Baby Jesus, meek and mild
Bless the faithful with your smile
Holy Jesus, sacred child
Keep us safe from all things vile

Down from heaven, into manger
Out from slick and slimy thighs
Blood and mucous, lots of danger
Herod’s communist atheist spies

Masturbators, fornicators
Dirty Muslim, Filthy Jew
Double daters, weak dictators
Split their bestial skulls in two

Let blood splatter, cranial matter
To the glory of our Lord
Gay brown hatter, fanny batter
Put the heathen to the sword

Little donkey, one-eyed monkey
Two small camels, talking frog
Hear his sermon, godless vermin
In original Spanish, Catalan dog

Hear the message, peace and love
Listen, sinner, and obey
Iron fist in iron glove
You must kneel and you must pay

See his picture, in the Prado
Beauty wasted on common horde
Give them all the bastinado
If that fails, try waterboard

Gentle Jesus, in a stable
Angels watching, virgin birth
Real Madrid top of the table
Franco’s boys best team on Earth

Loving Jesu, son of God
Kill the pagans, curse the gay
Spoil their children with the rod
Remind them all, is Christmas Day.

Feliz Navidad y una Feliz Año Nuevo to all my reader.

Muchos besos

Manuel

Now look again.

Yes. He is cool and sophisticated because he is smoking a cigarette.

An Esample to Us All

Sadly, this sight is being becoming increasingly rare in Spain. Gone are the day when a young boy is undergo that most manly rite of passage, sitting on his father’s knee and lighting up his first cigarette, his other hand around his sippy cup of brandy. And so too will disappear the filthy cancer-riddle shoeless ragamuffin from the ancient streets of lovely pissing Dublin if the faceless and nameless bureaucrats (especially Simon O’Farrell of Dundalk) in the Customs and Exercise Office have their way. Only last week, I see, these nincompetents are manage to intercept a perfectly innocent ship carrying 140 billion free cigarettes destined for the nation’s kids, enough to keep them in nicotine for an entire weekend, by my rough calculation. Officers mount on board and arrest the sailors, who they later release, by the way, but confiscate all the cigarettes which they then smoke craftily in the staff room at lunchtime: The newspaper is report that the brands of fags stolen were named Palace, Chelsea, United, Arsenal and Scunthorpe, the last of which is specially popular with adolescent schoolboys.

In addition to this downclamping, the Irish government has also bought an X-ray machine from China to examine any other cigarette shipments.   The machine has cost €1.48 million and will probably arrive from China on the same ship as more smuggled cigarettes. I am not entirely sure what the Customs and Exercise are especting to find inside the cigarettes besides tobacco, mind you. Cigarettes are, notoriously, thin and narrow objects and made with paper, so why the government is going to so much trouble to scan them with X-rays when they can just smoke them is beyond me. Their time, surely, would be better spent X-raying cigars, which are at least a bit fatter;  you might possibly be able to smuggle an esotic animal inside, such as a chihuahua, a parakeet, a gomby, or a slut. An X-ray machine, frankly, is strike me as a waist of taxpayers’ money, especially at a time like this when the Department of Finance is complaining about not having enough money. I only hope they remember to collect the import tax on the X-ray machine, but I don’t have high holpes.   Instead, the idiot TDs are focusing on the fact that the fine for dealing in contraband cigarettes is a “mere” €423, as if smokers have any more money to spend on fags with the ridiculously high duty already put on them. THAT is the real crime in all this.  No wonder people resort to smuggling.

Once upon a time, smoking the cigarettes was play an important social role among people, a way of bonding them to one another when they are complete strangers. “Hello, pretty niña,” you could say to any little girl on a Madrid street corner, “Do you have any cigarettes on you? I’m gasping, as you can tell by my heavy breath.” Similarly, the urchin in the picture above would have been able, once upon a time, to break down the generation gap with his elders, mitching a fag off his father or his grandfather, if they were still alive. Now, however, he is reduce to surreptitiously rooting through his father’s pockets for change because he cannot get together enough money of his own through begging, gambling, or pimping to buy estortionately priced cigarettes. This sad state of affairs breeds mistrust between parents and children, doctors and nurses, police and thieves, Flanagan and Allen, with the result that children are now have to get their cigarettes in illicit tab houses, where it is entirely possible that the cigarettes have been tampered with or “cut” with unknown ingredients such as cannabis, Oxo, or dog poo. They don’t know what they are smurking in such places. Each time they are put a tab to their lips, is like Russian roulette without the gun or the bullet.

Children will not stop smoking ever, of course, because cigarettes are a naturally occurring vitamin that the body needs and which it will crave if it is not getting it regularly, a bit like absolution.  Of course, by keeping cigarette smuggling illegal, idiot politicians are only adding to the glamour of the Geordie tab house and also making it more difficult to either control or tax the smugglers.  How unfortunate, you might say to yourself, if you are a naive moron, but the reality is that they do it deliberately, with Alice Aforethought; their goal is to undermine our traditional indigent Spanish culture as part of their plan to construct the bland, culture-free, pan-European bureaucratic superstate so desired by our Illuminati rulers in their quest for total control over all our lives. If the Eurocrats have their way, we will we all be on our knees before them, sucking the feeble juice from their Euro-regulation carrots, instead of proudly lying in our hospital beds smoking life-enhancing fags.

So, remember, every time you cough up brown or yellow phlegm, you are sticking it to the Illuminati.   And ignore the lies of the bed-wetting liberal nanny superstate lackeys when they say that smoking is bad for you. Is total rubbish.  Smoke will do you no harm at all.  It isn’t even a solid!

I think.

What an Idyllic View!

My original intention was that I would visit all 6 of the original Greek islands: Crete, Kos, Ikea, Kikidiki, Skankarino, and Sark (you can tell if an island is historically Greek because it have a K sound in it. Islands like Aegina, Hydra, and Poros all historically belong to Turkey; the jury is still out on Mykiniki). What happen, however, is only goes to show, in the words of the Bard, Robert Burns, that the best-laid plans of mice-like men gangs oft to Gley, which is in Scotland.

You can understand my anticipation and escitement when I arrive first in Crete, which was the scene of a wonderful victory by the German Nazis over the Allies in the Second World War. Even today, the Crete peoples have not forgotten the hiding they took and also went into following the German liberation of the islands from the natives. All along the north coast of the island is some lovingly preserved battlegrounds, where thousands of brave, courageous, idealistic Nazis were shot down even before they landed, hanging from their parachutes and dying glorious warrior deaths screaming in patriotic agony and covered immediately in their shrouds of silk made from ladies’ underwear. Also where the cowardly English Tommies from New Zealand and Australia ran away petulantly and hid in the Cretans’ mud huts and caves. My chest swelled with emotion as I stood on Maleme airfield, where was the Nazis’ first landing, my throat was become choked with dryness, and my eyes was become moist with tears. Yes, the saddle had come off my bicycle again.  Bloody cheapskate hire company.  But when I have recomposed myself and resaddled, I cycle up and down the runway inspecting for bullet holes and any remaining ladies’ underwear, with little success, especially because the runway is still in service and I have to dodge several times the Jumbo Jets.  However, while I was sprawled one time after a close shave, I notice, reclining in the long grass, a dishevelled old veteran who was swigging from a jug of raki and soaking up the sun. And also the raki.

“If you are want to see the real cost of this battle,” he say to me in his alliterate pidgin English, “You must go to the cemetery up there on the hill. It will make you really think about the meaning of war.”

Of course he was a drunken buffoom, and I am already know what the meaning of war is. As the old song goes: “War! What is it good for? Weeding out the weak, reinforcing orderliness and discipline, legitimating the necessity of authority, social cleansing, raising the spiritual and moral health of the nation, and fertilizing the soil with the blood of martyrs.” Still, it was useful information to know that the cemetery was only just up the road, so I take a cycle up there with plans to stop off at a Kafeneion on the way to buy spinach and cheese pies, retsina, dolmades, tapas, and brandy so that I could salute the dead Nazis in picnic form.

As you can see from the above photograph, the cemetery is a beautiful place for a picnic and also a pleasant final resting place. However, as you can also not see, and to my horror I discover it when I get there, there have been a total whitewash and covering up of history by the so-called authorities. I am not needing to name names. Suffice to say that on the headstones of the Jewish soldiers you will see the stars of David, and on the headstones of all the Freemason soldiers you will see the set square and eye of Solomon. Yes! Is a big disgrace. Is almost as if those in power do not want us to remember who these victims of Allied butchery really were and the cause that they died for. They have just become anonymous corpses in a bucolic picnic area.

Well, it made my blood boil, and also roil and bubble a bit, and also my nose fester, which may have been the sun, but you all know me by now and realize that there are some kinds of injustice that I will not stand for. And this is one of them. So I cycle back down to the village, which is being called Kolymbari, and I make some discrete enquiries, and then I go to the local mongers and I buy black paint and stout paintbrushes, and also spray cans of black paint, and then I lie in wait.   I lied in wait until about when it was getting late and the cemetery gates have been closed.  And then I sneak in under the cloak of darkness and also my duffel coat, concealing my virtuous mission until I can get inside with nobody seeing me, and then once I am certain that nobody else is there, I spend the next couple of hours spraying and painting swastikas on all the headstones.

How I am wake up in the prison cell the next morning I am not sure. I can only think that the fumes from the paint that I was inhaling while I worked (I pulled my duffel coat over myself and the headstone so that nobody could see me) must have driven me demented until I pass out with exhaustion and also hallucinations. In fact, now I think about it, perhaps I was not in a Cretan prison for two weeks after all, but I only hallucinate it! That would all make sense. After all, why would the people in the prison, the warders and the screws and the guards and also the governor, all be laughing themselves nonstop for two weeks unless I was imagining it? What is funny about daubing swastikas on the graves of German war dead? Surely is what they would have wanted!

So, after my two weeks planned for my holiday was over, the Cretan authorities have decide that it was time for me to be exported back to Spain, so I did not get to visit the rest of Greece after all. But that is probly just as well. While I was in prison, they held the general elections in Greece, as a result of which the useless atheist communist socialists get back into power. I think the authorities was realizing that if I had got anywhere near the mainland, the result could have been a hole lot different.

I would show you all the photos from my holiday, but they are all pretty much the same as my profile picture on this site, which was taken in the cell of the local police station in Lanzarote. So just use your imagination, squint a little bit, and imagine that the toilet in the corner is Greek instead of Spanish. As for the contents of the toilet: That is what I did on my holidays.

Even the Devil Wear Prada!

The law which have been brought about is preventing the sons of the Spanish aristocrocacy from claiming his father’s title if he is having an older sister. Quite rightly the aristocrocs are up in their armchairs about this iniquitous inequity and are insisting that the nation’s constitutional court strike down the law. What is worse, the law might even be allowing some ladies to claim titles retroactivistically from brothers and uncles who already have got them! This is a big disgrace!

One of the evil powerful women who is behind this law is the witchlike Ágatha Ruiz de la Prada, who is claiming the title Marquess of Castelldosrius from an uncle.  I am say she is witchlike because she have clearly beguiled the idiot Zapatero into passing this law. Let us not forget what means the name Zapatero: It mean “shoe repairer” or “shoe fixer,” and who is the most famous shoe maker in the world who is laying claim to the title of Marquess of Castelldosrius? Si! None other than Ruiz de la Prada! You would have to be an utter loaf not to smell the stench of conspiracy here. And as you can see from above, she have even roped in the False Pope, Bendedict, into her schemes. This is nothing less than a plot to emasculate the Spanish aristocrocacy in order to render the country weak and feeble and femninine so that we can be better dominated by the atheist statanic communists and their golf-hating minions. Prada, incidentally, is also the wife of Pedro J. Ramírez, editor of the liberal rag El Mundo and clearly one of those wet liberal husbands who let his wife out of the house and have a job and income of her own. It come as no surprise. She probly even tell him what to write in his paper, which demonstrate how the corruption in today’s Spain go right from the very top.

Fortunately, the fightback have already begun. Some of the best noblemen have set up the Spanish Nobles Association in order to counter the pernicious influence of women and liberals.   They have firsthand esperience of the chaos cause by this unnatural law.  Miguel Beltrán Temboury y Redondo, who is spokesman for the Nobles, is report that already his own brother and sister have been fighting one another, sometimes in court, mostly in the back garden with deckchairs.

“Is most unbecoming of the Count of Labajos and Las Infantas to have to fend off his sister with a Swingball,” says Temboury. “And last week she leap out at him screaming from nowhere during the dressage event in Vienna. It wake up not only him but the rest of the crowd too.”

Temboury also tell us that over 1,000 Spanish aristocrocatic families have been thrown into confusion and doubt because sons who thought they would inherit titles will now see them go to older sisters. A number of sons have already begun taking hormone supplelements to become ladies. “They are confuse into thinking if they become ladies they will be able to keep their titles,” Temboury is esplain. “Others are forging their birth certificates to make themselfs look older, and some of the men are growing the moustaches to look more mature. Some of their moustaches are almost as thick as their sisters’.”

The Spanish Nobles are doing their best also to implore the king to intervene. “This is a violation that is being penetrated upon us by liberal homosexuals and lesbian ladies,” they point out clear-sightedly. They also observe that if the law was applied to the monarchy, then the next king would be a queen, because Juan Carlos’s oldest child is a lady.   However, Juan Carlos is so far refusing to back the Rebel Nobles, which come as no surprise when you remember that he refuse also to back the military coup of Lieutenant General Jaime Milan del Bosch, back in 1981. Is sad to say that the King is a lily-chicken-liver-shit coward who is not knowing his place. He ought to be setting an esample to the people of Spain by ruling them directly with his iron-on fists. That way, everyone would know where they stand and who they should be deferential to.   As it is, the world is in utter chaos.

Still, there is no way that you would find me kneeling down neither in front of nor behind a lady in order to kiss her ring. Some things are beneath me.

Yet, rarely are they ladies.  I am not know why.

Communists are even in Paradise. Is a big disgrace!

There was always much speculations as to what was going on down there ever afterwards, since Hitler was declare the place a no-free zone, which mean that peoples was not allowed to go there, only the military. Some was saying that all the looted Nazi gold was being stored there, others was saying that it was the place where the Nazis was creating a biological master race out of Swedish women and baboons, and still others was saying it was where Hitler go while all his soldiers were freezing to death outside Stalingrad because all the talk of cold weather was making him depressed.

Whichever one of these is true, and it may be all of them, today the peninsula of Jandía remains very popular with German holiday makers, many of whom were here during the war, and who compete amongst themselves to be the first down to breakfast in the morning (breakfast is start at 3.30 a.m.) but not leaving their towels on the deckchairs because they only do that to irritate the English, and beside which they have a very strict pecking order in Germany according to number of iron crosses won or villages burnt down. Thus it is come as no surprise for me when Herr and Frau Mengele pack me into the trunk of their car and we drive down here in order to make contact with Herr Mengele’s old comrades from the glory days of the yore.  Or is it Yorely days of gore?

“Be on your guard, Señor Estímulo,” Herr Mengele advise me as he open the trunk and waft away the fart smells. “This is not just home to the most courageous mass murderers in history. Is also the home of our biggest enemy. The Evil Dr. C.”

“Doctor C?” I say.

“Si. C. Doctor C. See.”

And he is point up to a mountainous peak in the distance which have, several hundred feet up the side of it, what appear to be a front door, but with no steps up to it.

“There is his lair.”

“There, Herr?”

“Yeah, there.”

” . . . Is a nice view.”

“Indeed,” said Herr Mengele, unable to rhyme anything with “view.” “Once upon a time it was also all belong to us. That is where we stored all the Old Master paintings and crystal chandeliers and gold candlesticks that we could not stuff into Switzerland. And when the war was put on hiatus in 1945, many of us made the strategic retreat and come here for the special plastic surgery, the facials and the reconstruction, before setting off to reconvene in South America. Many others of us fell in love with this place, however, and decide to stay.”

“Of course. Spain is a very beautiful country, especially the bits that are not in Spain.”

“Ja wohl. Of course, our numbers would have dwindled over the years, had it not been for our extensive recruiting campaign and our resort to occult practices that have kept us all alive way past our sell-by date.”

“Occult practices?” I was not like the sound of this.

“Oh, do not worry, Señor Estímulo. Is all above board and Christian. A bit of voodoo, some candomblé and santería that the boys from Brazil brought back with them. Is what is known as syncretinism.”

“So long as it is Catholic,” I said. He nod, and I felt reassured. “Tell me about the recruiting campaign.”

“Ach, Ja. So whenever one of our ideological allies was being kicked out of his country by Communist atheist scum, we would send out a message to invite the dictator here with his minions, in order to add to our reinforcements while he availed of our identity modification technology, the beautiful sunshine, and the military parades.”

“It sound very lovely. Just like Spain in the 1940s.”

“Ja. We have here all the old despots from the 1950s onwards. Pinochet is here, Idi Amin is here, Pol Pot—”

“I thought they were all dead.”

“So does everyone else. All faked. Sadly, El Generalísimo himself preferred to stay in power right until the death.  He is not here. I am sorry, my dear friend.”

“And no Mussolini either?”

“No. We can’t fake disembowellings.”

“So what of the evil Doctor C?”

Mengele hushed me and checked passers-by to see if they’d heard.

“Do not mention his name here. Even as we speak he will be massing his hordes all along the beaches because he will know that I am here to retrieve my surgical instruments. Suffice to say that we had once thought that the evil Doctor C. was one of us. When he opportunistically seized power in his tiny Caribbean country with his band of jolly soldiers and no popular organized support, we assumed naturally that he was another power-hungry sociopathic maniac like ourselves. And we were right. But when he came to visit America on a goodwill trip and we tried to induct him into our membership and told him all about the fabulous future that awaited him here, he said he had received a better offer from the Soviet Union, who had their own technology for keeping its leaders alive, well even after their death!”

“So the zombies are all communist atheist scum?”

“You have it in one, mein Kamerad. And here they come now.”

Herr Mengele was put his hands on my shoulders and turn me round to look down the beach, where I straight away see the collective breasts of thousands of topless volleyball playing zombies, escept they were not playing the volleyball any longer, so their breasts were now serious instead of happy. They were in battle formation and heading up the beach in our direction. Herr Mengele reach into the back seat of his 4×4 and pull out his Prussian sabre. Then he hand me my samurai sword.

“You have to slice off their head, Señor Manuel. Nothing else will do. And don’t let them bite you.” he rolled up his sleeves. “But first . . . ”

He leaned into the cabin of his car and pick up his mobile phone. After he say a few words of German that I was not understand, I hear a loud rumbling that shake the air, the floor, my teeth, and my knackers. Slowly, from underneath the sand at the near end of the beach, to our far right, there appear, one after another, majestic good-as-new desert-camouflaged Panzer tanks. An whole division!!

“I have also taken the liberty of calling in an air strike,” said Herr Mengele, and seconds later there was a massive WHOOOOOOOMMPPHH!!! as a missile from a modified Heinkel HE112, just like was used in the Condor Legion, walloped into the beach. Body parts and limbs and dessicated innards sprayed everywhere!!

The Battle of Jandía. Just Last Week.

And as I look out to sea, there, too, rising to the surface, was a magnificent Nazi submarine, resplendent in Nazi insignia.

“Our secret submarine base has been here all this time,” said Herr Mengele conspiratorially, as it navigate its way to shore and disgorge its contents, a whole battalion of war-tested Nazi storm troopers, all now, admittedly well into their nineties, but eager for battle and kept alive by the prospect of legalized killing and regular infusions of chicken’s blood.

“Get some, Nazis!” was roar Herr Mengele as he then wave his sabre above his head and go charging into the fray like a berserker, only with a walking frame. For me, also, this was too good an opportunity to miss. There must have been thousands of topless volleyball ladies down on the beach, all of them Communists, so I made sure to secure for myself a much better view along the top of the promenade where I could get a really good look through my binoculars. And it was while I was up there that my eye was caught (not literally. That was someone else’s eye) by the appearance among the throng of Communist zombies of the famous Che Guevara. Of course! The evil Doctor C is Dr. Castro, who only this week is appearing on television again looking brand new, like he have bathed in virgins’ milk. Everything is now being esplained.

I’m telling you, my plastination technique will make Mr. Guevara immortal!

And it was at that point that I run as fast as I could to the nearest Internet cafe to post my report which you are read only now. And the outcome is remaining in abeyance. The world is still not safe from Communism.

But don’t not worry about me, though. You will be grateful to hear that I am safe. After I make my report, I immediately and sensibly went home and have the nice strong cup of tea and a siesta. I will tell you how the battle all turn out when Herr Mengele is get home, dead or alive.  Or dead and alive.  I’m sure you will all be aroused to hear.  But in the meantime, why not tell me who is your favourite zombie and why?

* Is obviously not strictly true that Che Guevara lives, escept in the T-shirt merchandise industry and the hearts of spotty underachieving teenage boys with a sense of entitlement. Is like a zombie afterlife but without him having to make any effort. Typical!

Hi guys. Which way to the topless beach volleyball?

As a consequence, the vigilante squad which I have set up with Herr and Frau Mengele, and which we have call the WDS (which is short for Waffen Decency Squad) has had to refocus its energies back on to the retrieving of Herr Mengele’s set of surgical instruments, which as you are remember went missing the other week as a consequence of decadent corruption invading our blessedly crime-free island where everyone is leaving his door open or, if it is not open, it can be knackered through by using an illegal immigrant’s head as a buttering ram.

If I am being the total honest, Herr Mengele’s focus was never really deviating from the retrieving of his tools. I could tell by the half-hearted way in which he enforced the anal bleaching code on Swedish ladies without their passports that his heart was not really in it and that he was preoccupied with thoughts more close to home. Neither he nor the naughty Swedish ladies were learning anything. I was forced to tackle him over it directly, seeing as how Frau Mengele had taken the cat to the vet to get shot.

“Ja, Ja. Es ist ganz true, Señor Estímulo. This anal bleaching is child’s play. Is of the utmost urgency that I am retrieving my instruments. You really do not understand the gravity of this larceny.”

“Well, I am understand of course that your instruments were of more than a sentimental nature,” I reply, hazarding the guess. “I know that they are still of some practical use to you and Frau Mengele during the wintertime during the dark evenings by the fire when you are doing the taxidermy, the crocheting, and the Knechtschaft with the Sadomasochismus. The nights are already drawing in and therefore the time is already running out.”

He smile at me ruefully.

“Ach. The time is always running out for me. And here this is the problem. I am not I expect much long for this world, Señor Estímulo, and if my instruments are in the hands of my enemies when I die, then the consequences will be for me too terrible for me to contemplate. And not just for me. For Frau Mengele, too.”

I was touched by his concern and also proud to know such a man who would be so concern with his honour and reputation after his demise.

“Trust me, Herr Mengele. I shall do everything I can to help you get back your rightful tools. And do not despair. Even if it take till after you are dead, I shall pursue your malefactors in your stead.”

Herr Mengele closed the buttocks he had been working on and smiled sadly.

“You are a good and decent fascist, Señor Estímulo, and I salute you for it, but by then it will have been too late.” He brushed the Swede off his knees and rose to his feet. He strode across the room with all the brio of a man twice his age, and he reach up to a Prussian sabre mounted on the wall above a coat of arms. And some legs. He pulled down the sabre and headed for the door.

“Follow me,” he say.

I finished myself off and get up and quickly pursue Herr Mengele down to the beach, where he is rapidly approaching the topless beach volleyball court where, despite the inclement weather (23° Celsius, some cloud), there was some intrepid Austrian ladies attempting to sweat out the goose pimpers. Herr Mengele was approach the lady about to serve the volleyball, and as she raise her servicing arm, he is slicing it off in one swish of his sabre and it fall to the sand with a dull thunk. Needless to say, service went over to the other team.

“You see!” said Herr Mengele, while I was still getting over the initial shock. “No blood! Not a drop!” And he was of course correct. While my attention had been on trying to recall the rules of volleyball as they apply to amputation, I had failed to see that the Austrian lady was not bleeding anywhere on the sand and in fact had just picked up her arm and moved it off the court so that play could resume.

“Herr Mengele, I am notplussed. What is the meaning of this?”

“There are two lessons to learn from this, Señor Estímulo,”he said. “First of all, always keep a sharp Prussian sabre to hand for the purposes of practical demonstration. And second, being undead does not affect your enjoyment of sports.”

“Undead?” I was said. “You mean . . . ?”

“Jawohl, Mein Señor. All these peoples are zombies.”

My jaw was almost dropped. These succulent bare-breasted ladies who I have been watching for the past two years from the comfort of my daybed on my terrace through my binoculars while dressed only in my towel and aloe vera oil are not only not alive, they are also not dead! I am not sure now whether my lusting after them counts as a sin! And to think of all the Hail Marys I have said and the scourging I have done in penance. Is truly a big disgrace.

“Yes. They do not know they are dead, of course. You see, the Canaries is the perfect place in which to assemble an army of the undead. So many retired people already close to death. The hot weather to keep their bodies warm. The tedious routine and lack of mental stimulation that prepares them for an eternity of drudgery and passive obedience. So now you can understand, Señor Estímulo, why it is imperative that I get back my instruments before I die. The evil voodoo genius who have stolen them has everything that he needs in order to bring me back as a zombie after I am dead and make me into his house slave, serving him the cocktails, acting as his footstool, shaving his back, and so on. Of course, it could be worse. At least he isn’t a Je—”

I stopped him in his tracks with a raise of my palm. I suspect he was thinking I was pretending to be Hitler. But no.

“Herr Mengele, the voodoo is just a ridiculous African mumbo-jumbo superstition. Is not like it is a well-founded belief system, such as Christianity or Nationalsozialismus. Surely you would have to believe in it in order for it to work.”

“I am afraid not. Voodoo is not like acupuncture or homeopathy. It is not a spacebo. It works whether you believe in it or not.”

“Then I am appreciate your urgency,” I said, aggrieved but also aggressive. “We must marshall our forces and hunt down your nemesis.”

“I am way ahead of you. Already, as we speak, all of my long-hidden comrades from days of yore are assembling en masse with their rusty Lugers, trusty Mausers, and crusty trousers, ready and willing to do battle once again. Ah, Señor Estímulo, I can already feel the sap rising at the prospect of the forces of Fascism on the march once more.”

“No, Herr Mengele,” I said. “Is the tide has come in. Your legs are wet.”

“Ah. Ja.” He look down. “At both ends too. We had best be heading home.”

And so we make our way back up the beach, Herr Mengele moist at the thought of the forthcoming onslaught, me a little bit none the wiser.

“I must confess,” I say to him as we are crunching baby crabs under our feet on the slipway, “I am all still highly suspect about this. After all, there is nothing about zombies in the Bible, and I have always found it a thoroughly reliable guide to life and the taking of it.”

Herr Mengele shook his head indulgently and laid a paternal hand on my shoulder. It was very cold. It was the Austrian lady’s hand.

“My dear Estímulo,” he said. “they did not have the word ‘zombie’ in those days. And besides, the original meaning has been lost in translation.”

“Si. From the original Spanish,” I said.

“Indeed. But I’m amazed you have not noticed this fact. The entire plot of the second half of the Bible depends on their very existence.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, increbulous. “The second half of the Bible is the New Testament. The good bit.”

“Ja,” said Herr Mengele. “The good bit. But surely you have not forgotten how it ends.”

“You mean . . . You mean . . .”

“Yes, that’s right, Estímulo. Jesus was a Zombie!”

Look Out! There are Thieving Foreingers Everywhere!

When I finally have got rid of all the evidence, I am feeling already like another lie down, but the clatterling on the front door is still going on in spite of me praying for the anarchists to go away; they do not listen to God, of course, but I was hope that he might smite them in his righteousness. Even after two hours of praying, the noise have not relented, so finally I make myself some strong coffee, take a glass of wine, eat some calamari, then brace myself for confronting indignantly the anarchists for making such a racket when all normal people are in bed.

Imagine my surprise then that it was not filthy scum anarchists at all but my next-door neighbour, Frau Mengele, who, it transpired, had been using an illegal immigrant’s forehead as a buttering ram in order to get my attention. She may be 95 years old and have titanium knees, but she is wiry like a Jack Daniels terrier and not the sort of person you are want to meet on the way home from origami class. Especially not if you have had a few. Even more especially not if she has.

“Señor Estímulo! Señor Manuel!” she was screeching in her gravelly throat-cancer voice. “Kommen sie with all due haste, bitte! Herr Mengele has been robbered!”

This was a terrible news. We are not have had a robbery on the Islas Canarias since the islands was first liberated from the indigent natives before the war. Of course, there are always the idiot British tourists who think nothing of urinating in one another’s mouths “for a lark” or showing off their fat hairy arses (both mens and women’s) but since they only injure each other and also leave their wallets hanging out of their trousers when they fall fast asleep in the gutter, theses are not regarded as crimes so much as a form of care in the community. I understand that if you walk down the high street of any English town today you will find it populated by stark barking staring mad loonies, all doing that famous ministry of stupid walks or singing the Philosophers’ Song from Merleau-Ponty’s Flying Circus. How they are ever had an empire is flummoxing me completely!

After I have wiped the grease and blood and spittle off my front door (most of it my own, but that is another story), I followed Frau Mengele as fast as I could up the path and all the way along the pavement to next door, down her garden path, and in through her front door, which was wide open, as is the normal custom here, and into the spacious dungeon where Herr Mengele was sitting distraught, with his hair in his hands.

“Put that foreinger outside!” he yelled angrily.

“No! Is Señor Estímulo,” say Frau Mengele. “He ist komme to help.”

“Not him!” say Herr Mengele. “That one under your arm!” And Frau Mengele realize only then that she was still dragging the illegal immigrant around in a gridlock, such is her adrenaline-soaked power when she is aroused. Horrified at her own absent-mindedness, she drop the foreinger to the carpet and with the side of her foot nudge his lifeless body under the exercise rack.

“What is being the problem here, Herr?” I am said all officiously. And also but solicitously.

“He is losing all his surgical instruments,” Frau Mengele esplain.

“Surgical instruments?” I was repeat, then turn to Herr Mengele. “I was not knowing you are a doctor, Herr. Herr doctor.” He look up at me and shrug his shoulders.

“I dabble,” he is said.

“Ja, and he have been dabbling for 70 years,” says Frau Mengele. “His instruments are being in pride of place here in the dungeon. We are having had many wonderful times using his scalpels, his drills, his pliers, his nipple clamps.”

“They are of great sentimental value,” Herr Mengele esplain sadly, with those great big puppy-dog ears. Such self-pity was so unlike him. Was like he had been emasculated. And with his own instruments to boot. To jackboot.

However, I clap my hands decisively and enthusiastically to lift the mood.

“We must not let the thieves get away with this. Nor indeed the public at large, who as we speak are already hiding the perpetuators of this crime. I have seen in the papers, Herr Mengele, the answer to all your problems. We are must form a vigilante gang, just like the ones in Italy that Herr Berlusconi is creating.”

“Jawohl!” said Frau Mengele, delighted. “We can have uniforms!”

“Si. I have been read all about in Italy, where they are now bringing back the vigilante gangs just like in the good old days, for fighting the crime, the illegal immigrants, the legal immigrants, the unions, the schoolteachers, the homosesuals. Is marvelous news.”

Herr Mengele brightened up immensely at this good news and the prospect of a return to the rule of claw.

“I will go und get my Luger from under the floorboards of the tortu- . . . bed chamber,” he said, but was surprise when I raise my hand and stop him in his track.

“Not so fast, Herr Mengele,” I am said. “I am afraid that as yet, we are not allowed the guns. They are still reserve for the police, traffic wardens, mafia, and owners of television stations. For the time being we are must use only our mobile phones.”

Frau Mengele harumphed.

“What good is a mobile phone on its own? At the very least you must also have lubricant.”

“Is for phoning the real police,” I esplain. “However, if I am remember rightly, in the grand old days of Signor Mussolini, his gangs was always carrying the castor oil, which they force-feed the miscreants to give them the diarrhoea on the spot. Was most hilarious by all accounts.”

By all accounts I mean both accounts, since Italian fascisti were not much given to reading and writing.

“Where are we will get the camphor oil from?” ask Frau Mengele.

“Not camphor oil. Castor oil. They are not having a blocked nose!” I say. “Beside, castor oil is not appropriate here. All foreingers who come here get the diarrhoea anyway. The local cuisine does that job for us. Instead, I suggest we carry with us the suntan oil.”

“Ja!” erupted Herr Mengele. “Factor 2! That will teach them.”

And thus it has been that for the past week that the three of us have been upholding the proud fascist tradition of vigilantism along the promenade, enforcing strictly the local bye-laws of topless bikinis, no mopeds over 3 kilometers per hour, and obligatory use of the beach shower. Any young ladies caught abusing these rules have been held down and massaged for 45 minutes for a first offence, an hour and a half for a second, and brought back to the Mengeles’ house for more probing interrogation if they persist in their naughtiness. All the evidence so far have only convinced me more than ever that women like to feel the firm spank of authority, and at last we are being able to bring it to them day and night and also to our mutual satisfaction.

You have heard my story. What are you doing to keep your neighbourhood safe? And which hole do you most like to have oil rubbed into (For me it is usually someone else’s)? Tell me now.

Besos

Manuel

Bishops! A Good Start!

Sadly, this impressive foresight on the part of the Tourist Board did not extend to replacing the surly Parisian waiters with courteous, attentive, polite, handsome Spanish waiters. Indeed, not a one of the servants or lower orders I encountered during my trip was had a word of Spanish, and so I was reduce to making the monkey noises which the rest of Europe knows as American, and which the British refer to as English. I am think that I managed to make myself understood for the most of the time. American is, after all, a very simple language in terms of its structure and the objects it refers to: mostly food and cars. A five-year-old American child can speak it and has no need beyond that point to make any further progress in its vocabulary other than the names of its new Chinese overlords and also the latest models from Toyota. Beside, I am pride myself on being able to write a blog in which is not my own native tongueage, and therefore even though it was an imposition, I was endeavour to communicate in this way to the French, knowing that in reality all French people want to pretend to be American any way.

Here, then, is my observations for the benefit of you, both my reader, and the French Tourist Board. Take heeds and learn.

DAY ONE was very nice. I go to the Saint Sulpice church and as you can see above there is a very nice, reverential monument outside to a couple of bishops. I don’t not think that they was any particular big bishops of any note, and this was very encouraging, since the erection of statues to clerical nobodies is a testament to a nation’s level of civilization. Is a form of conspicsuous consumption and much to be applauded, particularly since it gives the poor something to cheer about and also be awestruck by.

Lazy fucking bastrads!!

DAY TWO, however, was providing me with the first evidence I was required to demonstrate why the French empire is went into decline.  All over Paris is these rows and rows of bicycles for renting in order for the French peoples to get places in a healthy and planet-friendly manner.  How many bicycles can you see in this picture?  Yes, hundreds..  And how many of them have a French person on it?  Esactly. One.  And even he has fallen over, under that car.  Yet STILL the French are wonder why they never win the Tour de France.  What is more, these bicycles even have the saddles still attached.  Is pure decadence.  This photo on its own is enough to tell you that this is a country that will roll over and lie down for you to rub its belly and feed it sweetmeats, larks’ tongues, and snake buttocks while you sleep with its women.  Or, in the case of Italians, its men.

Is National Suicide!

The Chinese government have recently rescind its “one wife, one child” law in the recognition that the demographics don’t not add up.  Sooner or later the Europeans are going to have to recognize it too.  There are already more people over the age of 80 in France than under 20, thanks to the stupid idea of a national health service, which keep peoples alive even after they have stop work and are no longer of any use to anyone.  And, of course, let us not forget ridiculous ideas such as education for women, along with which is comes stupid other ideas such as their control of their own reproductive organs, contraception, coat-hanger-free abortions, and other such ideological aberrations that are known as femnimism.   Either we institute a policy of forced multiple fertilization of our women soon or we introduce a program of involuntary euthanasia for anyone who is retired and cannot put food onto their own plates.  It is a simple choice.  Otherwise, we will all end up like this lady, who has adopted her son from Mexico, and the entire continent will be overrun with sneaky little Zorros!

Pity the Nation That Has No Need Not to Not Need No Heroes!

What more proof do we need that the French have an entirely frivolous attitude to the manly art of war than Napoleon’s Tomb?  Is a national disgrace!!

Exhibit A

I was totally innocently following this lady when I trip over my trousers and was arrested by the police.  They let me have my camera back only later after I esplained that I was on an important research project for the French Tourist Board, which include investigating the damaging impact that the effect of walking on the city’s hard pavements all day have on foreign lady tourists’ arse joints.  They found my esplanation entirely plausible.

They have a mouse for a pet!

I am not sure if the French Tourist Board was trying to have a joke at my espense  (of course it is ALWAYS difficult to know if the French are TRYING to be funny), but the hotel they put me in was right slamp-bang in the middle of the Marais, which is the old Jewish quarter of Paris.  How entirely inappropriate!  Fortunately for me, all of the Jews there were exported from France ages ago. However, now, instead the place is full of the fucking homosexuals!  Talk about out of the flying pan and into the friar!  Is a good job I have a sense of humour about these things, I think, and I was determine not to let any small incidents of fisting get in the way of enjoying my trip.  I merely allowed myself a wry smile of amusement and reflected on the prediclement.    At least I would be going home after my trip.  The French and the homosexuals would be stuck with each other!

I am only mention this eventuality in any case because I am ate here above on my final night, in the Marais, and I could not tell if the waiters were homosexuals or not, and I have not still decided if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I think my conclusion is that it is a good thing, but only if the waiters were NOT homosexual, because at least then they can be given some training in being butchier. I also mention this restaurant, however, because it is having a mouse in its dining room, and when I point it out to the waiter, she say to me, “Yes, it’s name is Bernadette. It is our pet.” Oy-vay!!  Only in France!  Anywhere else in Europe, this restaurant would have been shut down yesterday!

I espect it will be shut down tomorrow, instead of yesterday. I have phoned the Health and Safety people just in case.

A Pale Imitation!

More proof that the French want to be American.  It doesn’t even look like her.

Pour Encourager Les Autres

I like to think that the reason the French stuck a massive slab of stone on top of the grave of atheist-Communists Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir was to make sure they would never get up again.  With that in mind, is nice to reflect that hundreds and hundreds of other like-minded people bother to make the pilgrimage here to add their own little bit of weight in the form of pebbles and stones.  I myself was able to dislodge a brick from the cemetery wall and place it where I imagine their heads are.  I then ask a passing lady on her way back from her husband’s funeral if she would mind taking a photograph of me as I squatted over the grave and mimed defecating on it, the thought of which, I think, cheered her up no end, but she was unable to hold the camera still, such was her sobbing.  Indeed, she was shaking so much that the camera fly out of her hand and hit me black in the eye.  And still she did not laugh!  A depressing comment on the state of etiquette in France today. In China, the widows pay the state for the bullets that kill their husbands, and they do not even utter a sigh. This lady was just “Me, Me, Me.”

Anyone for Topless Volleyball?!

This is their beach in Paris.  It is rubbish.  I stood on this bridge with my binoculars for three hours and didn’t get so much as a nipple.  Useless.

Any Escuse for a Lie Down!

The next band was due on stage in three weeks’ time.  But do you think that such a fact would inhibit the French from having a nice stretch out in the sun on the concrete, right in the middle of a busy European capital?  Not a bit of it.  That one’s even asleep, look.  He’s not even pretending to face the stage. *

A Hundred Thousand Sneers!

Yes, a hotel aimed specifically for the Irish.  And in their favourite colour, too:  Orange.  Subtext:  You are not welcome here.   Is no wonder the place is shut down.  The French have a lot to learn about hospitality.

DAY THREE:  Sleep.  Helped police with their further enquiries.

Now THAT is what I call an enigmatic smile!

DAY FOUR:  The Louvre.  Rubbish.  A kid could have done that.

So then, here is my conclusions for the Tourist Board.

1:  The idea of making the city Parisian-free for one month a year is a very good one that should be estended to all year round.

2:  Try to make it less hot. I am Spanish, and God knows I love a good sweat as much as the next man.  I even wore my rubber catsuit and gimp mask for the duration of my visit.  But even I draw the line at sweating through my eyeballs.  It was NOT crying.

3: Make Spanish the first language of all servants. Import more Spanish food/music/television/wine.

4:  Bring back proper public entertainment.  Jazz music is neither edifying nor becoming of an adult, God-fearing populace.  Witch burnings or esecutions would be good.  I thought the French invented that sort of thing.  Is very sadly thin on the ground these days.

5:  Try less hard to be America. Nobody is going to like you for who you are, but don’t not compound the fault by trying to be someone you are not.  Especially not Americans.

6: Mice are not pets.

7:  Cheese is not a food.

8:  Please make the red light district easier to find.  Is not on any of the tourist maps.

9:  Please send next assignment soon.  I rather like the look of the beaches in Marseilles.

Merci

Manuel

*I am later learning that he was in acute agony as a result of a burst appendix and died on the way to hospital.

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