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