'The Ring' (here and now)

(above: 'ohmygawd! can you like believe like this is the only spot in like my room where I like get decent like WiFi signal? I feel like I'm dying... like socially speaking. LMAO')

Last Friday I went to the pictures to see 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy' on the silver screen. I don't care what the reviews and those cynical pricks called critics have said, written or dribbled about this film, but I found this to be one of the most confusing and most subtle of films I've ever seen in my miserable life. I tell you what - if it hadn't been a blatantly mainstream British multimillion production film but a b&w subtitled independent Iranian film, I would have walked out the room shaking my hand in the air in an onanistic manner. Because, ladies and gentlemen, when you enter a busy cinema room with a breathtakingly overpriced toffee popcorn packet in your hands and you have swallowed 40 minutes of adverts and trailers, the thing one least desires is have to think deeply throughout a film.

As you should probably know, I'm a pragmatic person and I do not only identify problems like a smug academic but I also provide solutions to such problems. Today's solution, even though it damages my principles and burns down my heart, has to be imported from the country founded by British expats across the Atlantic Ocean. In case you don't know which country I'm talking about, most likely because you schooled in America, it's precisely America. Who best to teach us how to think less or not to at all than the Americans?

Anyway, the process of dumbing down British cinema consists in copying American films and setting the plot in God's country. Everyone knows that copying is a very healthy activity for any culture - look at the Romans, for instance, they copied out 'Gladiator' and they didn't do that bad... For this reason, I want you to present you with the British adaptation of the American adaptation of the Japanese film 'The Ring'. In case you are not familiar with this feature picture, 'The Ring' is, in a nutshell, a horror film where the main character (Naomi Watts) gets to see a VHS tape at the end of which she receives a phone call where she is informed she is going to die in 7 days and left with the face of a blow-up doll.

A British adaptation would of course be sympathetic with the time and place shared by contemporary Britons, albeit it must be an exportable film. Out of interest, an 'exportable film' is a film that Americans may buy into and understand. Therefore, action should be set either in an aristocratic classist Britain (posh and all the rest) or in the East End of London (Cockneys, apples and pears and various other fruits as well). I'm going to choose a bit of both. I want this film to be directed by Guy Ritchie, so we can have a bit of his 'oi-oi-lads-Guy-woz-ere' trademark - I'm not implying all his films are the same, but they are... nor I am that he is not a Cockney, but he is trying so hard to be one. In terms of the cast, I was thinking of Stephen Fry. I acknowledge he is nowhere near to be a middle-aged blonde woman, but he is Stephen Fry, come on, it'll be funny at the very least.

As in Britain we don't want even hear about Stephen Fry being dead - indeed, not even in fiction, have a look at 'V for Vendetta' for instance - I was planning on slightly modifying the plot. Instead of killer VHS tape, I thought of a face-swapping and then killing VHS tape. I shall explain myself - Stephen Fry receives a call that in 7 days his face will be swapped by Jeremy Kyle's and then, and only then, he shall perish. The reason I'm doing this is because I want the film to be entertaining and enjoyable.

That's it for today. I know there are many other aspects in a film, but I'm a just bloody university student - so I need my daily booze/class B drugs dose to keep on this neurone-killing pace and thinking or writing aren't a full-on substitute to that.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'When I proposed to my wife, I gave her a vibrating ring instead of an actual ring. She left me, but she never gave me that ring back'

FRANCE rhymes with prance... in a bad way

(above: 'aaargh, merde! ma wife made me anozer baby sandwich for lunch aujourd'hui! it's already ze zird one zis week...')

Dear people who suffer from the terrible illness that is purchasing a 1,000-pound photographic camera and only using the autofocus setting to take pictures of oneself in sepia,

I know it's been long since I last published something in this magnificent piece of online hatred, but as you all may know I was captured by the aliens and I was put a test tube up my rectum, so I've been rather busy trying to expel it off my body - eventually. No, seriously, I will not have internet up until the 30th, so I must go to the library and beg for some online fun as if I was some sort of 3rd world child from Cornwall or something. If you ask me, I'd rather admit what I said first.

As you may have guessed from the title, today I'm going to address my hatred towards the French. Actually, even I myself reckon it's taken too long to cover such topic in this blog. So, bing-bong tink-a-ting let's the xenophobia begin. Though, a little warning before we start - I shall not use the excuse 'I've got plenty of French friends' to make my argument look more legitimate as if I was a far-right commentator talking about homosexuality, because I have as many French friends as this man homosexual friends, nil. Don't get  me wrong, I know some frogs, but they're just not my friends.

The reason today to talk about the French is simply because yesterday I read 'The Sunday Times' quite thoroughly and I'm full of anger towards foreigners taking our jobs and our women. One may say, 'oooh, don't pick up on the French, they invented the cheese... have a go at another foreigners such as the Scots if you have the guts, what have they ever done to us?' Don't worry, I surely will have a go at the Scots soon, but let us focus on the Frogs today, please.

Yes, they invented the cheese and, more recently, the brie baby - so they don't eat actual babies anymore -, but people often forget about other stuff they have done to humankind, viz, smelling of garlic 24/7, having a terrible accent when speaking English or not being introduced to the concept of cublicles in public toilets. It is fair to admit that in the past I have been accused of not having been in France at all. I beg to differ. I once spent an afternoon at an Irish pub in Calais. To be honest, I was quite lost that day, but still counts. I didn't like that very much - it smelt of stale cod and warm beer and the Scouser who was supposed to be the landlord wasn't very friendly at all.

I hear one say, 'but Crispin, will you stop playing on the stereotype? not all French are pure evil'. Firstly, who told you my real name? and secondly, of course them all aren't just pure evil - only the ones who come from Paris are. Nevertheless, something very similar to this will happen every time you ask a non-Parisian French where he or she is from:

- So François, tell me, where are you from?
- I emme fgrom Pagi!
- Oh, where about in Paris?
- Well-eh, fgom a village in a island in the middle of the Pacific ocean which used to be a  Fggrench colony in the 19th Century.

I don't want to judge anybody, but they surrendered in WW2 and they smell of garlic.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'It was a rainy day in Montpellier. I was hungry and I spotted a restaurant. I ate a handful of snails. Then, I didn't need to go to the restaurant and pay for food because I wasn't hungry anymore'.

Smells like teen cells dying out

(above: and now, a bit of jim morrison's magnificent poetry. 'roses are purple. violets are orange. shit, I'm colourblind...')

Dear sufferers of this terrible mental condition called having 20/20 vision and having to wear glasses,

God knows, and South Wales Police by extension, that I like to hang around local primary schools and colleges in a trench coat and give my business cards away to the underage children of this very Celtic nation. My purpose is to convince those children to add me on Facebook (please) so I can carry out a sociological study about online habits amongst children aged 7-17. At least that's what I said in court.

Regardless of the actuality of this study, I drew some conclusions around this issue and I would like to discuss one them with you readers. This one I am talking about is one of the most certain and empirical of all I drew and reads as follows: Western kids are going to burn in hell and foreigners are taking our jobs and our women. But let us just focus on the first bit.

We all, more or less, have got a rough idea of what hell is - if not, we've all been in Magaluf. Well, imagine a world where everyone speaks rotten (American) English and is an irreversible victim of passive-aggressive behaviour. In case you don't know, passive-aggressive behaviour is the one that is produced by personal insecurity and manifests itself through being late, sulking, victimising and becoming a Liberal Democrat.

Children, stop bursting the pimples on your face and listen to me. Now I'm going to list 4 ways NOT to get a partner, which seems to be your major concern right now, and NOT to burn in hell along with Hitler, Stalin and JFK:

1- 'Liking' Facebook groups with spelling mistakes on their titles which can make you go blind (forget w***ing, this is far worse) in order to indirectly let someone else know what you are thinking about at the moment.

2- Quoting people whom you only read their Wikipedia articles, i.e.: Kurt Cobain, Mahatma Gandhi, Jim Morrison, John Lennon or Jimi Hendrix (yes, you should spell his name as such).

3- Display your knowledge of the lyrics in 'Smells like teen spirit', 'Wonderwall', 'Stairway to heaven', 'Bittersweet symphony' and 'Imagine'.

4- Using Justin Bieber or similar disgraces who live far far away from where you live as an excuse to avoid closer problems of yours, i.e.: your musical ignorance, your GCSEs or boys/girls paying not enough/too much attention to you.

You are welcome. Don't say anything, just stop sending me invitations to Mafia Wars (please).

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'If any day I decide to leave this world, remember me as a hurricane Irene survivor. Never forget (that I was spending the weekend in Aberystwyth).'

Dat sir

(above: anthony evans, aka tone-e, from monmouthshire (38) was a part-time shelf stacker at his local asda and devoted his spare time to his most beloved hobby - rap music. yesterday, he was found dead in a nearby forest after receiving a lightning impact. it is believed the lightning was attracted by his brand-new iron teeth soaked by the heavy rain. at the moment of his death he was recording the video clip for his latest single 'rappin' under a tree - feat. pitbull'. unfortunately, pitbull suffered no injuries or death whatsoever.)

Dear occasional onanists,

I acknowledge I have been away for quite a while, but this summer has been an eventful one. In July, I was too busy being drunk in Lloret de Mar whilst a crew from BBC3 was following me around along with my parents, and earlier this month, I was working hard in northeast London to provide my illegitimate ginger mulatto children with the life and future they deserve - i.e. 32'' plasma TV sets, Adidas tracksuit bottoms, Toblerones from Poundland and some tongue scrapers from Boots. So, now that I do have some spare time on my hands, I am going to present you with these lunatic asylum scratches of mine before the owner of this here cybercafé realises I am not wearing any clothes from the waist down.

Today, I would like to discuss over the topic of politeness and age. Often I hear war veterans who, when they are not yelling at pigeons and feeding bread crumbs to passers-by who tell them not to yell at the pigeons, shout indiscreetly at anyone below the age of 50: 'Bloody youth! Be less polite! I was in the 'Nam, for Christ's sake! I'm an exclamation mark bitch!'. Apart from the fact that the closest he has ever been to Vietnam is Colchester, I could not agree more.

The youth today is too polite. And I could and will prove it with facts. Two weeks ago I happened to be about to set fire to a JD shop when this 12-year-old kid came to me with a massive smirk on his face and told me: 'Excuse me, sir. Can I get some fire, please?' what do you mean by 'sir', wee man?! I'm 20! I could give you a cuddle in the nude and it would still be legal! And also, a couple more things I'd like to tell you: it's 'can I have', you oompa-loompa in miniature! You're not in America! And the answer is 'no, you can't have any fire', you shouldn't smoke at this tender age.

Of course, I did not actually tell him off. I kept it all in my head, for one has got poise - I painted his face black with a burnt cork, cuffed him and gave him away to the English Defence League.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I used to be a member of the EDL, but then I realised that I was neither English nor a mentally challenged monkey'

ICELAND rhymes with arrogand

(above: the Icelandic tourism board - from Iceland - is going to use this appealing slogan for the next tourism season: 'it's fine. we didn't want you tourists to come anyway. we've got enough food and drink. we don't need your sympathy. b***** off!')

Iceland has hit the front pages of all newspapers, magazines and some Argos catalogues once again because of its volcanic activity. Though in this case, it has been another volcano the one that has erupted and interrupted the air traffic. As many geologists have stated: 'Eyjafjallajökull is sooo 2010, Grimsvotn is the new must have for this season'. However, this is not my point. Can't you see it? Iceland is a clear example of attention seeking. Iceland is trying to make all Europe turn their heads towards them by, literally, crying and throwing up all over. In short, they are displaying their ability to be annoying to the rest of the continent because no one gives a damn about them. And that's got a name: arrogance.

It is fair to say this is not my idea but an ancient Greek philosopher's I once met (he actually was an old man running a kebab shop in Zante). When I met that wise man he told me: 'I'll tell you what, Icelanders are a piece of s*** compared to the Scottish'. As soon he said this, he disappeared in a deep and creepy laughter. I was genuinely scared. But then he came back with some pitta bread and expanded on his unclear idea: 'It's 2.20 euros, mate'.

I paid no heed to what kebab man taught me that day until the April when the previous volcano erupted. What happened then was that my flight was cancelled, so were many others, and I had to stay in the airport for several days. So what I did in my spare time there was to chat with the Icelanders and try to get a most accurate picture of their arrogance. I will never forget what happened in one of those conversations with Icelanders. It showed me that even the Icelanders you don't expect to be as much arrogant as others can be even more than the rest.

(I: Icelander W: 'we' as in 'we are most amused')

W: Excuse me, are you from Iceland?

I: Yes, where are you from?

W: Nah, you wouldn't know...

I: OK. Do you want some Icelandic biscuits?

W: No, thank you. I find any product from your land repulsive.

I: Fair enough. Is that what you say? 'Fair enough'...?

W: Yeah, whatever. Where about in Iceland are you from?

I: North.

W: Oh, thank God. You are a good Icelander, then?

I:...

W: Oh, yes, we know you lot are trustworthy. I was going to ask, can you do me a favour? Would you mind taking this parcel to my cousin who lives in Iceland?

I: Yes, sure. What's in the parcel?

W: Things. Thingy, thingy, things, things... you'd better not ask.

I: Yeah, OK. Where about in north Iceland does your cousin live?

W: Belfast.

I: I'm sorry, man. But that's not in north Iceland but in Northern Iceland.

W: Yes, and you can take it there and give it to my cousin.

I: But it's not the same country.

W: But you can go to Belfast and give this parcel to my cousin...

I: BUT IT'S NOT THE SAME COUNTRY!!

My heart shattered to pieces. I didn't expect anyone from the north of Iceland to be THAT arrogant with me, after all I thought we were brothers... I only have one word for that: ARROGANCE.

One last thing to Iceland. Iceland: less volcanos and more leprechauns.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'My cousin lived in Abbottabad for 5 years. He told me the Bin Ladens were a nice bunch - they even took care of his cat when he went on holidays to Port Talbot.'

Monthly speech to improve mental health amongst Britain's children

(above: *introduce subtle analogy between Pinocchio's nose and an e**** p**** here for humorous effect*)

Children of the country where God is still seeking asylum,

It is possible that the ones you call 'elders and betters', unless you live up North, will tell you that telling lies is wrong and you shouldn't tell them. Well, children, do you know what is wrong? THEM AND THEIR CONCEPTIONS ABOUT LIES.

Lying, lady boys (?) and gentleman boys, is not intrinsically bad - it's got its bright side. Not only a bright side but, as a whole, telling lies is a superb tool to be successful in life. This is why I encourage you to tell lies to be successful people in the future. Now, you might think 'why should we pay any attention to this pitiful and alleged foreigner who deserves to be shot in his leg and then the head and be buried at sea instead of our elders and betters?'. Well, if that is what you think, that hurt. But anyway, I'll tell you why, my lads. Because I didn't lie in time.

The reason why I'm just an unemployed blogger is because I can't lie. I'm very bad at deceiving people. Apparently, when I lie my voice wobbles, my eyes blink uncontrollably and I start speaking in dead languages whilst my head is spinning around. Nobody equipped me with the knowledge to be successful in time and I don't want you to commit the same error of starting to throw up blood when you are trying to pose that you did not sleep with that fat cow and this is not my baby, Jeremy, I swear, f*** this DNA test.

For you not to follow the same path I have followed, I will give you some success stories of people who discovered the art of lying in the nick of time and, as a consequence, they are now ostentatious and fortunate lower-middle-class people enjoying their most-deserved holidays at a Greek or Spanish resort exclusive for delightful holiday-makers, namely, the people with the most Union Jacks in their outfits.

Some of the lying techniques applied by those people living the life are as such.

• If employed, blame the one who can't speak English.
• If unemployed, tell the wife he's going to the office and spend the whole day bumbling around town listening to the FM.

I know what you are thinking: 'what if that person eventually learns to speak English?'. Don't worry, make sure that person won't be able to speak English ever. It's easy to do so, just have a sneaky peek at his wallet, nick any cash he may have there and check thoroughly that he was born in the following countries: Spain, Mexico, Scotland or Liverpool. And now you are thinking: 'what does an unemployed liar do in terms of money?'. Easy. One goes to one's brother-in-law and asks for some money to invest in the stock market. Blow this money at the bookies and, when the brother-in-law asks you for his money, draw some fake graphs and tell him: 'things are looking good but they are yet to be better'.

Believe me, lady boys and gentleman boys, you will be better off if you follow this advice of mine. YOU'LL BE THE (middle-class) KINGS AND QUEENS OF MAGALUF AND SALOU.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I'm glad I lie most of the time. Last summer, I convinced my wife to spent the holidays in Zante by telling her that we were going to have a romantic one. I lied. I exchanged her for two shots of flaming Sambuca the second night. It paid off. What a night!'

Look how much I care about the world (you miserable idiot!)

(above: 'have you got a minute, sir? have you ever heard of methadone sans fronitières? well, basically it is a charity that helps less fortunate people around the world to get over their jones for crack by providing them large supplies of such. would you be interested in being a member? there's the standard membership, which is £6 a month, and the premium one, which is a simple one-off payment consisting of 3 jabs with this hepatitis-y knife into your stomach and anything you have in the wallet')

If you are one of the chosen people who read this blog in an hourly basis - although you know that checking every hour this blog without actually having intimate contact with me is not enough to fulfil anyone's naughtiest desires -, you must already know that in this blog we like to at mainstream baddies, i.e.: baboons, sexually attractive underage girls and animals who don't give a shit. This week though, we are going underground and we will have a go at one of the best-known goodies: people involved in charities mucking about on the high streets across Britain.

The people we are going to refer here are fairly easy to recognise: clipboard, tracksuit top/hoodie with the logo of the charity they belong, a more than fake smile and the stare of a starving lioness looking for a lonely and miserable prey. And they usually prey on me for such condition in addition to my evident lack of rudeness, namely, the ability to tell them to f*** off.

In terms of their aims and goals, theirs are clear-cut and consequent. Their first aim is to you give them your bank account details without asking many questions - because they usually set off their homes with a rather definite and limited script. If unsuccessful, their second aim takes place, which is to make you feel a bad person along with your default loneliness and misery.

As you lot know, this blog also has a clear commitment to be a public service and I am not content only describing this appalling situation. I also want to provide you with some solutions to make you feel less guilty about not cooperating with the monkeys being abused everyday or children living in rainforests, or something like this as well as to embarrass the charity predator in the meantime. To start off, I am going to enumerate the weak spots of that folk.

In a nutshell, the common European charity embarrassator has several weak spots due to its inadequacy to the world today as functioning members of society. However, there are some weak spots that will allow you not to give a penny and severely damage its huge ego (note: its ego is huge for various reasons ranging from the feeling of righteousness in their actions to the feeling of being stoned at work).

Due to the lack of time and motivation, I will only go through the most noticeable weak spot. Since these people love being nice to people, animals and ecosystems they have never seen live to satisfy their thirsty egos, they admire people like them (obviously). This means that they will take offence if given upon characters such as U2 Bono and Sir Bob Geldof. Do not panic if you don't get my idea, I know it might be excessively abstract for the majority of my (overrated) readership. Here is an example to make things clear:

CHARITY PREDATOR: Hi, have you ever heard of Fronds of the Earth? We're basically a charity that helps fronds grow peacefully in Brazilian favelas...

YOU: Yes... but I do f****** like mondays, pr*ck!

CP: *Little cry*

YOU: (Optional) *Smash a little smoke bomb to the floor and flee tiptoed in an evil laughter*

Is it clearer now? I supposed so. Nevertheless, this technique has not been proven and the effects can be even harsher than described. A man in Sao Paulo is believed to have done something similar to a charity bloke who was raising money to help poor bankers in Britain and, instead of crying, his face melted like a gremlin exposed to sulfuric acid - or like an 8-year-old girl exposed to sulfuric acid.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I once worked for a charity. It was called Sandwiches Without Borders. Our main aim was to raise money for better equipment to beat up disobedient wives in less-favourable areas in the country who won't make a sandwich to her husband. At some point, former member Germaine Greer was given the sack for putting forward some methods seen as too harsh for women"

Prehistoric pornography: an introduction

(above: recent excavations show evidence that Wilma Flinstone did other show business jobs before her breakthrough in the well-known tv series)

I always like to start my entries by stating the obvious and then undermine it slowly as words go by. This week is no exception. I seldom make exceptions - if not enhanced by a great amount of foreign currency and/or a bag of Twiglets. This week's obviousness is: ARCHAEOLOGISTS ARE A BUNCH OF P******. (******: USSIES)

I know. This week's is a tough one to undermine, but I'll have a go. Archaeologists' job is to discover ancient shite and report it to the rest of mankind. Nevertheless, I fear the archaeological community might withhold certain information to the general public. You guessed right, I am talking about prehistoric communication in particular. If you didn't guess right, you probably needed to check the meaning of the word 'pornography'. Or if you guessed too much, the meaning of 'introduction' must be rethought and watered down - I didn't want to go that far.

The other day - when somebody says 'the other day' is utter deception -, a friend of mine - I'm just making it worse - commented me the day before he was bashing the bishop over a pint. Well, I mean, not that he was giving himself the five-finger treatment over a pint and thought of that but he mentioned this whilst we were having a pint. Anyway, the thing is this friend came up with a genius question to put forward to the aforementioned archaeological community: do we have evidence of prehistoric erotic material? and if so, what's the point if they had wild chickens, wild goats and mammoths?

I assume that, by Stone Age, humans hadn't invented Dragons and Dungeons yet, so there weren't enough geeks around to appreciate and consume this sort of graphic art. However, hominids terribly resemble monkeys and we have all been in the zoo. Monkeys at the zoo only have two gears, honestly: namely, throw poo at the passers-by or excessive self-love. Who hasn't gone through that moment?

- Mum, what is that chimpanzee doing?

- He is w******, love.

I admit that embarrassing situation might be slightly different for each and everyone out there reading this, but you must acknowledge I come from a very rough working-class background. Back to the topic, provided the prehistoric man was rather more advanced than regular-sized monkeys - excluding the gorilla who fixed the wallpaper and Wayne Rooney (evenly) - and they had the same need to exercise the biceps, hominids must have developed more complex forms to relieve themselves similar to ours if they really are our ancestors. And here is where the archaeologists take their part in the equation.

Archaeology only show us depictions of Neanderthals hunting large animals, which we clearly see that is the ancient equivalent of going to Magaluf (Majorca, Africa), or pregnant Venuses. Unless the pregnant Venuses were some sort of fetish, they do not provide evidence of erotic stimulation for the alpha male. WELL, THEY ARE LIARS! And I'll tell you why. Every single time I recall how shit my life is because a member of an NGO have stopped me and told me how great they are and how evil and cheapskate I am for not giving 12 quids a week, I like to go and cry in a little cave. In that very cave, I often feel overly aroused by some paintings on the walls in there. End of. That is my evidence that proves my point.

Sadly, I could not undermine the idea of the archaeologists being complete pussies. I didn't have enough time in my hands. Too bad. Sorry about wasting your time. In order to compensate such waste of time I'll post a link that will cheer you up. Click here, ungrateful reader.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I once ask a chunk of wall in a cave to make love to me. Just sex. It was a cold relationship. A stone cold one"

Democracy for Absolutists

(above: don't you hate it when a wild snorlax doubles up as a bouncer and doesn't let you in the pokedisco and calls the coppers because he found a bag of pokeE'z in your pokepocket? I know, this happens all the time.)

Dear overrated people (also known as readership),

First of all, I admit I have been slightly absent these days. I thank the hordes of followers who have expressed deep concern about my lack of public creativity by keeping silent and pretending nothing happens and live on as if this blog didn't exist. Thank you, I totally received your message and now I feel prepared to put it into words. YOU WANT MORE WELSH FILTH, SONS OF AN UNCLE!!!!

Oh, yes! I love you followers and I know that deep into your stone cold heart you want to have a dirty and impregnated one-night stand with me. Since I am a man who has literally sailed the seven seas and in every harbour there was a brothel awaiting for me ashore, I would recommend you to forget the one-night stand and focus on my written work, for my mast looks like it suffers from woodworm, wench (arrrr)!

Today's article, ladies, gentlemen and ambiguous yet human beings after all, deals with the deep and touching subject of laziness. Because being lazy is not one's problem but everyone else's. The human being has been designed to do as little as possible whilst other sorts of beings like the foreign being do all the work for us, the Brits. That is why many extraordinary things such as slavery, absolute monarchies, xenophobia and Frankie Boyle were invented by Britons - to keep foreign beings or working-class beings segregated from human beings and allow the latter not to do anything exhausting (exhausting=more than 18 steps).

However, some human beings back in the day felt sorry about the other beings around their kitchens and 900-acre gardens and regrettably introduced what they called 'democratic principles' to this place. These 'democratic principles' came from Greece. Indeed, the place surrounding Zante and Faliraki. The introduction of these ideas made us human beings be equalled by the rest of beings and, as a consequence, made us work as hard as they used to do.

This unfortunate inconvenience in human being history resulted into the loss of human nature and its predisposition to remain lazy all throughout one's life. I myself, as a half human being, miss lying down on the sofa whilst some foreign beings were fanning me with massive palm tree leaves, reading the Sun -and by 'reading' I mean having a cheeky love affair over Page 3- or stoning to death pupils at Hogwarts on witchcraft charges, etc.

But now... now everything has changed because of 'democracy. You are not allowed to own slaves anymore because ' we are all the same now'. You are not allowed to read the Sun anymore because 'I am superior than a Cockney cab driver'. And, worst of all, you are not allowed to stone to death pupils at Hogwarts on witchcraft charges anymore because 'neither Hogwarts nor its pupils exist and what I was actually doing was to throw faeces at Conservative MPs high on crack whilst shouting 'Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, out, out, out''.

In a nutshell, democracy is bad for human beings as a whole. This is why from now on I am going to campaign against 'democratic ideas' and try reestablish an absolute monarchy, a flawless system where everything works perfectly alright for human beings -unless the Black Death strikes Britain again and messes it up-.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I have a very funny story involving faeces and monarchy: I once threw, AS A JOKE, my poo-poo at Prince Harry because he was ginger. He didn't quite join in the giggles and he punched me in the stomach. End of story.'

'The Christmas': a short introduction

(above: "Wah-wah-wee-wah! Exactly what I needed! Nice one, Santa!")

If you feel you are part of the unfortunate minority in the world who are not British, possibly you might also feel that something is going on during these days in Britain (a.k.a.: birthplace of God Almighty). Indeed: cheesy songs, cheesy lights, cheesy cards, cheesy etc. Indeed (squared) something that locals call it 'the Christmas'.

As you would have imagined yet, 'the Christmas' is a British-exclusive phenomenon. Funnily enough, other countries use the same term to name similar stuff happening at this very same time of the year. These countries, though, in order to justify this phenomenon make use of science-fiction: they tell you the reason why this is happening to commemorate the birth of a baby made out of dairy products, Cheesus - hence all the cheesy stuff going on there.

Nevertheless, this story is complete lie. The truth about 'the Christmas' is owned by the Brits, as usual. Other countries use up this story to cover their innate hatred towards Great Britain and everything it represents. 'The Chirstmas', unlike these other countries claim, was made in order to commemorate the birth of Ronald Harold Christmas Jr. (Wigan, 1958). But what did Mr. Christmas to expand his birth from the North-West of England to the rest of the miserably non-British world?

Ronald Christmas was an unwanted child who was an awful student attending a council school and was always messing about astrological and spiritual stuff. He was very curious about this shite. One time, when he was 13, he managed to contact with the spirit of a man who alive was a child molester in Salford during the sad years of the Postwar subtly nicknamed Satan Claustrophobia. His technique consisted in attracting poor children to his place by buying them appealing presents and leaving them at their doorstep at the end of every December. Those presents had a tag attached: "Satan fancies you! xx". Once these children came to his place, involuntarily started to chant songs about the weather in a choir. Satan Claustrophobia, though, died of a fire a 8-year-old kid set unconsciously to his house, for he did not pay his electricity bills so he had to light candles all across his house.

Christmas kept keeping in touch with this spirit for a long time because he was highly interested in attracting young children to his place, as he was young child too. Ring any bells by now? Well, a young Ronald Christmas was the person in charge of reinventing this paedophile technique to the modern time of 1974. Since he wanted to acknowledge his mentor, the person who brings the presents is misleadingly called Santa Claus. I know. He deliberately changed the name to make it more commercial -and because he didn't know how to spell Claustrophobia. Christmas was also a boy with a business eye.

This model was so successful among the paedophiles across Britain that quickly spread throughout the entire world.

So, now you know what exactly happened. Now think, every time you give a present for the Christmas you do it for a man who used to be naughty to children and a Northerner who gambled with dodgy metaphysical things. Are you sure you still want that iPad?

YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES!

Have a merry 'the Christmas'!

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "Is the song 'Santa Claus is coming to town' a warning from Scotland Yard? I knew!"

Demystifying biographies: Yoko Ono

(above: UTTER FRAUD. these blokes kept impersonating the glorious Mancunians all throughout their career. the one in the bottom right thought he was the reincarnation of Liam Gallagher... keep off the dope, man.)

Yoko Ono.

If we ask the man in the street - or the woman on the roof - about this Nipponese character and her contribution to Western culture, he is bound to answer that she is remarkably the one who made the Plastic Ono Band go down the drain. Though other more well-informed people will tell you the she also breached his husband's musical formation: The Bitless or summat.

I'm afraid that everyone missed the point of that woman. Everyone think that she got on the gravy train when she married musician Jack Lemon and started to use her undeserved fame to start ruining random bands, sadly including her own. Music lovers around the globe thought the Plastic Ono Band had plenty more to give to culture. Nevertheless, this is simply untrue. Mrs. Lemon-Ono was born with the gift of musical proficiency and made the Plastics one of the most successful bands of its age. But the days of Ono's band were coming to an end.

It all started in a massive gig in Milton Keynes (Middleoff***ingnowhereshire, England). She was performing an outstanding act of her best-known hit (a cappella version here). During the 9-minute bass solo, the bassist, whose name can be done without, started to slap the 4 strings with his knob and unfortunately electrocuted himself and passed out for several months. Did I mention it was raining and that enhanced the conductivity between the bass and his knob? Well, it was raining. Naturally, the gig was cancelled for obvious reasons.

After this, zillions of fans were concerned about the future of the Plastic Ono Band. The band couldn't do without the bassist whose name can be done without. For that reason, Yoko was forced to hire a new bassist temporarily. She called for an audition to look for a new bassist. Response was multitudinous. However, every contender was 3 times worse than the previous one.

Eventually, when they were about to throw in the towel and announce the discontinuation of the band, like in an American film, an old lady sneaked in the audition room, picked the 4-string chopper and started slapping it all over the place wickedly. She was left-handed: Yoko and her Medieval mind saw that as an asset to identify the band with Satan and immediately hired her without thinking it twice.

With this new left-handed bassist, the Plastic Ono Band completed a more than successful tour around Anglesey (North-West Wales), selling out every single ticket for each gig. The new bassist was now completely integrated into the band and now they let her make decisions for the band. This was a fatal mistake.

Before a gig at a centre for people with mental diseases in Scarborough, the old lady suggested Yoko to play their top hit with an ukulele instead of an acoustic guitar on the basis that the ukulele would give a more exotic approach to the song. Unfortunately, Yoko acceded. So Yoko went up to the stage with the ukulele attached to her. The cheering audience became silent all of a sudden. Unknowingly, Yoko tuned the first riffs for her top hit. The audience started to boo her loud.

Yoko was confused but then she realised. The ukulele was the instrument used to offend people with mental diseases. An evil laughter came from behind. It was that old lady who played the bass. IT TURNED OUT TO BE PETER MCKENNA, the bassist for the other band she is accused to break up, the Meatles or summit, and who played with his husband.

Local musical press began to slag her band off very harshly and then she quitted.

Yoko Ono is currently very busy being a fraud in the visual arts.

Peter McKenna, proud of his action, still today dresses like an old lady.

*Names have been subtly modified in order not to face sexual action from the solicitors of the people involved*

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I own a bass; it's called Red Iosif in honour to my moustache hero: Iosif Stalin"

The Erasmus discourse

(above: "iiiiiin ma countrrrry I get lotta woman in ma beeed! I do'now why I do no get woman here" well... it might be because you are not used to the language)

Recently I have been making an effort by mixing with some people from overseas in an exchange programme. No, don't worry. I just have been doing so for one single scientific reason: I was researching whether the claims of having sexual intercourse more often than average by those people were true or not.

Results were: obviously not.

However, during my deep and professional research I stumbled upon something which was far more interesting than that, because such intercourse can be seen every afternoon on Discovery Channel. And it was that during their period abroad, exchange students develop a strange mechanism that allow them to make whatever they want and get away with. After a few relieving teas (the new official name for w***s), my team of researchers, i.e. myself and a real-size cardboard cut-out of Simon Cowell, came up with the name of such phenomenon: THE ERASMUS DISCOURSE.

The Erasmus discourse consists of a simple linguistic formula that plays with the cultural ignorance of the interlocutor and allow the user of this technique get away with whichever bollocks he or she (or most often it) just have done. The formula goes as follows:

ED = In my country (or The name of such country) + is typical to + bollocks you have done + because in my country if you (bollocks you have done in passive) + positive consequences of such bollocks

E.g.:

Country = Spain

Bollocks to be got away with = Burp on a lady's face

Positive consequences = You must get laid with that person for that night

ED = In my country (Spain) is typical to burp on a lady's face because in my country, if you are burped on your face, you must get laid with that person for that night.

The most common usage of the Erasmus discourse is to get away with the most bizarre actions ever known to man and ask the other person to go to bed with them, basically. SO THAT'S WHERE THE MYTH (I BUSTED) COMES FROM!

I am still waiting for a call from the Royal Swedish Academy...

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "In my country is typical to carry kidnapped women in a wheelbarrow because in my country if you are kidnapped and carried in a wheelbarrow, you must be offered to the gods in a pagan ceremony"

Revisiting the genius

(above: for the very first time in this blog, the opening picture is IRRELEPHANT to the post)

Most of the time, I come up with things, I write them down and I rarely read them again. Today it has been one of these rare occasions.

The following bits are part of the scripts I used to write for an actual radio show last year. More precisely, the advice I used to give to the audience at the end of every show.

'This week's advice is: if a foreign tourist comes to you and ask you for a direction, even though he might be saying the right words, pretend not to understand him or her until he doesn't get the proper accent. English is a language that you learnt by heart, foreigners are no exception. That's called DE-MO-CRA-CY'

'My advise for this week is: if you want to flirt with German exchange students, don’t bother learning German language, boast about your knowledge in German history. Try to mention at least once in every sentence facts about Nazism. Germans love it when some foreigner knows that much about history of their own country. Trust me. That’s called Multiculturalism.'

'And now, as usual, I give some advice to the country, but this time, because we are doing the Christmas Special, I’m forced to give my advice to the children in the nation. Children, now it’s Christmas and I’m pretty sure that you want as many presents as you want. The best way to get loads of them is by being insistent about it. Don’t take a ‘no’ for an answer. Shout out loud, cry in the middle of the street, insult your parents and hit your younger brother. Only this way you’ll get your beloved presents. You need to have your ideas 100% clear; otherwise, adults just will keep you telling what to do every time. Children: shout, cry, insult and hit. You shall be rewarded'

'My advice for this week is: please insult elderly people. They’ll love it. Particularly when you are discussing different points of view in politics or religion. Shout at them and say things like ‘Shut up, scum’. Do it. The world will be a much better place.'

'People of God's nation, don’t waste your time going to the library. Library is for has-beens. If you want to read something interesting and cultivating, why not reading The Sun or The Daily Mail? By doing that, not only you’ll become intelligent but also informed people aware of what really is important to this country's fate. Did you know that Cheryl Cole has dyed her hair platinum? Did you not? That’s because you go to the library. Believe me.'

Can you see a pattern in this advice? Indeed: truthfulness.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'Some people say Ringo Starr is the annoying Beatle. Well, they're wrong! McCartney looks like my nan and, since they stopped releasing new solo material, Lennon and Harrison have had some serious issues with their body odour'

Top 5 statements during the student riots at Millibank Tower

(above: 'I say, let me go. I have got a seminar on Baroque Art in half an hour. Oh, blind me, this is rather inconvenient, I say.')

The riots perpetrated by students at the Conservative Campaign Headquarters in Millibank Tower, London will make international news for sure. And we all know how international journalists are: 'I might be French and my armpit smells wrong but Brits are slightly worse than us', 'I am Italian and I shag underage girls but Brits are not as good as they used to be' or 'We the Spanish are a bit promiscuous, ignorant, loud, lazy arses... I forgot, what was the point again?' are going to be the headlines tomorrow in these various countries.

On the other hand, though, they will miss the whole point of it: the memorable quotes put forward by university students, the intellectual elite of the country of God, during that riot:

5- "It is so UNFAIR!" (He should be appointed as the president of the Debate Society in his university)

4- "Fascist-a pigs-a! My-a money-a!" (This student comes from a countryside region where there is loads of far-right swine... Italy?)

3- "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie! Out, out, out!" (This one is a miner from Doncaster who has been frozen for 25 years)

2- "And then I chundered everywhere" (Crates of Stella Artois are more of a priority than tuition fees. Obv.)

1- "Please, would you kindly leave the premises? These antics are despicable and POINTLESS." (Indeed. He is an Oxbridge student)

BONUS: "WHY DON'T YOU GO A FEW YARDS FURTHER THERE WHERE THERE ARE MANY MORE PEOPLE MARCHING PEACEFULLY?" (Real student to Sky News)

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "Sticks and stones may break bones, but students break party headquarters"

Digital type machine (computer) shite (social networks). Today: TWATTER

(above: bennymusso69: @alliedpowers you wankers lol)

New technologies allow us to share our feelings about things around us that are happening in the world because things in the world change like people and that through social networks. BOLLOCKS! In fact, far more than 'bollocks'- anyone who claims this must be banned from live, although it might mean a harsh downturn for yoga centres in Western culture. For instance, we could we talking about Tw(a)tter as a place for sharing feelings.

Luckily, if Tw(a)tter was a porn film character would be that smart businessman whereas Facebook or MySpace would be the rough plumber or pizza deliverer. Nonetheless, and let me go on with the same comparison, despite the fact that the plumber or the pizza deliverer are quite predictable at banging your brains out, the smart businessman is going to do so anyway because, beloved readers, porn film characters end up bumming the other one regardless their suit -at the beginning of the feature-. And this is well applicable to social networks, you just need to think outside the box: once you unravel the outer social network suit, they are going to bum you, as a user, anyway.

Tw(a)tter, starring as the smart businessman, may look wittier and camper than any other social network due to its big deal of high-brow users such as Stephen Fry, John Cleese or many journalists blathering about stuff in less than 140 characters in the form of a clever statement or joke about Down Syndromes in order to impress their readership (or 'followers', as a sort of a religious fanaticism). However, on the other hand, you have potential and very compelling paedophiles and terrorists that through their mischievous statements they force you to fall into their trap.

Indeed, I was once a victim of those. Due to their misleading techniques, under the premise 'Utterly brilliant. A must-see trailer!' and a shrunk url link I can't exactly recall, I first watched '1 man 1 jar'. I can still feel the (his) pain. Fortunately, at this very instance I wasn't the one with greater damage in my cyber-bottom.

Have a good day, you all bunch of infantile pillocks!

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "RT @mostpeoplewhoreadthis the welsh patient is revolting as a whole. <- I know. I'd rather score some dope and rape elderly ppl instead."

Junkies are fun, innit?

(above: 'tomoz evening I'm gunna quit charlie.' well done, kate! reading snoopy at your age wasn't good for your mental development)

Since the dawn of mankind, human beings have always needed somebody to look down on and laugh at in the most disgusting way. Cavemen had crippled, Greeks and Romans had crippled with mental diseases and Medieval people had crippled with mental and skin diseases. However, since the dawn of prostheses, the number of crippled has been slowed down yet made up and the man of this day and age has run out of humourous outcasts.

This is why, I took the liberty of doing research by myself and find the new kind of these, the working class of hilarity. At first, I tried to find the ever-lasting crippled community among us to see whether I could return their place in history. I could not. I did my best, though: I stole protheses all over the place, I put shopping trolleys at every parking lot provided for this collective, I addressed to everyone with any physical disease with derogatory terms in the rudest way possible but no effort was fruitful.

Nonetheless, when I was released from prison, some bloke high on *sweets* came to me and asked me for some change. I was so happy then I gave him a fiver. When he saw the Queen's face on that green disease-packed paper he got so over the top that he pissed on his pants. This made my head lightbulb turn on, I was fondly amused by this broad daylight live sketch. So I thought drug addicts could be the pariah of laughter of the 21st century. Yes, sir! I would like to ask you that whenever you encounter one of these wanting some spare change for a train ticket to Bridgend or for a birthday cake, give them a big fat amount of cash. You won't regret, I bet you will get a big deal of humour or knife stabbings, you patronising middle-class bastards.

Have a good day!

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'Did you know that now I hold 51% of shares in Microsoft? Yes, it's been tough work... Bill Gates is not that easy to stab!'

"War is stupid and people are stupid" said Boy George

(above: I love this book LOL jk I don't suffer from mental retardation. I prefer the film. Indeed, I hate cinema as a whole.)

Even though I have always stated in my private life that people are scum, some people say that you should have planted a tree, had some offspring and written a book before you die. This made me think two days ago when I started to question myself some major issues regarding my existence in this very planet.

First I considered planting a tree because it seemed to be the easiest from those three tasks to do before I die. However, ten (10) seconds later I remembered some charity bloke (aka, there's some environmental stuff going on in America, give me some quids) telling me somebody else's entire life for a living who afterwards I saw talking quite easy with some other bloke giving out flyers. 'You know what?', I thought, 'The environment shouldn't make these PR blunders. P*** off, Al Gore! I'm not planting that tree.' Why then? Am I planting some tree to promote the saddest yet filthiest clubs in town? No way.

Then, the having some offspring thing came up. Although my addiction to Marmite could turn into impotence in the future, I'm afraid, it is definitely in my 'to do' list Top 5, so let's hope it'll happen sometime and this great gene pool is not lost. Fingers crossed. Still, I'd better not irate even more the environment, for it can pay me back sooner or later with the already mentioned impotence as well as its friends, the saddest yet filthiest clubs in town, since my reluctance to promote those might end up in missing the best gene pools in town, who most certainly attend these, provided I would contribute merely and exclusively to the intellectual bit of this gene pool.

After admitting that not having any legitimate offspring at all will be most certainly a fact in the next decade, I started thinking of writing a book. Not a novel, definitely. I personally can't write about some fellas without getting really fed up with them and incidentally killing them at some point to finish off at once. That's how being given 3 ASBOS is like: one ends up hating human race. It should be some short book that might be really original and can give me big money -of course, I'm not a Medieval monk, I'm a postmodern individual who needs the latest clothing from the 80s but now-. But writing a book, even a short one, is really exhausting and demanding if I really want to keep my even more exhausting and demanding binge drinking student life.

That is why that eventually I decided to leave these tasks but always have the loose idea of doing them at some point in my life, but not now, probably next friday (evening) or in 20 years time. Actually, I'm not doing it for the sake of being lazy and hedonist. I do it for a really good reason: once a man or a woman accomplished those three tasks in life, they simply lay back and think they're done and then they die because of their self-complacency. If I always have it planned but I end up doing nothing, then you don't rest on your laurels and you are always aware of doing them hence living longer. In short, the secret to a longer life, even immortality, resides in planning a lot of interesting things in the long run but not carrying them out ever. There you go.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'Aw! So that's the secret to a longer life... Could you believe that I was taking the advice of a doctor? Well, I think I won't need those pills for my double heart bypass anymore. I'm planting a tree now... or maybe next century in the afternoon'

Björk-Al-Qaida connection

(above: visible singer dressed in invisible clothes during a meeting at the office of his invisible manager discussing her next record deal, 130x80cm, b/w, google images (c))

There are only two things that really piss me off: people who hate foreigners and Icelanders. Today I'm going to deal with the latter. What has Iceland given to us? Let's check our mental Wikipedia. Let's see... mhhh. Cod? Gudjohnsen? Björk?

Who needs cod?-- well, I do. A fish and chips without a cod fillet is nothing. But who needs Gudjohnsen?-- Probably his wife and his mother. They need to feel his presence, too (not football, definitely). But who needs Björk? Relatives? Don't think so, her parents were a couple of beatniks. Music? Are you serious? Cinema? She and her worst enemy Dogma-bollocks Lars von Trier should be locked at Universal Studios Theme Park in Orlando (FL) and experience what commercial and therefore proper cinema really is.

Alright. Once set that we don't hate everything that comes from Iceland but Björk and making my first statement just pretentious and an easy plagiarised joke from Austin Powers 3: Goldmember, me, as a top international affairs analyst, 'is' going to link the first thing we fear from Iceland and the first thing Westeners fear: Al-Qaida.

*ALERT: if you have read the news lately you already know what I'm going to talk about. so go and enjoy this lovely weather outside and chase squirrels in the park or even better, poke with a stick any random corpse you might find anywhere if you live in a council house. and if you're single or sommin you should just type in another sort of website rather than a blog, don't you think so?*

The link is easy. Apart from Björk, what else do we hate that would come from Iceland? Volcano ash -read the news, mate!-. What has this ash done to faithless Europe? Collapse the main airports in idem. Who else tried so? Al-Qaida. Therefore, Björk has links with the radical Islamic organisation and she wants to exterminate Western culture, in such case culturally.

We need to take action on this: re-open Guantánamo Bay detention camp as a detention camp for culture terrorists. More pop singers and less underage innocent prisoners is my main message.

Next week's witch hunt: Comrade Cyrus?

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'Go Clegg for PM! Didn't you want the silly weekly statement?'