A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MEAN MISTER MUSTARD

Morning

He wakes up with a hangover, gets up and swears at another bleedin’ frickin’ fuckin’ blue sky.

Takes a piss, smokes a fag, coughs his tubes out, does not shave and does not brush his teeth.

Shuffles to his most hated cafetería, burns his tongue with the help of another bleedin’ frickin’ fuckin’ hot cuppa Americano, sorta reads the headlines of the ÚLTIMA HORA and rants at the Spanish Royals and in one go at the Queen, then at Brexit, Boris Johnson, Trump, Hillary and the weather forecast (“Sun, sun, sun, bleedin’ frickin fuckin sun!”).

Shuffles home, takes a dump, plants himself on his terrace and goes through the motions of firstly bawling at his neighbours’ rackety brats, secondly exchanging bilingual curses with clamorous Majorcan van drivers and thirdly planning to poison all the ear-popping dogs, pigeons, cocks, cicadas and crickets of his vicinity.

Boots his laptop, reads his former students’ postings on FACEBOOK and provides their photos with sarcastic comments such as: “Still as busy as you were in class converting oxygen into carbon dioxide?” or “Flawless! And what do you look like in your real life (if you have got one)?” Then reads the daily digest on MEDIUM and writes troll responses, such as: “This story is as uplifting as elevator music” or “Instead of trying to be funny you should try to go to bed earlier”.

Noon

Cycles to his most hated taberna, orders a most nauseating “San Miguel”, is being given, along with the beer, some most revolting tapas and waits for his most sleazy friend, a mean old retired parasite the same as himself. Together they knock the Majorcans, especially the fat, inbred, lobotomized specimens of their vicinity.

Drunkenly rolls to the port in order to gruffly reject as many Senegalese vendors of sunglasses as possible and to cruelly giggle at as many enormous bums and boobs of middle aged female tourists in much too tight bermudas as possible. Is being approached by the same desperate stupid old tart as every day who is on the prowl for mean old bastards like him living off their old-age pensions.

Escapes to the nearby beach, pretends to look for a friend and gawks at as many bobbing bums and boobs of young female tourists in string thongs as possible, has a seat on the terrace of his most hated beach bar, is being served a most nauseating “San Miguel” but this time without any most revolting tapas, rejects another Senegalese vendor of sunglasses, rejects a sweating Asian woman offering him a massage, is being approached by another stupid old tart, escapes and cycles to the supermarket to do his daily shopping.

Afternoon

Cycles home again after deliberately causing exceptionally long queues at the checkout, puts his daily ration of most nauseating “San Miguel” into the freezer, boots his laptop and hooks himself into as many shit storms on TWITTER as possible lampooning as many do-gooding Remainers as possible and afterwards rebuking as many racist Brexiteers as possible. Checks his emails, finds excuses for not inviting another sponging nephew who wants to stay at his flat for the summer, deletes umpteen dunning letters by plumbers, sparkies, shippers and tax advisers and writes umpteen beefs about nighttime disturbances, noise and odour nuisances, animal and child abuses and illegal lettings of holiday flats.

Then opens his first can of most nauseating “San Miguel”, plants himself on his terrace again and goes through the motions of firstly bawling at his neighbour’s gardener who - as he does every day - mows the lawn, secondly exchanging bilingual curses with a Majorcan van driver who does not stop the diesel engine of his rusty lemon and thirdly planning to booby-trap all the ear-popping vans, lorries, buses, motorbikes, quad bikes and mopeds that drive by his terrace.

Evening

After finishing his supply of most nauseating “San Miguel” he most drunkenly heads off to his second most hated taberna to meet his mean old buddies at the regulars’ table and together they knock Majorcans, Spaniards, Brits, Germans, Senegalese, Asians and the most nauseating “San Miguel” in their glasses.

Does neither know how he has found back to the house he lives in nor to the door of his flat nor to his bedroom, goes to sleep, dreams of the paradise he left behind up there in Birmingham, drinks most delicious Black Country real ales and walks home in the rain, in the fog, in the fumes and in the noise.