For the past seventeen years I have made do with a broom and bleach but I thought perhaps it was time to buy one of those power shower things. I have since been told it is called a pressure cleaner, one of those things that cleans the terrace, or patio in British English. ( Or is it the other way?) Anyway. It has only taken about a month to get various bits of hose to fit the shedload of taps we have in this house. I was quite looking forward to finally trying it out and getting things done around here for once but you can guess what has happened. Mr van de Ven has commandeered said item, sealed the perimeter, pulled up the mainframe,  and is out there now cleaning everything in his path, the terrace, small children, the garage roof, the anti social neighbours next door. I will give it five minutes to see if he heads up the road cleaning the street and the bits the council missed. 

I think it was someone like Billy Connolly who said you wouldn't have a drink with most, if any, politicians but imagine if you did with Dominic Raab. After his third pint he would start smelling of steroids. Then at some point in the conversation he would stop, look slightly perturbed and ask you 'you mean, that time I went to New York the plane actually flew over water?'

APOCRYPHAL

The following is apocryphal, you know, unsupported, so don't get upset.....You are probably thinking he is the best of a bad bunch but that isn't difficult is it? You know, who should take control of it all. What is it with Rory S? There's something urbane about him, something familiar, like you feel you have met him before. And then you do meet him. In a pub. Your friend introduces you. 'This is Rory'. You hit it off, you drink beers and have great conversations and then it gets late and he suggests something else. To keep the party going. It might be opium, perhaps heroin, it will never be cocaine or it might be an orgy of sorts. Something that makes you feel like you are selling your soul and all your suspicions are confirmed when you wake up naked in a skip the next day and overhear him on the blower saying something on the lines of, 'well do it Giles, whatever it takes, just do it'.

I am so lazy I couldn't be bothered to have a siesta today!

Am I the only one reading this as I sit and contemplate the dying light in the west.

If you come and visit us, be prepared. Once your are settled on the bus going back to wherever home is, you will look out the window as we cheerily wave you bye bye, and you will turn to your companion and say, 'you know what? I think I am a bit drunk'.

That horrible moment when you realise you are talking to a Vox supporter, the far right goon squad in Spain. I always take them to task by mentioning the fact that I am an immigrant and they always respond by saying 'oh, but we don't mean you...' and then they tend to shut up when they realise how that sounds, especially when they have already declared that they are not racist. The other day I found myself in this situation and did the old 'but I am an immigrant' number on him and the bullish bastard said 'have you got your papers in order?' and I replied, 'yes, of course' but not without a tremor of fear at his words and the way he delivered them, with a chilling, imperious air and a conclusion that told me, 'Well, you have nothing to worry about then have you?' 

Most of us have been there. That awful situation when you are the focus of attention and around you are people expecting you to explain stuff or worse, entertain them. For me, the most regrettable was a fine, sunny day when I was expected to read stories to small children that I imagined would be ushered into some small library or classroom. It was in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere but was unfortunately for me, equipped with a loudspeaker that announced the daily activities and recent passing of old folk over said PA system. I wasn't put off until the organiser told me that no, we wouldn't be doing the stories in the local library but in the 'cinema'. It was inconceivable to me that such a remote place could have a cinema but I was starting to get that sick feeling once we entered and I realised it could hold around a 1,000 people. And hold it did. It soon became obvious the whole village wanted to come and possibly the surrounding villages, and the villages that surrounded them. In they poured, a never ending herd of folk of all ages. There weren't enough seats so some people had to stand and people in wheelchairs were being positioned right in front of the stage. It was incredible. A screen was provided and someone ran off to get me a microphone. Don't ask me how I did it but somehow I bluffed my way through the escapades of Winnie the Witch and her cat Wilbur. I even turned part of it into a musical, getting kids to leap around and act the goat, anything to take the limelight off me. Nobody appeared to understand a word I was saying so I just started to make shit up as I went along, if only to humour myself. There was a gang of teenagers hurling abuse and bits of food. It was hilarious but I was hoping that over the village tannoy they were declaring I had died on stage. Once it had finished I was so relieved but then the organiser said there would be a second shift half an hour later. It was interminable but an excellent example of subterfuge not seen until yesterday when my nemesis Donald Trump upstaged me while talking shite again.

ACT NORMAL, THAT'S MAD ENOUGH

There is a saying in Dutch that roughly translates as 'act normal, that's mad enough'. The president of the USA Donald Trump should take note. Meanwhile this president, as in me, has more pressing concerns. What now? You might ask. Well, while Donald is getting through the D Day  commemorations and trading chickens hopefully without drawing more attention to himself or humiliating others I have to deal with fish head bones chucked on the terrace, cigarette butts tossed in the air without any plan as to where they will land, a neighbour's discordant washing machine banging against the wall that makes the other neighbours' amorous antics seem quite quaint, clandestine picnics on the stairwell and other anti social behavioural activities. Part of me really couldn't give a shit as I have other stuff to do but being a president comes with its responsibilities. You know, organisation, administration, leadership and so on. I thought about writing a letter to everyone and rubber stamping it with Donald's head on it just to test everyone's attention skills but have been advised that a simple request for standard comportment will be enough. Finally there is the little known fact that I have in common with Donald. We both suffer from basiphobia. A fear of falling down and breaking my brass neck.