'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?'

Demagogy for Dummies (II)

(above: Omar Pedro Gimenes was once the governor of Idaho. weeks after he had the charge, he was accused of raping young ladies in a blue '76 Chevy van. evidences? just the glasses he wore and that...)

Get ready for another dose of demagogy for dummies -Superfluity? Maybe-. Today, we're dealing with politicians. Indeed, politicians, the ones who use the rhetoric power of language to persuade masses the most.

However, I'm not having a go with them today but with the 98% of the population who are more than qualified to be political commentators on the BBC even though, due to unexplainable reasons, they can't make it to our public broadcaster. Instead, we might find them in pubs, bus stops, council houses or even newsagent's -most likely because the idea of working at a commercial TV station doesn't appeal too much to them-.

These political commentators use, in general, these sentences as follows:

- 'They're all lazybums' (yep, you drinking pints of lager on a couch is reactivating economy, thank you for that!)

- 'That's what our taxes are for, then?' (usually used when one trips over the pavement and falls ridiculously onto the floor, or similar)

- 'I see, first foreigners and then us. (Whispering) They invading us!' (Easy, a friend of mine can provide you a Bangladeshi passport. you might get it half price if you buy a Sri Lankan. But shush, this may be a bit dodgy to say out loud)

Eventually, they end up with a:

- 'If I wuz oop 'ver...' (usually this sentence remains unfinished. when finished, not really often it's followed by a political programme).

Sometimes, recent situations that went through the news commonly generate new sentences. The not long past plane crash involving the Polish government in Russia have created a series of hardcore versions of the previous:

- 'Dunno why Poles still cry plane thing and that. I wish it had happened in my country...' (probably, the worst excuse to open a bottle of champagne)

- 'The Russians! They never learn! WW3!' (utterly real following to this: 'I, (name), can't die without living a World War')

In short, listen to those people, for they own the country's wisdom and they shall rule us all if they claim to do so. But please, one at a time.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I myself know loads of politicians. They're really nice and care about social minorities. Last week I went to a döner-kebab shop for a health and safety check with a friend of mine who is a politician and told them to give a little change -£3,000- to help a poor Pakistani man called Mr. Bribe about to close down his business or so.'

Search me and call me darling

(above: 'did you pack your luggage yourself?' 'yes...' 'then what's these elbowed arms from legoland?')

As usual during Easter holidays, European countries claim their citizens who are abroad back. Therefore, one had to go back to one's place -close to capital city Lloret de Mar- and spend one's Easter time there.

To do so and for various geographical and obvious reasons, I had to fly back by plane. As you might know, in order to catch a plane somebody has to go to an airport first -unless somebody has a private jet in somebody's garden-. However, being in a tiny British airport, far from corny stand-up jokes about awful food on board, losing everyone's luggage and complaints about cheap airlines facilities, is way more than a place where you get a plane to a poorer European country for pleasure -also known as continental safari-. In that airport you can find, for instance, true love. I myself found true love for the first time in my life without spending any amount of currency.

It was when the metal detector. While I was taking all my metal stuff and my Middle Eastern clothing as well as my ankle gun I saw a ginger bloke behind the detector that was sexily searching an elderly Irish man and I couldn't help falling in love with him. So I deliberately put a 2-pence coin in the tiniest pocket I could find in my trousers. Then everything was history:

'Come forward, please', said GB -for Ginger Bloke, or Bollocks-.

The metal detector bleeped out in slow motion.

'Have you got any metal item with you, sir?'.

'No, as far as I'm concerned', I lied.

'Take your shoes off, please sir', the now close and smelly ginger replied.

I thought it was going too fast but I agreed, I took my shoes off.

'May I proceed to search you, sir?', he inquired.

While he was searching my body in even slower motion, suddenly he found the coin.

'Aw, I didn't notice -sweety-'.

'No problem, for I am Ginger Searcher'

'Ginger Searcher, I'll never forget you. You save all flights from terrorists and other menaces as well as my heart.'

After this short but intense true love story, I collected my shoes, my Middle Eastern clothing and my ankle gun I forgot to give back to my inspector when I gave up the homicide department. Nevertheless, later on an overweighted Ryana*r hostess hit me with the corporation magazine in my head and I have completely lost the part of my brain in charge of my feelings.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'Don't you hate it when you are served horrible food on board and they lose your luggage? I do. I'm very observant although I've never flown by plane.'

I love it and they will as well (2)

PHYSIOLOGICAL/PHYSICAL INTELLIGENT BANTER

(above: alright, let's ignore the woman on the right hand side has no age/belly/shirt to wear such piercing. Oh, look! An elderly man laughing at you in the foreground!)

It has been a while I haven't focused on manners towards elderly people. Since Britain has been deliberately isolated from the rest of Euroscum, European social trends have arrived a bit later to the islands and it's my duty, yet I come from the old -and dirty- continent, to bring all these trends here and make Britons aware of what they're missing out at the moment.

Today's trend involves, surprisingly, elderly people. Often you listen to some elderly -which incidentally is out of date in Europe, everyone who listens to old is an outsider- complaining about their health, especially their back. The European trend is, if you by chance listen to one of those complaining about their spine, drop an Euro -a Pound's way better- to the floor and when he goes and bends over to get it you might either come across one of these options:

1. He gets the coin and gets back to his original standing position. In such case you should ask politely the money back and then swear at him and his relatives regarding his incoherence between his previous statements in relation to his health and his actual state of health.

2. While he is bending over he gets stuck at a certain disgraceful position and he'll ask for your help. In such case you should say that you are in a hurry, get the coin, stick your bum up to his face and fire and then leave.

Look how good social peace is in Europe nowadays. We should follow their example. Not everything down there is despicable.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'What do you mean? Everything in Europe is outstanding! When I went to Amsterdam I eventually found true love... at a reasonable price, eventually'

I saw the Soviet Union collapse!

(above: the cross between a human and a jellyfish was eventually a success)*

*: The people born in the early 1990s demand The Goonies 2 although most of them haven't seen the first one. Simply because the 80s rock despite the fact we were just a future project by a couple of young teased-hair mates at that time! Look at those retro Adidas tracksuits and trainers and those Top-Gun-like sunglasses!**

**: Young adult born in the early 90s, I bet you'll look awezome and different if you wear an Adidas tracksuit top, Ray-ban Wayfarers, and a Peruvian hat and talk about how slow Spectrum 48k loaded games or how good used to be the music in the 80s.***

***: By the way, to whom it may apply -and boys too-, don't forget to grow a moustache!

I acknowledge that it's been a while I haven't updated this blog, but I have to admit that I couldn't be arsed. Until today!

'What? Do you have anything special to tell us?'

No, interior voice that appears at intermittent intervals of time in my head ever since I ate those mouldy mushrooms at the 40th Anniversary of Woodstock Festival sponsored by Nike and Pepsi with such an essential line-up: Jay-Z, Timbaland, Courtney Love and Sean Lennon. It's only that today I feel like it.

Today's topic is a serious issue: people born twice!

Basically, all the technological achievements done during the 80s and 90s have allowed a generation to bring themselves to live autre fois. People born in the 90s think they had a previous life during the era of shoulder pads and people born in the 80s have had a childhood déjà vu and have gone back to it -like one of the most favourite films amongst 1990ers, Back To The Future-.

Forget about serious debates such as abortion, euthanasia or John Terry's private life. This is far more important. This affects so directly to our society foundations.

Political consequences: Conservatives will be back, which is not bad by itself, but the reason why Tories will gain power it's going to be 'Thatcher made Britain rock! Look at that world map... Malvi...what? again? Cool!'

Economical consequences: Mines will re-open and will re-close-down again. Britain will be holding relations with the rest of the UE back and... oh, whatever.

Cultural consequences: Only three (3) words: Police Academy 8.

My advice: get your gun and Michael Jackson's Thiller single CD -because being born in the 90s and listening to vinyl discs is nothing but snob- and play it as loud as you can. As soon as you see people under 30 approaching doing the moonwalk shoot them and shout: 'This dance move is from Billie Jean, you ignorant!'

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I hate people born in the 1880s who claim to have fought in the Boer Wars and WWI so I had to kill them all by holding back my plan to achieve world peace.'

At home he feels like a tourist

(above: 'Let's pose as if I care about other cultures in a cosmopolitan city... perfect. Now, p*** off!')

I know it's been too long before updating the blog, but I've been really busy seizing the day. Because actually, seizing the day is an attitude towards life that takes you time and money -mostly money-. However, I'm having a break between drunkenness and hedonism to write some sensible stuff.

Tourists. What's wrong with them? Why do they speak like that? Why are they always asking stuff you already know? They culturally smell!*

There you go some piece of advice from me to you, potential tourists. If you are happily walking down the street thinking of abstract things such as planning an armed robbery to your local NatWest branch or writing a poem to John Terry's wife -buddies, take advantage of this situation yet now the marriage is at its lowest- and then a (damned) tourists approaches to you asking for any direction in your city you should do either:

a) Tell him the wrong place, or even better, send them to a conflictive neigbourhood in the outskirts. He or she wouldn't tell the difference.

b) Make him stay with you until he pronounces English properly, even if he says the correct words in an understandable way, pretend you didn't get it. For God's sake, people born in Britain have learnt English by heart, why should those sweaty foreigners don't speak English? They think they're better than us, eh? No way. Once he pronounced perfectly his request, send them to a conflictive neighbourhood, just for a bit of fun. Brits love comedy.

* This might not apply to British tourists, who are completely polite and try to understand any local culture they come across by attending local history and art museums, also known as culturally thirsty -stressing the thirsty part of it-.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I myself went to Bristol as a tourist. Apparently they didn't allow any sheep to any public transports and, what's worse, they didn't speak even a word of Welsh!'

The key to social peace!

(above: Omar Pedro Mendez from the town of China, TX was a person really prone to get lost wherever he went. That's why he was tattooed a world map up his bum in order to end with his problem and demonstrate a theory of his that claimed a man could see his own back if he spins fast enough)

Even more people now is concerned that something is wrong with social climate. Loads of people in the big cities feel themselves as a tiny part of a meaningless mob and, as a consequence, irritation arises modifying and breaking the mentioned social climate. Nothing makes the difference among one another as an individual in this dull lifestyle. We all look like and act the same all the time.

For this reason, philanthrope me, I have stumbled upon a definite and easy solution that will certainly amend part of this sensation of uniformity so present in our cities: tattoos. I don't mean ordinary tattoos with ordinary motifs but DYNAMIC TATTOOS.

What are dynamic tattoos? Dynamic tattoos are changing, personalised and funny -rather wacky- tattoos that will make you complete difference from any other individual around you and will be the perfect combination for your individual self-identity. There you go some examples:

If you're called, for instance, Nigel Fitzcharles and you work as a writer in a top-shelf magazine:

- Tattoo on your right bum cheek the word 'ink'. Your 'dynamism' will consist in, every time you bend over, 'ink' will turn into 'oink'. Therefore, from the moment you show the dynamic tattoo in public on you'll be known as Nigel 'The One Who Writes Dirty Things As His Bottom Claims' Fitzcharles.

Or if you're called Adolf Goldberg and nobody remembers your name:

- Tattoo on your bum* Adolf Hitler. Your 'dynamism' will consist in, every time you bend over, your Hitler up your bottom will shout 'woooooOOOOO!'. Therefore, from the moment you show the dynamic tattoo in public on you'll be known as Adolf 'The Ironically-named Jew Who Laughs At His Own Roots' Goldberg.

You don't have to thank me for this brilliant idea. Just make a film based on my life in which Antonio Banderas plays as me.

*Actually, you can have your dynamic tattoo somewhere else. However, the 'dynamism' is less funny.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I myself have a tattoo. It's on my chest. It says 'Neil Kinnock for Prime Minister rules!'.'

Top 5 rejection reasons from the opposite sex -female-.

(above: 'What do you mean by that? 'Maybe'?')

To the last girl that has rejected me, who unfortunately for her family and relatives, is still among us.

*HARDCORE BITTERNESS COMBINED WITH DARK HUMOUR ALERT* (too late. Shame...)

Being rejected by anyone from the opposite sex is always hard to get over due to reasons that are plentiful in abstract nouns I don't understand. However, like Jean-Baptiste Lamarck stated: 'the over-function of an organ makes an improved new organ to balance it out'. What's my point in that, then? My point in there is that one has been so many times rejected that now I don't appreciate the bitterness of rejection anymore but the originality in the reasons of rejection.

This is why my last experience was so bad: she didn't give any reasons at all. Probably, she might work as a magician: 'Alright, trust me. There was no rabbit in the hat before. You have such a tiny brain to understand it. Trust me anyway'.

And now, the best reasons. There we go. T-T-T-TOP 5, BRIIIIING IT ON!

'I'm rejecting you because...'

5- '... you were listening to Ricky Martin'. Unintentional but fair.

4- '... yesterday I saw you in front of a day-care centre naked from the waist down and wearing a kaki-coloured trench coat claiming you had some sweets for my 4-year-old brother. Stay away from me'. Such a superficial interpretation of what I actually did. Read between the lines...

3- '... you have a protection from harassment order of a mile'. It was my second go. By the way, a mile is 52 mm, isn't it?

2- '... I'm a man'. 2 lessons from that: always wear glasses or lenses and women's clothing doesn't assure you a woman in there. It's also known as the 'Kinder Surprise effect': you unwrap it and there is a present waiting for you to be assembled.

1- '... now my husband is an MP'. Adaptation from Quim Monzó, 2010.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: 'I myself have never been rejected by anybody. Every time anyone wants to tell me his opinion on me I shout before 'I don't like you! I'm leaving you!' just in case.

Sí, señor, me be intreegated!

(above: onanismus vulgus or common w***** during their mating season -always-)

*FAKE LATIN ALERT* (oh, whatever, nobody cares. It's a humourous licence. Oh, really? Yes. Is it like this how you justify your ignorance? err... Look there, an UFO!)

Dear readers, I failed to you and the country where I'm living:

I failed to you in various aspects. First, in terms of your daily dose of digital drug I could not fulfil this week. And second, and most importantly, while I was reading the papers a long time ago, I stumbled upon this: Brits are the ugliest, beautifulpeople.com says.

When I first read the article, I couldn't care less about this social network and its opinion based on scientific evidences. Afterwards, I felt quite curious about this website and a week ago I filled up an application to get in.

In order to get in, people from the opposite sex -in my case, women- vote your application positively or negatively according to your face, not for your knowledge in Ancient Greece, Politics or Molecular Biology, for obvious reasons related to the average IQ of the membership. The thing is that I got in. SHAME ON ME!

'Why? Ain't I happy to be in?', says confused my ego.

NO! Just when I thought I was well integrated into the British society apart from some minor details -I'm a tax dodger, I relief myself on the street at broad daylight and I'm not making any effort to learn the language, to mention some- now it comes I'm beautiful... and that's it. Nobody asked me if I like tea or getting pissed until throwing my guts up, just asked me for a photo, which by the way was approximately as follows:

*: Photo might not be that... or might

In short, I'm further from my full integration in this country. A country that, incidentally, couldn't care less about physical aspect. Actually, they don't give a shite as soon as it is in lieu of a proper good time.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "Of course there are fit people in the islands... look at Posh and Becks. Alright, I'll shut up."

PS (in Catalan): Si algú entén això, pot i vol fer-ho, que li digui al pallasso d'en Jaïr Domínguez que m'enviï una invitació per poder llegir el seu blog: guionistabrillant.blogspot.com

Top 5 quotes that traumatised a fat but nevertheless tall teenager

(above: "... and this is how little rhinos are born, my son." "was it utterly necessary to be THIS graphic, dad?" "was it utterly necessary to hide a recording camera inside the trough, my son?") 

"I've got a lot of friends in Facebook. I've got fewer acquaintances. And I've got even fewer friends. Therefore being a friend of mine is very exclusive."

This quote, which sounds like a Hindu thinker's or a 8-year-old girl's, is mine. Looks nice, innit? The thing is that you have to be consequent with your own quotes with small improvements each day. This is why, at the end of this post I myself will make being a friend of mine a bit more exclusive.

The other day -usually, when somebody starts an idea like this, is sheer deception- I was talking to a friend of mine -usually, when somebody refers to 'a friend of mine' with any further details, is just himself hiding from a very likely future humiliation- who used to be fatter and taller than usual during our teenagehood and he told me a lot of secrets concerning this traumatising stage of his life. As my purpose in this post is having less friends, I'm going to tell the most shocking quotes he received in a now-usual-in-this-blog-and-copyrighted Top 5 (c) way.

5- 'The bee flew to a flower, it stung the flower and then you were born' (This far from scientifically valid metaphor and Internet made him understand the whole idea).

4- 'You're so tall that when you eat a yogurt and it reaches the stomach it's already gone off' (He told me afterwards: 'The one who said this was so short that he ate my processed food, that is to say, poo made out of rotten yogurt. Not as subtle but at least he doesn't get as many nutrients as I did eating yogurt').

3- 'You're so fat that... YOU FAT COW!' (At this point, you could notice the one who said this was creatively running out of innovative ideas. He now is a successful Hollywood scriptwriter).

2- 'Hey, class! Look at him! He's got boobs!' (Never asked him what exactly was a Physical Education teacher doing inside a changing room full of underage boys).

1- 'Where's your girlfriend? What? You still don't have one. I see. (...) Boy, be honest with me... do you like Village People?' (His mother just wanted to make sure his son is enjoying those drama lessons).

Done. Now being a friend of mine is even more exclusive.

THE WELSH PATIENT: "My most traumatising sentence was when I was 17 with my father in Thailand. He said: 'Son, he is a man'."

Ice, ice, baby!

(above: indeed, I hate 90% of stuff related with ice. The remaining 10% is that film called Ice Wide Shut by Stanley Kubrick.) 

Today's post contains certain amounts of social critique, witty comments and Victorian literature as well as -in larger amounts- demagogy, swearwords, explicit references to drugs, flashing lights and X-Factor jury.

According to BBC News: 'Snoooooooow!!!! Yeeepee!!!! Afghanistan? What you on about? IT'SNOOOOOOWIN!'

However, this snow has turned into ice due to some climatic factors I do ignore and, therefore, now walking down the street has turned into a dead-or-alive matter. I myself have been close to death today several times as a consequence of the slippery surface of the pavement.

This is why today I have come across my life in photos several times, too. Nevertheless, since I belong to a Facebook-junkie generation , my life was composed such as a Facebook photo album where there were comments on photos I uploaded or I was tagged throughout the years. My most relevant pre-death mental Facebook photo album comments were the following.

- 'Mufasaaaaaa!' (At a pic of me crying while watching The Lion King)

- 'me mum says i aint fat, i'm strong and ave thick bones' (At a pic of me & my friends when I was a pre-teenager and a bit overfed).

- 'this is soo oonfair. i hate ya!' (At a pic of me & my parents when my face looked like a pizza with extra pepperoni)

- 'hehe.i'm moe.LOL' (At a pic of me tagged at a random face of a Simpsons character).

- 'charlie's angels!!! LMAO' (At a pic of me and my ambiguous friends before discovering our actual sexuality).

- 'ya biatch! just let u know mine is average size! c***!' (At a pic of me & my ex-girlfriend).

- 'thats not me...' (At a pic of me tagged in a very similar face to mine but obviously he's not me).

- 'hehe. i'm apu. LOL' (At a pic of me tagged at another random face of a Simpsons character added by another friend of mine).

 

This horrible experience made me think seriously about life, as a result I came up with a metaphor that sums all my ponderation up: life is like a window, when there is a lot of light you roll down the blinds just unlike your dreams, which are like milk because the cow... what a sh**e of a metaphor. Anyway, forget that. I've never been good at poetry -suffering from tuberculosis at 25 have never turned me on as a lifestyle-.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I once was an important businessman. I set up a company that manufactured best-selling ice cream flavours all around the world and Warwickshire. Some of our best-known flavours were human poo ice cream and milkman ice cream. Not to mention our delicatessen: chartered accountant ice cream. Caprice de dieux, which in French means, Crap ice of two (ice cream balls, obviously)".