I've just woken up. I was dreaming I was in a pub, the Blue Posts in Rupert Street, drinking with Barack Obama. One of those dreams you could stay forever. There were lots of other people there and I kept thinking I really ought to ask him something important as no one would forgive me if I didn't. I decided I would ask how we had gone from him to Trump when I saw him go to the other side of the bar and start serving drinks. He was pouring shots of something and handed me the first smiling and winking as if to say, 'this will get the party started', and then he turned up the music. I threw my drink into someone's cup of tea hoping no one would see and finally said 'sorry Obama ( we were not on first name terms at that point) but I have to get up in the morning, some of us have work to do.'

Where do people go now the Daily Heil has gone all soft? Well have a peep at Leave EU's page, it's the best cardiovascular workout!

Continental Europe calling. Well, with all the social agitation I realise nobody has written much about Jean Claude lately. To be honest the last time I saw him was a while back when we were hiding in a cupboard trying not to laugh while Michel B tried to keep some UKIP chappies, Digby and Woolfie, from the door. That was the time when they were trying to woo Michel with some typical British products, you know, a tinned Fray Bentos pie, a dog eared copy of Boris's Winston Churchill, some out of date Mr Kipling's fondant fancies and a pickled egg. Products which were worth it just for the look on Michel's face, especially when he opened a jar of Marmite and looked like someone who has just opened a tin of Surstromming the tinned Swedish fish that you can smell from here and one of the lesser known advantages of the freedom of movement within the EU.

Mr van de Ven enquired in one of the local shops for local people if the cured meat was venison and the local shop keeper told him no, that they only sold pork and then she proceeded to do make weird pig noises presumably to make sure he got the idea!

If you get a good seat Spain is like a great painting but with noise!

If you would like to know what hard Brexiters think of the 'likes of me' then here are some examples. 'With a surname like yours you should go and live in the Netherlands', 'judging from your Facebook profile you certainly weren't born in the UK, 'go back to Spain', 'grow a backbone and get behind your country', 'leave, no one's stopping you.' Well, I can't argue with any of that! 

Not many people know that a few years ago I was involved in a plan to steal Franco's bones. It started out as a bit of a joke but me and a Basque friend managed to let it get swiftly out of hand. I can't give away too many details as I wouldn't want the Guardia Civil kicking my door down. Not at my age. I will reveal that we also needed to steal the incorrupt arm of Santa Teresa as it was necessary to give credence to the name of our outfit which is not for polite ears but also because we weren't going to commit any old heist and the arm would have added a certain panache, especially where we were going to deploy it.

How to put this. H told me he never dreams. Then he tells me he remembers a dream from the other night. He says there was a Cessna plane circling the park opposite and then he remembers thinking 'this won't end well' as the plane turned and headed for number 69, two doors down next to the photographer's and crashed making our house shake and tremble. He woke up with a start and heard me talking in my sleep, grumbling, 'for God's sake, every f*ckin' night.'

Nolotil is a painkiller often prescribed in Spain. It is is currently thought dangerous to administer this drug to British people as many have died after taking it and the Spanish authorities have advised or recommended that doctors shouldn't give it to them. It is strange that there is now a shortage of said drug in Spain and it is believed that this is due to the drug being stockpiled by British chemists. Why would you stockpile a painkiller known to cause many deaths to British people? 

You will all be pleased to hear that austerity appears to be over for some. How do I know? I gather the brothel next door is up and running again. How do I know that? Well as everyone's favourite insomniac I found myself dipping into Solzhenitsyn's Gulag Archipelago at 3 o'clock this morning and heard the distinct sound of high heel against marble coming up the stairs accompanied by some titters and shushes. As an unfailing nosy Parker I leapt out of the matrimonial and looked through the spy-hole to keep an eye on things. All I caught in the kerfuffle was a fish eye view of three men and one woman. I think it is the same girl but all I saw was a enormous eyelash looming back at me and a giant bottle of cava.

I am now at an age where I feel that everything I do or say is a rehearsal for my eventual transformation into one of the Golden Girls. Judging from certain reactions I am morphing into Sophia.

Watch a debate with a guy who looks like he goes to bed in his clothes talk about populism or a three hour lunch with wine? The 'Begrimed Barbour' ( AKA Steve)  is showing up in my Facebook page regarding something called the Munk debates. 

The problem with getting away from it all or fleeing the rat race is you will have to go somewhere that is thirty years behind. Where to go when the world ends? I chose the Village and its rustic charm, and on the whole there is a certain allure to not being part of the daily grind but forgot I would have to suffer the occasional run-in with someone who thinks they have just invented private enterprise. You know, 'rugby shirt wearing capitalist, just discovered Thatcher, seeks similar prepared to work under duress.' 

I received an odd thing on my Facebook page today. It was an invitation to watch the Frum versus Bannon debate. I'm reminded of PG Wodehouse from the Girl In Blue,

“It was one of the dullest speeches I ever heard. The Agee woman told us for three quarters of an hour how she came to write her beastly book, when a simple apology was all that was required.”

Aaron Banks. He is shitting himself isn't he? Did you see him on the Andrew Marr show? His mouth was as dry as one of Farage's crusty old Union Jack socks.Somehow he doesn't strike me as the generous type. More a second hand dealer in ideas.  He'll be fine though. He must be loaded if he can afford to donate millions. He can piss off whenever he likes, to Bermuda, Belize, leaving you to it. It's not any old fool who can pull a stunt like this. 

A while ago I wrote 'who needs an education system when you've got the Daily Mail?' ( also, democracy when you've got Murdoch, and a cuisine when you've got brown sauce). Well the DM has had a funny turn. 360 degrees. Yes, hysterical. It recently informed its readers how to get to the People's Vote march and now tells them Arron Banks has undermined democracy. The DM usually serves as the only cardiovascular exercise its readers get so this shift in thinking will do them the world of good!

Today I have watched British and Dutch political talk shows and in conclusion I have to say the Dutch have an intellect that is sadly missing on British TV nowadays. Where did it go? Why do British people have to listen to bullshit from the likes of Arron Banks, Katie Hopkins, Farage, Choudray, Robinson, O'Neill and all the others who seem to have carved a niche for themselves just by being shit stirrers, wind up/bullshit merchants and gobshites?

I don't need anyone to tell me I am wonderful, and I don't need anyone to tell me I am not either!

Cold callers in Spain are rubbish. When they can be bothered to call, about once a month, and when I can be bothered to pick up the phone, almost never,  they often ask who might they be speaking to. Today a charity rang and the guy refused to say why he was calling but aggressively persisted in finding out who I was. He was undeterred when I told him he was speaking to the owner of the brothel, probably didn't want me to think he wasn't indulgent, but still insisted on a name. I told him I was Adolfa Bonifacia Ecolastica Homobona Buenaventura and hung up. You have been warned time wasters.

Brexit. Growing apart, together.

It bothers me that you think it bothers me. That's what bothers me.