HAPPY NEW 'EAR!!

There is a proverb that if unfortunate incidents have occurred twice a third hapless event is likely to occur. You can perceive connections and meaningfulness in unrelated things which can get you accused of being paranoid or having a vivid imagination. It all started with the new neighbour who could, according to another saying, ''chew your ear off''. This person can talk for hours about fuck all. I mean nothing. Nothing at all. How she took her socks off, how she put them back on again, the chicken she ate and all interrupted by 'you know what I mean'. Yes, we know what you mean. You have been telling us for hours sings a chorus of a beleagured community. It is astonishing and something to behold and one day I will film her so that you can all vote for her in the upcoming, ''dickhead of the year award''. Anyway, the other thing is I found out that during the early hours of Christmas morning some clever dick got into a fight and bit another bloke's ear off. I nearly got dick, bloke and apostrophes mixed up but that's me, obsessed. I saw the photo of said lughole in the local rag and nearly threw up. There it was, the ear, lying next to the bins. This all happened in Our Lady of Salas square which gave it a religious flavour. The report had some tasty morsels in the way of local journalism too. How the local and national police took charge of the ear and delivered it to the local hospital San Jorge so it could be 'reimplanted'. Apparently the offender had run off in the direction of Argensolas street and had been quickly detained. The police said they knew him immediately as he had 'form'. Twelve. Robbery, injuries, extortion and theft for starters. The victim claimed the villain of the piece had been threatening him all afternoon and night and while this was being recorded the madman, who was by now in ''a great state of agitation and aggressiveness'',  had to be shackled ''with the minimum of force'' to avoid endangering the integrity of the police and that of the accused himself. What about the third departure from the normal? Well, I went for one of many vaccines yesterday and the nurse who might as well have been called Ratchett shouted at me in a very unbefitting manner. Totally uncalled for. Accusing me of sitting, 'really far away''. I was within the two metre exclusion zone and I was the only person in the surgery apart from her and another nurse so I shouted back in an exaggerated fashion, ''sorry love, I can't hear you!! Can you speak up a bit, I'm a bit hard of hearing!!''. Her mate, the other one, then said something about my foot. All I heard was 'pie', 'foot', but she was shouting 'de pie', 'stand up', as opposed to sit down which is what I was doing. Up down. Down up. Mask on. Mask off. Up the ladder. Down the ladder. Up the ladder again. I'm feckin' exhausted by it all. And so you see Officer, instead of a punchline I came to the decision that 2022 will be the year of no longer supporting the dull and ignorant.  I shall be directing my talents to those more appreciative!! Watch this space....Happy New 'Ear!!!!

Today is our happy wedding anniversary. Eighteen years married. 23 years together. Sometimes it has been like a white knuckle ride with us both strong willed, candid and uniquely nuts but the one connecting thing has always been love and admiration. Hoping it remains that way. Cheers!

You know you need new glasses when what appears in the distance to be a food truck is, on closer inspection, a van recruiting or promoting a career in the Spanish army. 

Did I mention that I think my neighbours have murdered their father? I thought that might get your attention. 

Yours Miss Marple...

FROM PANDEMIC TO PANDEMONIUM

Men of Britain. Or should I say, men of England. What's with the fighting on the forecourts of the petrol stations? How am I supposed to explain to my students here in Spain what is going on back in the UK when they ask me if everyone there has lost the plot. #keepontrucking

Lots of people are surprised when they find out I have an allotment. They say they don't see me as the type. Imagining me more at home at the opera or delivering speeches in Brussels. Well, I am happy doing all these things but there is a little known story that might help in the understanding of my earthiness. When I was a kid I was pushing my toy pram up a London street and an old lady, the embodiment of Margaret Rutherford, ( look her up, you'll get the idea...) all tweed and brogues, approached me and asked if she could peer inside the pram and, ''look at my little dolly''. Apparently I nodded, stood back,  and much to her horror the pram was full of mud, packed down tightly with a few worms struggling to get out. The Beginning...

The Basajuan is a mythical creature who lives in the forests of Navarra and the Basque Country. A hairy hominid Lord of the Woods. He features in a Spanish book I am reading, El Guardian Invisible. In the book there is a character, Aunt Engrasi, who reads the Tarot cards and believes in the Basajuan. I read this book before I go to sleep and the other night it was influencing my dreams. I dreamt of my friend Marge and her Tarot cards which are the Salvador Dali version. During the dream I could hear a loud rustling noise coming from another realm. The realm of reality. I realised there was something in the bedroom and woke up from the dream and tried to find what it was. Mr van de Ven got involved and we decided it must be a mouse or worse, a rat. And there they were. Two eyes peering at us from behind a bag. "What the hell is this and how did it get here? You and that allotment. You are always bringing things home with you. First snails and now this! It must have hitched a ride with you the last time you went. Get a glass and a postcard or something!" The first postcard I could find turned out to be Salvador Dali's Temptation of Saint Anthony. So here he is the little fella'!

As predicted elsewhere by me...Boris "the cock" Johnson, my bete noir, will leave in a helicopter. From a roof. Of a building he has been chased up. His last words being, "Helicopter. Roof. Now".

Sometimes it looks like everyone around is losing their head, or we seem to have more than our fair share of arseholes dominating the scene, no one is interesting anymore. No escape from the insane and inane. The energy sucking conts the world over. Boring boring boring. Now there is a three word slogan! We are in the Boring Straits! Then you hear these little snippets of news that refresh your soul and energise your mind. We live near the Pyrenees, the Spanish bit, ( the sunny side), a town at the foothills. There are all these ancient mountain passes waiting to be explored. Ancient routes trampled and rambled on in all sorts of situations. Smugglers routes, paths that helped people escape or do trade, take their herds, you get the picture. Well, French couple who live here, who are in their seventies, are planning to visit one of their daughters in France. They have decided to walk and take a donkey with them, to carry the suitcases. Watch this space!!

Students are always worried their English is not good enough. They worry about their pronunciation, their emails, their listening skills etc, but quite often they worry no one will understand them and I ask them "have you listened to the drivel that comes out of the mouth of the British Prime Minister?" I can hardly hold him up as an example on how to speak the language. The man is a bloody idiot. I am surprised he has lasted so long to be honest. So much for an Eton education. If I were his parents I would ask for my money back. #youprobablythinkIvoteLabour.

You think you know someone part 987 in a series of what? Eight? Anyway, Mother this time. ( She deserves capitals!!) That time she was trained by the Mossad.  She's elderly now and I am guessing if anyone who doesn't know her overhears her say something about that time they will just think she is crazy. Well thank God I listened and wrote it all down.....

You think you know someone Part 459 in a series of ten....This time husband. About that time he had a KGB handler called Johnny! 

Spain still has tobacconists. They sell cigars, fags, rolling tobacco and lottery tickets. When you walk in there is often a girl carrying a tray like they used to in cinemas carrying cigarettes, and other paraphernalia. These young women ask you, as you walk in the door, " are you a smoker?", " eres fumadora?, and I say, " no, I'm a gambler", soy apostadora", although I often forget and say I am an "apuestadora", which is incorrect and probably comes out a bit like "I am a bettererer/gamblererer". Then they fill my pockets with lighters I will never use that end up in a cupboard that runs the risk of bursting into flames every summer. Anyway, the bit I am getting at is I have a bet on Italy to win. I don't really care about sports unless I am betting or it involves champagne or some kind of velocity. Otherwise I get bored. I once went to an Arsenal match and kept cheering on the other team only because I was happy someone had scored, much to the annoyance of the Arsenal fans around me. If Italy wins I will be happy because of the bet, and because I love Italy, but also because I really do not want to listen and see those we do not mention, pretending to like football and be the biggest fans of England just because they think it will win hearts and minds cos it won't, and also, the people who normally hate the England flag pretend they love it just for today. If England win, I will lose the bet but I will be happy for the fans and especially the players as they, apart from playing well, seem like a decent bunch of men. The phonies and imposters can all go and f#ck themselves. 

Breaking news. You know, the one I read so you don't have to. A lighter note. So you don't all get depressed. To give a sense of balance and reality. Ok, get the f#ck on with it. What now? Well, I guess it ties in with #meatgate, AKA #carnegate. The Spanish news that some ministers including the prime one have had a bit of a to do owing to one of them suggesting we all cut down on our meat consumption. Not one to let it lie I found out today that not far from here a member of the ovine family, a sheep, an oveja, fell three metres with some plastic netting wrapped round its neck. Some locals tried to help but alas had no feckin' clue as to how to release the poor creature and had to resort to calling the Guardia Civil. Being the experts in these things they had a special knife, (of course they did!), the one normally used for cutting police cordons and liberated the animal which promtly ran up a slope to be, and I quote, " reunited with his flock who were meandering in a meadow nearby". Life is beautiful.

Afternoon comrades. Here is the dilemma. Shared by millions around the planet. The inability to travel and visit family. Everyone stuck somewhere. How long can we go on for? My case is the UK. At the moment it looks like a petri dish. An experiment with the public health. Especially young people and children. From here it looks like the British government is going to open up everything, leave it to the public to decide if they want to wear a mask and perhaps 'let it rip through' or 'take it on the chin' and wait and see how thousands of people cope when they catch the virus. Many won't even know they have it. Others will be ill and who knows how many will go on to suffer from the sequelas, the after effects, AKA Long Covid. So what then? You must go people say. Of course I must go. If I don't go this summer when? I have had both vaccines. I downloaded the Covid passport app on my phone. You know, the European one. I thought that this would be OK as it is valid throughout the EU but so far not the UK. This means I will have to get three PCRs each, for me and my husband and then quarantine for five days I believe. Brits coming back from Spain from their holidays won't have to but we will. I guess those pounds need to keep kerchinging into the pockets and accounts of the pigs with their snouts in the trough. Curse them all. They are going straight to hell and will probably enjoy it. Lost causes. It is not up to me to save them from selling the souls they are unaware they have.  Behind the scenes, the scenes that are the reality for so many, there is a campaign and right now Grant Schnapps, the secretary of State for Transport is getting it in the neck from voters of all political persuasions. Ben Bradshaw the Labour Shadow Secretary of State for Media, Culture and Sport is on to this as well. Yet it seems for now I will have to agree with the actor Ray Winstone on all this testing lark. As he said, "I liked to get kissed while I am being fucked"

Lord John Kilclooney, former MEP, Crossbench life peer from Northern Ireland, who has been sitting on his fat arse in the House of Lords since 2001, tweeted that the Spanish football team didn't sing the lyrics to the Spanish national anthem, failing to realise that there are no lyrics to the Marcha Real. Lord Kilclooney has a face that ought to be on my list of Rate My Plate. Men, usually British who have a porcine look about them. Anyway, it's a little known fact but I was asked to write the lyrics to the Spanish national anthem. They went like this, " que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no, que no.....(pause)....que no, que no...(again in the same way, for ever)

https://www.thelondoneconomic.com/politics/there-are-no-words-former-mep-blasts-spanish-for-not-singing-national-anthem-280209/?utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook&utm_campaign=sfeu&fbclid=IwAR3sRtnY4pXTNDXC98zqxzqsCgEY0gwloENHyLXXWqp5DUf-HA9wnE4pD0M

I'D RATHER BE "WOKE" THAN "THE JOKE".

Priti Patel. Who? You know, politician. Self identifies as Nurse Ratched and Tommy Robinson. Criticised the England football team for taking the knee. She said it was, "gesture politics". When asked if England fans had the right to boo the players when they took the knee she said, "that's a choice for them quite frankly." The usual disingenuous reply politicians are the masters of. Now she tweets, "What a performance! What a team! #It'sComingHome! Well, actually she wrote #ItsComingHome but let's not get all pedantic over the grammar in case she accuses us all of being intolerant bastards. Meanwhile Johnson stands on the Saint George cross flag probably to wipe his feet on just before he enters number 10. It's fascinating watching them pretend they have feelings and abilities that others have. Bunch of phonies. Difficult to warm to them. 

#youprobablythinkIvoteLabour

I'm listening to Spanish Radio, Radio 3 to be precise and there's a programme on called Circulos Excentricos. Tonight it's all about Post Brexit groups in the UK, and titled, ''A new wave of Post Punk?'' About the birth of so many groups rebelling against the recent political events in the UK, particularly Brexit, described as a mirroring of what happened in the 80s, under Thatcher etc. The DJ says the young people in the UK realise there is now a regression at all levels. He says it is too early to label these bands or if it is a movement but that he promises the bands the listeners are about to hear are all ''spectacular'', and I can't argue with that. 

Squid, Idles, Fat White Family, Porridge Radio, Shame, Goat Girl, Black Midi, Black Country, New Road. 

My conclusion as to why so many great bands came out of the UK and still do, I think it is because there is always some kind of fight against the c#nts in power, plus no one is ever happy. 

Spain calling. Everyone's favourite defector here. Well, things have calmed down since the hate mail accusing me of disrespecting the Queen has stopped. You know, all that stuff about Prince Phillip what was it a month ago? Nine months! I feel enough time has passed to continue the story. Where were we? Oh yes, that time in the line up. The Duchess Theatre, Covent Garden. Or was it the Drury Lane? Cats was still on... Anyway, the bit I'm getting at is I was there waiting to get shot or knighted. One of the two. Prince Phillip was there, remember. I asked, ''what do you do?'' and he said, ''what do I do? I'm a Prince''. So I said, and you can believe me or not, ''we know what you are, your Royal Highness, but what do you do?'' There was a silence. He looked to the left, eyes staring at the carpet as if to wait instructions and I heard someone say 'move on'', or it might even have been, ''move him on''. God knows where this voice came from, maybe his ear piece ( would that be possible?) or maybe I am just ultra sensitive to these things. He started to move along the line but I can assure you he did it reluctantly. It was if he wanted to come back and resume the conversation. There was a point when he smiled and wagged his finger in my direction. Not in a threatening way. I almost expected him to say, ''lunch tomorrow.... 2 o'clock. Rules Restaurant''. 

Across the road from us is a substantial piece of land that used to house the old military barracks and pharmacy. It could have been converted and rented to artists, clothes designers or anyone who needed a workshop but that would have been a great idea so instead the council pulled the whole lot down to make space for flats that in someone's head someone else might build one day. It's been a plot for several years and has become a haven for butterflies and insects and there is always a feeding frenzy above our heads in summer with the swallows, swifts and bee eaters tucking in. Throughout the year you can see the changing of the seasons as the trees come to life and die back again in winter. The downside has to be the summer when the sun is beaming away right on our front window for about twelve hours in an attempt to recreate Lord knows what but is the equivalent of sticking your head in the oven while it is on. Meanwhile every few years there will be an article in the local rag about how the authorities have permitted so and so to come and have a look, do some tests and what not. You think that at last they will build some flats and get on with things in your lifetime but end up no longer holding your breath. After some time I began to hope they would never build the flats as there must be an argument for leaving some urban areas to help with pollination and so on. Well, the other day someone from one of the far left parties put up some posters demanding the flats be built with lots of explanation marks. "Good for them!" I thought, but with some reservation as the realisation that the last thing I need is for building works to contribute to the endless noise we have here. Then the next day someone put up some sort of long, makeshift poster across the side of the aluminium wall put up around the plot. On it they had written, "Enough of your promises already Mr Soro!!!"  My immediate thoughts were, ''What the hell has any of this got to do with George Soros? They can't even spell his name correctly. Feckin' far left. Didn't take them long to blame the Jews. Always trying to shoehorn something unrelated just to scapegoat. Just as bad as the far right. Shitehawks the lot of them". All week I have had to walk past it, bit by bit tearing strips off, literally and metaphorically speaking, as I go along. Mr van de Ven had to talk me out of going down late at night before the curfew to scrawl, "learn to feckin spell ya shitehawking c#nts", in both languages. "Don't bother" he said. " These people are not worth it. Remember what your dad used to say? ''Don't get involved!" Good job I didn't, as it isn't George Soros they are complaining about at all, but a Mr Soro, The Minister of Structure, Territory, Mobility and Housing although part of me thinks I should have done. Anything to add to the present day madness. This is the minister when talking about the promised construction, asserted that everything was, "ready to begin this year" and in the next breath acknowledged that the work, ''could start next year''. That's the trouble with this country. People say opposing things in the same breath all the time. I used to think they were doing it to wind me up but they are prepared to do it to one another all the time. It's a kind of paradox. There is always some kind of unacceptable conclusion. And that ladies and gentlemen is why I live here. I fit right in!

Well that was fun. Just woke from a dream that a bunch of us heard a guy announce in Jimmy Cagney tones, ''look out for the sky rocket!'', and there it was. Just a dot in the sky. The Chinese piece of space shit falling to earth. Nothing to get excited about but we all watched as it then came in closer at speed. Suddenly no longer falling but careering out of control. In the background I could hear people laughing thinking it looked funny up there veering from left to right. All I could think about was, ''oh well, this is it I guess. Glad I never paid back that student loan''. The End.

The BBC just called. Asking me, begging me, for some anecdote, however lame, just to fill the suspension of news. I thought long and hard and then it came to me. How could I have forgotten! It was a while back. In the theatre. We were all asked to line up. I thought we were going to be shot. Then I see him coming down the line. A familiar face. He got to me and before he had a chance I said, ' so Phillip, what do you do?' His shoulders shot back and he replied, ''I'm a prince''. I said ''we know what you are, but what do you do?'' Then there seemed to be someone whispering ''move him on'', or maybe I imagined that. He did move on but as he did he looked back, paused, smiled, looked me right in the eyes and wagged his finger. I almost expected him to say, ''2pm tomorrow, Rule's Restaurant''. 

Bloke on TV tellin the interviewer that Prince Phillip was not really racist, that he was always pushing you, testing you and so on. He said the prince was, for him, a great ''sparring partner'' and once asked, ''you believe don't you?'' Bloke says he replied, ''of course I do you daft cracker, I'm the Archbishop of York!''

Racist, xenophobic tabloid press write for decades about racist, xenophobic Prince Phillip, then when he dies tells everyone, 'you didn't really know him'.

The Times wrote that Boris, 'the cock', Johnson was 'pining', not for the fjords but for Chequers, 'his spiritual home'. So charming to think of him up there fiddling while Northern Ireland burns.

If I hear Elgar's Nimrod one more time I shall drink my weight in Vermouth.

It's a shame Prince Phillip died. I feel I am just getting to know him. Bit too late now I suppose to write to let him know we had many things in common. Both citizens of nowhere. Both generously letting our spouses get all the credit. Both hate the toxic British press. Both revered by tribes in the Pacific. We can't deny he had an interesting life, albeit at my expense. Then there is the other man I should have corresponded with. Churchill. Both of us renowned bathers and more than a passing interest in soup. So before it's too late I will put pen to paper and send off some missives to both Boris Johnson and that other bloke, the son of James Fox. To be continued....

Three hours till the curfew.....It's true, nobody is forcing me to watch the British news, watch the television, listen to the radio, read a newspaper, go online at all. In fact I just went to hang the washing out and there on the balcony I could hear a bird singing his little heart out. ''Pippit, pippit, pippit'', he sang. ''How lovely'', I thought. ''What a refreshing change''. It then dawned on me. He was a monarchist bird, probably a Royal Thrush. ''Prince Phillip, Prince Phillip, Prince Phillip''.

Thought of the day. I think I'd like to know a little bit more about Prince Phillip.

My dear auntie Joan died today. My dad's sister.  Why am I announcing this? Well, I don't want her to be just another number, another Covid death. She was the sweetest, kindest woman and I have good thoughts and memories of her. I guess that is the most important thing. We will all die but there is nothing really except love, warmth and a feeling that this is not it. A feeling that perhaps transcends what we perceive as human. That there is something more profound going on but none of us, even the most spiritual and religious can put their finger on or explain. 

Dutch Wisdom!

So much is going on that I forgot to say that,  A Dutch guy on TV just said something on the lines of, '' I am all for freedom and anarchy. Problem is, we live in a country full of idiots, and they need rules!!''

I dreamt I was in Italy, a country I have never visited but since the dream I feel I need to go and live there. I was in a shop, and, feeling nosy, I decided to climb the stairs to browse around what looked like a secret storeroom, out of bounds to the public. It was a familar scene with a lot of old fashioned signs and ornaments from another era mixed with fresh food. An Italian woman in the room was happy to see me and made me feel so welcome and loved. She didn't mind that I was trespassing and started to give me food like a delicious Parma ham served in little nests and boxes. Then she insisted I try a delicate cheese ice-cream served in small cones. It was the most delicious thing. Who knew you could taste things in dreams? The dream stayed with me all day and I need to go back to this place I have never really been to!

BRITANNIA UNCHAINED AND ADRIFT

I have noticed no Brexiteer says anything on the lines of, 'suck it up, we won, you lost!' anymore and it has been replaced with phrases like, 'it's all the EU's fault none of this is working'. Or 'it's the EU that are changing the rules' and so on and so forth till you may or not be convinced the blame lies with 27  countries in a union and not the fact that the UK is no longer in the Customs Union or the Single Market. The UK has left the EU, the CU and the SM but judging from their free, toxic, EU bashing press, one would think the opposite. They are obsessed and one could argue, still in love. They just can't let go of the thing they profess to hate. On the other hand there is an inkling that many people who voted Brexit are keeping schtum. In the old days people would be shredding any evidence of their participation in something so ridiculously damaging. As the penny, or should that be the pound? begins to drop, many people are unsubscribing their likes and membership to the many forums and Facebook pages that were so popular five years ago. Long gone are the Wigmores and Banks. They made their point and money, and have left behind to gripe, the disenfranchised, the innocent people who will inevitable suffer from all of this. That people fell for this shite is one of those things people will wonder about for years to come. 

The following probably won't mean anything to you unless you grew up in Britain at a certain point in space and time. I don't expect or even want everyone to get it. Well, I'm sitting here smoking a pipe ( think Basil Rathbone or Georges Simenon, not a crack pipe), drinking Martini and thinking it's amazing what a photo can inspire. It was a photo of some drag acts, something that I'm guessing is not socially acceptable to say nowadays but that is what drag acts used to call themselves and what I would have said yonks ago but never mind. Anyway, the bit I am getting at is that at some point in my childhood I wanted to be a boy. I could see that the deal they had, boys that is, was much better than what was on offer to me. They also got to wear cooler clothes in my opinion. The warning signs were already there when an old lady, a match for the actress Margaret Rutherford, came up to me when I was about three pushing a toy pram through a street in London and wondered if she could say hello to my dolly. She got quite the surprise when she peeped inside and was met with a pram full of mud. Packed down with a few worms trying to free themselves from my barbarous act. Much later I would insist on wearing boy's tassle loafers and a stripey t-shirt, jeans and so on and a barnet on a par with Dennis the Menace from the Beano. In those days my parents just ignored my pretending to be male and just let me get on with it. My father would most likely have wished I would put a sock in it but he never let on. During this time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and I had a notion that I wanted to be a whirling Dervish, a member of a Sufi fraternity and would spend hours practising this in the front room of suburbia with the aim of abandonment from the restrictions of English society whilst trying to mimic the planets in the solar system orbiting the sun. I would collapse in a heap on the floor and feel quite elated and slightly nauseated but this was 1970s Britain, a pretty boring place where you made your own fun. Once I had come back down to planet earth I entertained the idea of becoming some kind of music hall artiste. There were various spells, including wanting to be Larry Grayson, a camp stand up act. In the front room, post whirl, I would jump up, put one hand on my hip and talk about my friends Slack Alice and Everard to my parents and bemused relatives. I overheard my mother talking with her friend Brigid saying, 'she wants to be Max Wall', and me being annoyed as it was his act of Professor Wallofski that was my aim, not the man himself. Billy Dainty was another ambition as was that bloke who could disappear into his coat while walking around a stage. I went through a moment where I thought I might be able to make a living from being that geezer who hit his head with a tin tray while singing 'Mule Train'. Danny La Rue was another......girl dressing up as a boy dressed as a girl ... then it was Emma Peel, and/or John Stead. I guess that would sum it up. Decisions decisions. ...I guess most of us are just a work in progress. 

You probably wonder where on earth I live when I describe some of the goings on here. Let's just say if you read Luces de Bohemia by Valle Inclan you might get a better picture. Never a dull moment round here despite the never ending restrictions and curfews. Without going into too much detail I have already had a difference of opinion with a police officer today who did that thing of trying to get me on board with his ridiculous comparisons of situations, gaslighting I think they call it. Trying to make out that we are all guilty at times of misdemeanours. I reminded him that right now I wasn't the mastermind of what was going on in our normally pleasant community and that I was in fact the injured party. I decided to continue the conversation using the aviation alphabet and he crumbled. Two can play at that game. I'm finding this skill or art of getting the other guy to have it my way is getting better as I get older and have nothing to lose.

Britain and Israel seem to be doing really well with their vaccine programmes. Yet what is it with some British people (journalists?) in the UK who have an incessant need to be in competition with everyone else? It's not normal this neediness to show or to prove to who ever can be bothered to listen, that it is all world beating or is the best in the world. It just comes across as needy and insecure.

I haven't been on here much lately. I have been too busy exercising my right to shut the f#ck up unlike you know who. At last I no longer have to listen to the volatile, crazed, you've been tangoed, incurably stupid, infantile, clockwork orange, unavoidable, fatuous, difficult to like gobshite anymore. What a feckin' relief.

Not that I plan on going anywhere at the moment but I am one of those people that has always been scared of death, or dying. Not that it will be the end, on the contrary, it might be the start of something new and what if I am not ready for it or don't understand it, that kind of nonsense, not to mention it would be easier to just not exist and then not have to be constantly anxious about all of this bullshit. On the other hand, if reincarnation exists, I've decided to come back and be an entomologist or park ranger. You know, focus on something other than myself for a change. 

We all get targeted by weird adverts online and ask ourselves ''why would I be interested in a Greek fisherman's hat being modelled by a woman in a gas mask and some pearls round her neck?'' The latest is something called Goodgame Big Farm. It's accompanied by the imperative to ''enjoy the country life and enjoy some chill time for yourself'' and a moving image of a bloke carrying a pitchfork with a stride that suggests he is about to storm Capitol Hill, which is, I guess, just another harbinger of our times. 

There is a minister who lied, allegedly, about the EU's "refusal" to consider travel proposals for British artists and musicians. Wait for it, his name is Lord True, AKA Baron True. Of course it is! Keep on trucking....

Mr van de Ven can't enter any establishment to get bread, lottery tickets and so on without coming out and finding me chatting to a homeless, abandoned or neglected person. ''How much money have you given them now?'' he will ask. Sometimes I give them a euro or two, or three or ten. It depends. Nobody seems to carry money anymore so I fill my coat pockets with shrapnel just in case I bump into someone who looks like they could at least do with a cup of coffee. I tell them to go to the refuge where they can sleep for the night but they often put their hands together as if to pray and tell me they absolutely do not want to go there. I don't just chat with homeless people, I chat with everyone. Well, within reason. It's a great challenge if you are shy but curious. I regret not talking to a lot of people because there was no time to stop. When I did stop I found out that Tomas was in the POUM, the Workers' Party of Marxist Unification, active in the Civil War and claimed to have shot nuns and priests. That Antonio spoke fluent English because he once had a job on an oil rig. And this evening with my limited French I found out the French guy with the German Shepherds who addresses me as ''Mister'', reckons his dogs are working for Interpol.