'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"