...and as for Corbyn, all I can say is I am reminded of that time Bob Hope turned to me and said 'quick kid, go and make the sandwiches, Bing's gonna sing!'

MY COUNTRY DOESN'T NEED ME

Boris the old buffer Johnson delivered a weird speech at the United Nations about 'legless chickens', 'pink eyed flamingos' and something about a hangover cure. You've got to hand it to him, it did remind me of something we all might have done at school in class 4B and got a few laughs. Meanwhile, the image of Boris Johnson having his 'liver pecked by an eagle' has inspired me to hatch another plan to steal Franco's bones. Spain's Supreme Court has ruled unanimously that the caretaker government can go ahead with exhumation of the dictator's carcass and bury the remains in a cemetery on the outskirts of Madrid. Being a bit of an entrepreneur I feel I have a cunning plan, or un idea acojonante as you might say in Spanish. I can't go into details at this point as we know what happened the last time....but part of the plan is I shall feed them to a quebrantahuesos, a bearded vulture and put an end to one aspect of this never ending bullshit.

I had a dream where lots of things were happening at once. At one point I was participating in a programme about art. I think this programme exists in real life. In reality the presenter was in Morocco and he was buying up concrete slabs. He said they were old drain covers or were tiles in a sewer, something like that. He was buying them next to nothing, mounting them and selling them to some mug in England for a million. At one point he was beside himself when he bought an old tap. He said he could imagine it on a wall with the water gushing into the sink. In my dream the Barclay brothers who look like Gilbert and George, had bought Brexit and had covered it with a jelly mould. They said something to me on the lines of 'we've bought Brexit. It's ours now. You have no say in the matter.' Well, someone pass me down that opium pipe!

I live in the street that is named after the patron saint of the village, San Lorenzo, but sometimes I think it should just be called the street of madness. A bloke rang my door bell looking for the hairdresser's next door so I told him where to go but a few minutes later I could hear him shouting and swearing in the street, insulting the hairdresser and anyone else who would care to listen. As you may already know you don't need CCTV cameras in Spain. Not when you've got nosy people like me looking out the window. The man's shouting started to draw the attention of the priests in the charity in front and a crippled man using the centre tried to reason with him. The shouty man grabbed the other man's crutches and started to wave them around and the crippled man who had a speech impediment started fighting to get them back. The priests came out and chastised the madman who by now I could see was homeless as he had all his worldly possessions sitting in a wheelchair. He started shouting at the priests and asking them why they wouldn't help him but they were helping foreigners like the crippled man who he had decided was a foreigner on account of him having the speech impediment and they said something on the lines that they don't help rude and racist people. He kept on banging on about foreigners and someone in the melee asked him where he was from. 'Rioja', he replied. The other man said something on the lines of 'well blow me, I'm from Huesca what does that make you? A foreigner? You are not from here how do you feel now?' Finally the police rocked up, all four of them and tried to calm the situation. Meanwhile Racist Tramp was lambasting the Catholic church and saying Jesus was this that and the other and making it impossible for himself by saying he would cut everyone's throat and plant a bomb at the charity. The police have now gone and Mr van de Ven just told me a Muslim woman has just come out of the charity and has given the Racist Tramp two loaves of bread which he is now cutting up and making a sandwich outside sitting on the steps of the hairdresser's. Never a dull moment here, Happy Monday! To be continued......

The problem with living in a polyglot household is sometimes you don't know what things are called in your native tongue. Well, that is my excuse, it is probably something more serious like ageing. A fine example is I don't know what that thing that people use to clean their terrace is called in English. In Spanish it is called a limpiador de hidropresion, so I call it a power shower. Mr van de Ven has just corrected me. 'It is not a power shower', he says, 'it's a pressure cooker!'

In the next episode of Brexit the Soap, Doris 'the cock' Johnson has a nervous breakdown and commandeers an open top red double decker London bus and starts waving the flag of ISIS. He tells everyone it is because he is sick and needs help. He then does a runner via the Eurostar, his heaving, sweaty bulk dressed in a burka. Dominic Cummings' interpretation of his time in Russia is revealed as a lie. That he wasn't trying to get an airline up and flying but was being trained in some kind of psychological operations by the FSB as an unwitting assassin of the Tory Party. I go to the doctor because I believe I am suffering from El Sindrome Postvacacional, to which he says, 'you'll do anything to get attention'. Confused? You will be!!!