Dat sir

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

Dear occasional onanists,

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

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

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

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

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

ICELAND rhymes with arrogand

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

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

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

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

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

W: Excuse me, are you from Iceland?

I: Yes, where are you from?

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

I: OK. Do you want some Icelandic biscuits?

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

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

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

I: North.

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

I:...

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

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

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

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

W: Belfast.

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

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

I: But it's not the same country.

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

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

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

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

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

Monthly speech to improve mental health amongst Britain's children

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

Children of the country where God is still seeking asylum,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CP: *Little cry*

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

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

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

Prehistoric pornography: an introduction

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

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

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

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

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

- Mum, what is that chimpanzee doing?

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

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

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

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

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

Democracy for Absolutists

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

Dear overrated people (also known as readership),

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The Christmas': a short introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES!

Have a merry 'the Christmas'!

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