FISTING FOR FRANCO

Spain calling. Everyone's favourite citizen of nowhere here. Sorry it took a while but I've just been translating about another one whose name we shall not mention. Seems he knows the one who has the same initials as the National Front, Tommy the Martyr and just about very other nihilist, retro nationalist and mercenary on the make. He said on a London radio station that Tommy was the backbone of Britain. Well no wonder the country is on its knees! I suppose we should just start saying 'ooh, he's a one'. What to do with these people who want to see the collapse of the European Union and society in general. They seem to have succeeded in knocking the stuffing out of British society now the revolting mouthpiece whose name we shall not mention has turned up, touring Europe in an attempt to rally all the far right parties. He's already been to Spain where he met up with a fascist party who no one has ever heard of. Let's give them a name. Fisting For Franco sounds about right. The one whose name we shall not mention showed up wearing the same dodgy looking Barbour copy he seems to refuse to take off. He obviously wears it to bed. He looks like he hasn't washed or shaved for weeks.This will be his downfall. Nobody, whatever their political persuasion likes a begrimed impermeable. 

Evening all. Everyone's favourite cultural attache here. Well, it's been a funny old week, not necessarily ha ha. On my way to work one morning I nearly had my eye taken out by a man who was using an electric saw to cut a metal pole his friend was trying to hold onto while smoking a fag and wearing flip flops. Arriving in one piece I had amongst many things the responsibility of promoting the homeland. It couldn't have gone better. I had to caution and give a history lesson to some fellow because he thought it was socially acceptable to use the 'n' word. There was confusion when someone else started talking about 'Be Javier'. After a spell of pretending I knew what he was on about I realised he was saying 'behaviour'. Later, another chap told me that Mr Bean was a Jew. After some scepticism which involved a discussion involving only the words 'yes, he is, no he isn't', the conclusion was there are few merits when using Google translate. In Spanish, Judia could mean Jewish or a green bean. On top of this I was asked if everyone in the UK was a hooligan who stopped for tea at five o'clock. At one point I asked the group if we could go back to the page which championed the prestige of Harrods when someone sighed, undaunted and said 'steady, ready, go'. I could include loads more but I will finish with my walk home which is generally safe and lovely but some other men beckoned me over to a table set up in the street and asked me if I would sign a petition to complain about the state of the pensions which I did with pleasure but without thinking what I might be letting myself in for. They handed me some literature and I went on my way only to realise I think I may have inadvertently joined the Spanish Communist Party.

I woke up from my siesta nursing a strange dream starring Jeremy Corbyn, the Labour Party leader. In the dream I was trying to persuade him that now was his chance and he was going to blow it. I'm not sure what I was trying to convince him of but at one point I picked him up by the scruff of the neck and shook him. He felt as light as a feather and I managed to throw him around a bit. It was truly awful, nightmarish, and I ended up somehow hospitalising him. He wouldn't grass me up for some reason but kept giving me evil looks as if to say I was in for it at some point. The nurse in charge was giving me his dietary instructions in Spanish and I was trying to hang onto her words as she read them out at top speed until she finally turned to me and spoke in English saying 'oh and he's rather partial to those Haribo Gummy Bears. Is there still no end to all this madness!

Oh yes, other humiliating moments. The time I remarked on the man who was wearing a willy, (pajarito) round his neck, instead of a bow tie (pajarita). Oh how cute! How sweet! How charming you are! Replied the Spanish, when all I could think about was, 'yes, that's what they all thought about the rabbit in Monty Python's Holy Grail.

We've all been there. The perils of learning another language. There's the usual feminine and masculine mix ups. When you find yourself asking for a 'polla', (prick), instead of a 'pollo', (chicken). Oh how they laughed at the local butcher's! Then there was that delicate, dyslexic situation at the furniture store. Ordering a wardrobe with cojones (bollocks) instead of cajones (drawers) and the shop assistant walking around laughing, holding an imaginary big pair between his legs and laughing 'si, pero, cojones eh!!' Then there is the disconcerting, bewildering, cruel, 'how do you say..?' moments when so called friends tell you how something is said and it is not until ten years later when the wife of the mayor of Montpelier looks at you during dinner and says ' I think you might like to know that the man you are describing on the other side of the table has sideburns and not bugger grips'.

I had a quick look at the local rag and couldn't help reading my star sign. It said 'ahora no es el tiempo apropriado por excentricidades' which roughly translates as 'now is not the right time for any of your nuttiness!'