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"

'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!"

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"

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!'

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)". 

Demagogy for Dummies

(above: he wanted to keep his identity unknown, but he asked for an anonymising line that matched his -horrible- glasses)

First of all, dear readers: Merry Christmas, you thick!

Since we're really close to a new year and a new decade, I've decided to carry out some changes in my life*. One of those is changing my personality. I don't know, I think that my personality in the nineties (90s) and in the noughties (00s) has been really un-rock-star-ish. That's why my personality during this brand-new decade will be more rock-star-ish, i.e.: more similar to a rock star personality.

To get started I'll write my first rock-star demagogic speech:

'Oi! You [insert your city name here]! You are the most rocking city in [insert your area/country/shire/neighbourhood here]! This war is entirely our fault! We throw those bombs! Mind the environment, you polluters in the Army! Al Gore is God! Microsoft is Evil! Own a wind farm! We are destroying Africa with our pollution! Put large amounts of currency into my NGO's bank account, this will be helpful for this planet somehow! GEORGE-BUSH-BARACK-OBAMA, YOU DON'T MAKE ME GO BANANA!'

Mmmh... I reckon I'll stay with my current personality. Being a rock star is very demanding: setting up NGOs, helping charities, taking drugs, shagging groupies, pub brawls, swearing...

I think I'll forget about being a rock star and start writing and playing some music instead.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I used to be in a punk band in the early 80s. It was called Following the Law. Our first single was 'Obey The Rules, It's Worth It'. The first lines were: 'Obey the rules, it's worth it/ Get a job, you lazy youngster!/ Maggie is right, mines should close down!...' Good old times."  

*: Next person who says 'Things change like people' will get some dents on his face.

Radio killed the telegram star, and so on

(above: Jose Ramon Nunes from Worstville, OH is an old-fashioned dressed Aryan-Hispanic-Jewish radio star in his state during the late 90s up until the present day. But a new invention threatens his somehow local fame: the odour-radio)  

Sometimes, when I'm not dealing in utterly legal sugar from Colombia or detaching limbs to people with my former Soviet friends as a hobby, I write some scripts for an interview show for the radio. There you go a bit:

(From Nigel Random, interviewer V Carol Oompa-Loompa, Santa Claus' Sleigh Mechanic)

N: Your two sons are wacky, aren’t they?

CO: What do you mean ‘wacky’?

N: Odd.

CO: They’re not odd at all, they’re 2 of them. 

Believe me, that's the most intelligent sketch in the whole programme. The rest of the jokes are about priests and rabbis, penises, Germans embarrassed of their own history, frontal nudity and Yorkshire rapists.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I once presented a talk show on a radio station but it was cancelled 15 seconds after it went on air. It was called 'I have evil prejudices against any gender, race, creed and nation. Swearing edition'."

New ethnic class in Britain

(above: when coming across that woman you shouldn't drive on: wait for green) 

When I was first arrested by the police because of my lack of English language skills and the embarrassment that would cause showing my passport*, I was given a form to fill in.

In this form there was a section called 'Ethnicity', in which I had to tick, as a Spaniard, 'Black Caribbean: Spanish'. But I found out that there was missing option that represents approximately such a significative part of British population: 'Orange British'.

I don't want to sound racist, but I will. Orange British -or Oranggers, in a more racist way- are invading this country. They are even more each year. They are taking our places in the beach and our shelves in cosmetic product corridors.

Remember: when an Orange British is approaching DUCK AND COVER.

*: Ignoring that I fell by chance onto an elderly woman back with a sharp 12-inch knife, that's racism.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "Nick Griffin is an orangger"

 

Fortnightly advice

(above: One person appearing in this photo told the other he has got loads of money. Guess who.)

Dear weak-minded and morally ambiguous readers,

Do you feel yourself just as a mean person on Earth? Are you unhappy with your life? No? Well, you should. There are hundreds (even tens) of people who are blatantly happier than you.

This blog, like the BBC, has got two main aims: take over the world and educate and entertain its audience.

Today, we are pointing out the second one. Every fortnight this blog's crew (i.e.: I myself, the Welsh Paitent -currently on a trip to foreign city of Bristol- and the monkey-scriptwriter who converted to Buddhism and got an IQ score of 145) will try to keep you readers such happy people in your pitiful lives. 

This fortnight's advice only consists a word of 3 letters: lie.

If you follow my advice, your life will improve in the short term. You can choose your life as you never imagined before. You can be whoever you always wanted to be. 

However, you will find (annoying and obnoxious) people who will keep telling you are doing the wrong thing by lying. When this happens, just tell them to lend you some money to invest in shares because you know the CEO of a very important company. If he agrees to give you the money, spend it in alcohol -or equivalent-. If in a month time he asks you how is his money going, show him fake graphics pointing up and tell him that still is not the time to take it out because the credit crunch is almost over.

Believe us, Wall Street works like this... 

No, I was lying. But follow my advice.

Blog Crew.

THE WELSH PATIENT says: "I followed this advice and then I invented Facebook, I wrote Wuthering Heights and I promised a tax rates decrease in general election"