I'm probably too old to grow a thick skin but it's never too late to tell people who bully you, annoy you or are just evil to 'fuck off.'

I live somewhere, was told I am from nowhere, think I can go anywhere, see bullshit everywhere, try to be kind to everyone, talk to anyone, take shit from no one, and married to someone who thinks he is it!

THE GREAT BRITISH RACIST

So, Tommy, AKA Mummy's Little Soldier, is thinking if it doesn't work out in politics and he doesn't  become the leader of UKIP, ( never mind the UK are leaving so what would be the point?) why not get into TV? I'm A Racist Celebrity or perhaps Britain's Got Racist Talent. I wouldn't put it past him.

When will Tommy Robinson stop from telling us what we already know? He has just moved into a house worth almost a million pounds. Is he a career racist? The so called gammon heads will soon see they have been conned by this pork scratching with aspirations. No wonder his house is gated.

The Disunited Mug Kingdom of Nowhere.......Brexitland

I've just made Marmitako, a delicious Basque fisherman stew and I'm drinking Asturian cider. No one can accuse me of not fitting in! 

I have a confession to make. I don't really know anything about Kanye West. I know he's a singer but that's about it. I saw him yesterday chatting with Trump. Am I right in saying that he, ( West), is a bit of a dickhead?

Some women worry that they are turning into their mothers as they get older. Should I be worried that I am turning into my dad? I'm finding it increasingly difficult to watch the TV without muttering 'prick'.

BRAZIL, WHERE HEARTS WERE ENTERTAINING JUNE

Last night I dreamt I tried to become a Brazilian citizen. The Brazilians asked me why I wanted to become Brazilian and I told them with no small amount of self importance that their country needed me. They looked at one another, shrugged and said it seemed reasonable enough but I would have to navigate my way around the building we were in and if I could go to the top and find my way back again they would give me a passport. I started going around lots of rooms and corridors that looked like United Nation meetings, busy restaurants, betting offices, court rooms, classrooms, and wondered if I was watching my life flash before me. I got to the top and walked into a burst of sunlight and was greeted by a handsome Brazilian man who said that I had passed half the test but had to find my way back. He said he would walk part of the way if I wanted but then said I would have to kiss him. It was a horrible dry kiss, unemotional but he didn't feel the same. He told me that he had fallen in love with me and that this was it, we had to get married. All I kept thinking was what the hell had I done now and that I had to get back to my husband who I suddenly remembered was waiting outside somewhere. I started to run away, thinking what a fraud I was, that I wasn't Brazilian or a femme fatale. I met some American tourists and asked them if they knew where I could find my husband. They took out some enormous maps and directed me to walk through a forest which I did and came out the other side into Golders Green bus station where he was waiting for me with open arms. I guess the moral of this dream/story is not to get any more ridiculous, highfalutin ideas.

OUT IN THE COUNTRY…
Every five minutes they would come across a village much like the one before, everything closed, faint glimpses of what the village had to offer be it dinosaur footprints or local cheese or in this case an old man holding a small tree. His jacket, Henderson couldn’t help but notice as they whizzed by, was covered in shit, caked on from years of not washing. In the mirror he could see the man waving as one might to a passing train or a coach full of school kids.
‘Just like Ireland’ muttered the Dutchman.
‘What? His jacket?’
'No. He waved. Like in Ireland.’
‘Did you see his jacket?’ asked Henderson. And what was he carrying? It looked like a small tree’.
The Dutchman didn’t answer but carried on looking out at the foothills and tiny dotted villages every now and then spotting an eagle or a kite.
Henderson looked back through the mirror and could still see the man standing there ominously, watching them drive forth into their doom he supposed. ‘It’s nothing like Ireland’ He thought. The Dutchman had just said it to reassure them they were on familiar turf.
‘Take this next turning’ he said, pointing to a dirt track that looked like it was private land. The ground changed and they moved slowly over the gravel surface surrounded by olive trees and shrubs. In the distance they could both make out a church standing solitary against the hills with no sign of life except a stork keeping guard in its nest on top of the turret and the timely arrival of a group of ravens that landed in front of the car as they drew up outside. Henderson felt like turning back. He didn’t feel comfortable visiting places of worship. He had a fear of intruding on something sacred rather than be welcomed by it. Even worse was the anxiety that went with it. He might have a Damascene moment or a religious attack of some sort. He had countless memories of his shoes squeaking across marbled floors, of ubiquitous old women that lurk like heathen detectors at his every turn giving him the evil eye, or the suppressed anxiety he felt on a day trip to Lourdes when he thought he might have a funny turn, a vision, or start to blaspheme in tongues and never be the same again. He’d even fled the Albert Hall during a gospel performance as he suppressed urges to be reborn or converted.
The Dutchman had climbed out of the car and was looking back at Henderson with that ‘are you coming?’ expression that showed he didn’t care if he did or not.
Inside there was an old couple who to Henderson’s relief didn’t do the old ‘you’re not from around here’ routine. They just nodded politely and carried on lighting the many candles. There didn’t seem to be much going on in the way of art or murals or any of the things people are supposed to admire when they have no desire to pray. Henderson picked up a leaflet to justify his presence and was delighted to see it was very badly translated. It also contained the overused words ‘the only’, like ‘the only’ vestige in the village. It was the legend that appealed to Henderson as it would transport him to the 14th century in order to relive the massacre that finished off the religious community that had lived there. A very rich Jewish widower by the name of Levi had only one solace, his daughter Esther. One day apparently a troubadour had turned up as they do and after much singing and storytelling had managed to make Esther fall in love. She gave him money, promised him eternal love and then he did a runner. Esther now ‘pale and gloomy’ moped about and neither her father’s affection nor the ‘manual of the clavichord’ or even the ‘framework of the needlework’ could cheer her up. Old Levi heard through the grapevine that there was an old friar in the village monastery who might help. Yet after sending a messenger he was told that the only cure could come from God. Naturally Levi ‘engaged a party of Moorish and Jewish wicked people to attack the monastery’. 'And so,’ the leaflet went on,‘during the night of Saint John when everyone normally celebrated the summer solstice with bonfires and the like, the ‘wicked ones’ went on the rampage and slashed all the religious men with daggers and stilettos with the blood splashing up the walls. To this daythere is a mark on the wall that attests to the sad event’. Henderson couldn’t see it. All he could see was a bizarre image of Monty Pythonesque characters running amok in the Spanish countryside.
‘It says here’ the Dutchman started to say, ‘that apparently it was finished in 1259 and …’, he looked round and saw the church was empty and he was alone.
Outside he found Henderson smoking and staring off at something. It was the old man. The one with the jacket caked in shit. He was still holding the tree. He was staring and grinning inanely.
‘Get in the car’, Henderson ordered the Dutch, stubbing the cigarette out as if there was no time to waste.
‘I think he wants something’, he said not the slightest bit perturbed.
The man waved and Henderson smiled and waved back. The church, despite the story had left him feeling apocalyptic.
‘Why are you being so apocalyptic? I know when you are being apocalyptic you know.
‘Just get in the car’ shouted Henderson..
‘But we haven’t been here ten minutes’
‘OK, stay if you want but I’m leaving.
‘Alright, we’ll go but I’m sure it is nothing to worry about’
Two kilometres down the road they found themselves speeding through the deserted landscape. They were lost and screaming as the old man gave chase with the tree sitting in the passenger seat. Soon he  took over them and forced them to stop.
‘He’s getting out. What do you think he wants? ‘asked the Dutchman.
‘Just stay calm and we’ll see’.
The only words they understood were ‘key to the church’ to which they replied ‘yes thank you we’ve seen it’, and, ‘would you like to come to my house for some wine?’
Despite the alarm bells ringing they still managed a ‘Yes, that would be nice’.
‘Follow me’ he grinned.
‘Do you think this is a good idea?’ asked Henderson.

To be continued........