So, what do you think is in the Surrealist Van this week?…

But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s politician is the one squirming, on the TV.
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It was Monday afternoon:

‘Oh, hello Davey-Boy…’
‘Eh, Oh, hello Tony.’ (It was Tony Mayonnaise, bad poet from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League)
He said, ‘You should have been here – in the square – a few minutes ago…’
‘Oh look, Tony… I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go and meet somebody, I’m already late.’
He suddenly grabbed my elbow, and said. ‘No… but you should have been here a couple of minutes ago…’
‘Oh? Why was that’? I said, as I pulled at my arm.
‘I was in the Surrealist Van.’
‘The Surrealist Van? Oh, yes’?
‘Yes, I was driving it through the kids’ low-level pavement fountains.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No’?
‘No.’
‘I was shouting out the contents, of today’s Surrealist Van’!
‘Oh yes… Did you knock down any toddlers’?
‘No, I was very careful…’
‘Good, but, two things, Tony.’ I said, ‘one, the Surrealist Van doesn’t actually exist, and…’
‘And’?
‘And two, I know that you can’t drive.’
‘Possibly not, possibly not, but this area, is technically, not a public road, though – and people can now legally ride their bastard-bikes here.’
‘That is true’, I said.
He added, ‘I ran into two of those buggers with the van’!
He was still holding my arm. He smelled of sweat and beer. He let go of my elbow, but quickly grabbed my other one, as he took out a piece of paper from his back pocket. He moved uncomfortably close and spoke softly into my ear:
‘Let me tell you of the fascinating things that can be seen in the Surrealist Van – then you can go – for your appointment…’
‘Right ho…’ I said.

A brown paper bag six feet square.
One of Salvador Dalí’s best shoes.
Three grains of sand from, Arizona, Australia, and the Sahara, in a tiny bottle.
The word tin, made from massive solid gold bars.
The Prime Minister’s grinning smile captured in a mouse-trap.
A tooth brush once owned by Leonardo da Vinci.
The largest grape in the world.
A 1938 Ordnance Survey map of the back of the moon.
Fifty tubes of yellow oil paint run over by a vintage steam-powered road roller.
A one-hour MP3 recording of someone shaving their legs.
One of Robert De Niro’s frowns carved into a giant piece of soft cheese.
Three naked art critics fighting in a bath of hot words.
A damaged, but repaired, spoke from one of Boudica’s chariot wheels.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
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