised me that the people who normally like ‘my’ posts aren’t necessarily keen on Breeze’s. The reason he is staying is a selfish one, I am practising writing a long story, and I want to see how far I can get. Currently Breeze is up to about 7000 words (including scheduled posts that are not yet published) and the story is still not done. I have never written anything to that length before and find the process fascinating. Breeze may one day be rewritten into one continuous story, and even if Glen’s Life is not the right market for it, I think there could be one for it out there somewhere, even if it has to be completely rewritten!

When you write something that is more personal and genuine, something that is outside of your comfort zone, things change. Confidence drops and fear sets in. Suddenly people’s opinions matter.

Which is why I wanted to thank you for your words of support and let you know that I absolutely love it.

Sometimes

Sometimes I look and don’t feel seen.

Sometimes I shout but don’t feel heard.

Sometimes I hold on but don’t feel held.

Sometimes I want but don’t feel wanted.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I look but don’t see.

Sometimes I talk but don’t say anything.

Sometimes I listen but don’t hear.

Sometimes I want what cannot be given.

Sometimes.

Sometimes those closest to me seem so far away.

Sometimes they are not far enough.

Sometimes I don’t understand.

Sometimes I can’t explain.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I need help but just don’t know why.

Sometimes I need help but don’t know what.

Sometimes I need help but don’t know who from.

Sometimes I need help.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I am a man.

Sometimes I am a son.

Sometimes I am a husband.

Sometimes I am a dad.

Sometimes.

Sometimes.

I am me.



Reaching new lows

“Hi y’all it sure is me a sittin’ here chewing my baccer again”, how was that? It’s me, Breeze, I’m practising my American accent for my latest job out here in the good old U. S. Of A. I’m here for Bob Hoskins in George Lucas’ new film about some miners who get trapped nearly a mile down after a landslide. The film details how they survive on nothing but biscuits and milk for nearly a month before they are discovered, and then the emotional turmoil they go through in the months that follow, before they are finally freed from their ordeal. It all sounds a little far fetched and unrealistic to me, but with Dame Judy Dench playing the desperate wife above, and my mate Warwick playing the lovable android that saves the miners from the evil giant worms, it looks like it could be a huge success.


I sat for a full five minutes looking at the sign. I could not believe my luck. This year’s pantomime had been cancelled due to an Ecoli breakout in the theatre’s green room. There would be no Snow White for the kids this year. My head raced, somewhere nearby Grumpy and his mates were out of work, just before Christmas.

It took me a week to find them working in the old chocolate factory at the end of the high street. Most people had thought it was closed but apparently not. Anyhoo they weren’t very happy, as the wages were chocolate, and they were having trouble with the songs, “What’s wrong with ‘Hi Ho’ that’s what I want to know? You know where you are with ‘Hi Ho’, who wants to sing ‘Dumpety Doo’? It sounds ridiculous!” moaned Happy.

“My name’s David!”

“What?”

“My name’s David – not Happy”

Ooops – I hadn’t got off to a very good start at all, but it didn’t take long to bring them round as I told them everything about the situation I was in, and what I wanted to do about it

The plan was simple; they would all join in and fill the cup. They would sit it on the floor and all stand around it wearing masks so that nobody could identify them as they, er, worked. I would take photos of the event to use as proof of Warwick’s innocence once I had that Dictaphone erased. The guys would all sign a declaration to say that Lulu could use the contents for whatever she liked as long as it was NOT to get herself pregnant, which I would photocopy for them to sting Lulu, should she manage to track them down later on.

After an hour of talking they were agreed, they would help their hero out of trouble for £50 each and a photo of Lulu in her underwear eating an apple. I don’t know why they insisted on her eating an apple, people have some strange fetishes.

I left the factory with two bars of chocolate and the sadly inerasable memory of photographing the saddest Bukake session in the world - seven short men with their pants down filling a sample jar with their love is hardly Internet gold. I carefully placed the cup into a bag and headed back to my car a changed man

At the penthouse Lulu was waiting, on the table were photos of her in various fruit related poses as requested (I told her it was Warwick’s thing) I showed her the cup and her eyes widened in joy.

“My goodness, that is a lot!”

“He was very excited about the photos”

“If that’s what he can do before he sees them, I wouldn’t want to be around after he has them!”

Lulu made a grab for the cup but I pulled it out of reach, “The recording!”

“Not until I’m in my 2nd trimester”

“No way – My part was to get you the dough, whether or not the bread rises in the oven is the baker’s business!” I wasn’t in the mood to play games with the imagery that was still dancing scarily in front of my eyes.

“Ok, fair enough but I need to check it’s the real deal first” I unscrewed the lid and then I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or appalled as she did a Hollywood style Cocaine taste test on it. Removing her finger from her mouth with a smack of her lips, she announced it as being good shit, “That’s top quality Dwarf spunk alright, surprisingly strong - uncut”

I smiled and said I was glad she was happy.

“I am happy – want to come and help me do this?”

A part of me died inside as I turned the offer down, but with my head still hurting from the post traumatic stress of my last half hour, the idea of impregnating the most beautiful woman in the world with a cocktail of miniature love juice just couldn’t be entertained.

“That’s a shame – I really fancied saying hello to LB – are you sure?”

“Yep positive, look you have your sample and I have the Dictaphone – we are quits, yes?”

“Yes, it’s a shame though, are you sure that we can’t be friends now that this business is done?”

“Maybe, I don’t know – maybe…”

Lulu smiled and indicated that she hoped so, and thought that perhaps we could meet up soon and start again. I looked at her and my hand held onto the photo of the men at work in my pocket. Right now I should give it to her, before it was too late, I had their evidence against me, and I could stop her from going through with it. Somehow I knew that once I gave her that photo it would all be over though. Once she knew the truth I would never see her again. My head spun wildly as I fought my conscience, the longer I kept the truth from her, the longer I would know her, but the more damage would be done. Could I really let her make herself pregnant in this way, just so I could spend a little more time with her?

Oh, sorry - hang on, I have to go and put on my ape costume for the scene where the miners discover the underground temple.



Ciao

That's the way to go

One of the exhibits at Ripley’s that caught my attention was the coffin. It appears that in Ghana, it is part of the culture to celebrate your death a little more than mourn it by ay of having a fun coffin. People have coffins that look like things they like such as taxis or vans or planes or even an Eagle. I know that I should have taken more care to note down details of the origins and facts behind this tradition for this report but I forgot, for two reasons. Firstly, this was one of those rare occasions where I wasn’t thinking about blogging – they don’t come up often but this was one. Lastly I got distracted by something else and moved on. There was a photo of Ripley sitting with some native women from some tribe somewhere. The ladies were topless and it reminded me of my childhood. These were days before the Internet and so I still considered a copy of the National Geographic to be porn. I remembered the excitement of seeing a picture like that when I was a kid, breasts are breasts after all! In honour of the memory I did an audible PHWOARR before turning away, only to bump into a man who was giving me the filthiest look imaginable. Clearly he thought I was an absolute pervert and probably a danger to his children.


These amazing coffins are paraded about the streets before finally getting buried. I immediately connected with this and knew it was right. This is what I want, this is right. Why all be in boring black looking miserable around a boring box. No way, I’m up for causing as much embarrassment and uncomfortably enforced merriment to those that have had the audacity to live longer than me.

I immediately started thinking about what coffin I would want. Maybe I could have one in the shape of an aircraft carrier to celebrate my time in the navy, or a telephone to accept that in fact I have been a telephone engineer for longer than I was actually in the navy. Maybe a book so that in my death I could maybe finally be published – so to speak.

Then my mind drifted to food and I figured that I could be buried in a box that looks just like a thick slab of bacon. After all, there is a good chance that it is my all too frequently satisfied love of bacon that will be the reason I’m in the coffin anyway, so I might as well honour it.

In the end I made a decision and declared that I wanted to be buried in an effigy of Sandra Bullock. I’ll rest in peace knowing that I finally managed to get inside the only woman I’ve ever loved (sorry Jo).

I haven’t actually had my will re written to include this instruction yet, no doubt it is going to be an interesting moment when Jo realises that failure to comply will stop her from inheriting my Star Wars DVD box set!

What I’d like to know is in an ideal world what coffin would you be buried in? Okay, the world wouldn’t exactly be ‘ideal’ on the grounds that you would have turned out not to be immortal. Also, you can be buried or cremated in it so get thinking – what’s your dream coffin?

Ripley's believe it or not

It was Daniel’s birthday this weekend, and so we were awoken early by a very excited newly nine year old at exactly six thirty, which was the time he was given as the absolute earliest he could wake us up. Why had we not said seven?


It was worth it though, when his face fell upon his new bike – there are few things nicer than seeing the look on a kids face when they get a bike!

Daniel was dressed in a flash and out on the street clunking past me as he desperately tried to get the hang of gears for the first time in his life. He would look up and smile and then shake his head at me for daring to be out in the street in pyjama shorts, slippers, t-shirt and bed hair. Even with all this the excitement, he was still worried that should one his friends walk by, they might be too distracted by his embarrassing dad to notice his new bike.

In no time at all we were on the train into London for Daniel’s treat of a visit to ‘Ripley’s Believe It Or Not’, the so called ‘Odditorium’ or basically a museum of odd things. This was something that Daniel had wanted to do for ages so when we gave him a choice for his birthday treat it took him no time at all to decide he wanted to see this place.

The museum contains dinosaur bones as well as skulls and remains of more unfortunate things such as three legged chickens and two headed goats. The point of the place is that it is like one of the old fashioned Carnival Freak shows. There are pictures of the Elephant Man as well as many famous ‘Freaks’ from the days when it was okay to point and laugh at unfortunately disfigured people. Some things are quite clearly true, such as the height chart for the world’s tallest man or the set of scales showing how heavy the fattest man was etc. The shrunken heads on display are apparently real or at least are models of things that are real so you can accept them. Of course you are being asked to believe it ‘or not’ so some of the exhibits are entirely unbelievable, the stuffed multi headed animals for instance and the furry fish were all quite questionable.

I managed to surprise Jo when I discovered a sneaky hole you could pop your head through in order to pretend to have no legs – such fun – Jo hadn’t seen it so when I called her to see what I was doing she nearly had a fit, oh how we laughed at how amusing disabled people are, when else do you get to that I ask you? (By the way, just to be clear on this one – you were supposed to note some irony there – I remember looking around and seeing ramps etc. for access and wondering how I would feel visiting this attraction if I were in any way disabled or disfigured, being that at least half of the exhibits are setting out to point you out! When I mentioned this to Jo, she said that she had seen at least two male exhibits in there she would rather have than me, so I could relax)

All in all I can say that we enjoyed the experience, Daniel absolutely loved it but, well there is a but coming and any of you who read this regularly and therefore ‘know’ what I’m like, can probably guess what it is.

We did some research before we went and discovered that because we were going on the train we could go on First Great Western’s website and get two for one vouchers. This meant that we only had to buy the adult tickets and the boys went in for free, brilliant? Even with that deal it still cost £57 for us to go in. A full family ticket would normally have been a snip under £90. Therefore we saved loads but still came out thinking F**k that just cost £57! That is a lot of money to walk around a museum. Granted the exhibits were interesting, granted the boys (who have no concept of money’s worth once enough for a packet of sweets has been passed) loved it, and granted that I also did think it was pretty good – but come on?

We could have gone to the Natural History Museum (which is much better and contains some amazing dinosaurs) for free! Still, never mind, it’s only once a year.

We wound up having a great day that also included Krispy Kreme Doughnuts and Dominos pizza so all in all, the day’s theme was over paying for things wasn’t it?

Happy Birthday Daniel

War

I’ve declared war!


My petition finally god accepted by the UN and so I’ve finally started the battle. It has taken months of political wrangling to get this far but every sanction I have imposed; every target I have set has been ignored. Enough is enough; I can take it no more, so I have sent the troups in to sort this problem out once and for all.

My Athlete’s foot has to go!

I can’t stand the itching anymore. At first it was quite comforting, almost like a friend giving my toes a little cuddle when they were lonely. There are few things nicer after a hard day’s commuting than kicking off your shoes and sitting scraping layers of skin from between your toes while relaxing in front of the TV. It becomes part of your life, like cleaning your teeth. How horrid would your mouth feel if you didn’t clean them in the morning? Well I was like that with my toes, they just didn’t feel good unless they god a damn good seeing to at night.

The problem is that I also quite like sex, and for some reason the sight of her man failing to discretely brush half his diseased feet down the side of the sofa isn’t really working for my wife. I know what you are thinking and you are right, Jo is a bit picky really – some people just don’t realise how lucky they are I guess.

Worse still, the fungus is spreading; it seems my toes aren’t quite enough for it. Now it wants more and is finding that it can have just as much fun with the rest of my feet too.

It has to go. It has to die. There will be no prisoners of war, there will be no surrender. This time it is personal.

I have been to the chemists and enlisted some mercenaries from Scholl Daktarin and Mycota to help me with my plight, and amused myself by using the special freebie Virgin Active sports towel I got when I ran the Bloomberg Mile as my new foot towel. It is a little sweat towel that is (I assume) somehow designed for use in the gym, at one end it has a little pocket with a zip. I’m not sure if the designer of this towel ever imagined that it would be perfect for keeping your athlete’s foot lotions and potions in, and drying between diseased toes, but no matter because he or she can pat herself on the back for a well designed bit of battle dress.

Wish me luck people, there can be only one survivor in this war and I’m kind of hoping it will be me! Don’t worry; I shall be updating you with news as the war rages. My special correspondents will send regular reports from the front line so you will be the first to know when I reclaim any territory for use with normal skin.

On a completely different note, I want to tell you about a conversation between my wife and six year old son tonight. Jamie has been learning about the Moon landings at school, I say learning…


“Liam Armstrong wasn’t the only person to walk on the Moon”

“Wasn’t he?” (suppressing chuckle and urge to correct astronaut's name)

“No there was another man too”

“That’s right – good boy”

“And there was another man who had to drive the spaceship and didn’t get to land”

“Really?”

“Yes, Miss said that she felt sorry for him because people don’t remember him, I feel sorry for him too but we learned about him today, so he isn’t forgotten”

“Brilliant – what was his name then?”

“….......I can’t remember”

I love that boy.


Have a nice weekend