ICELAND rhymes with arrogand

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

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

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

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

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

W: Excuse me, are you from Iceland?

I: Yes, where are you from?

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

I: OK. Do you want some Icelandic biscuits?

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

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

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

I: North.

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

I:...

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

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

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

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

W: Belfast.

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

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

I: But it's not the same country.

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

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

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

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

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

Monthly speech to improve mental health amongst Britain's children

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

Children of the country where God is still seeking asylum,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Democracy for Absolutists

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

Dear overrated people (also known as readership),

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The Christmas': a short introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES!

Have a merry 'the Christmas'!

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

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'

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!'

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"