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For those snowflakes, wokes and libtards who may not be able to cope with some of my Rants etc., then select here:

Oh joy, a civilised 1700 flight. Practically luxurious compared to the usual sparrow’s fart alarm clock ritual. Meet and Greet parking at Liverpool Airport? Slick as you like, efficient, almost suspiciously competent. Security and the inevitable TSA ritual? Breeze through, no queues—clearly the universe had a momentary lapse in cruelty.

Smooth TSA and check in. Aspire lounge is a tad basic, not a patch on Delta or other USA lounges.

Of course I haven’t quite figured out why we’re going to Barcelona. It’s in Spain, full of Spaniards, who so fervently want “Brits go home” they sprawl it on every blank wall like a Banksy on a drug inspired graffiti rampage.

Board early like proper organised adults, then sit on the tarmac for 25 minutes because… budget airline. Shocking development. Who could’ve foreseen that Ryanair-adjacent carriers treat punctuality as an optional extra?

Uber to the hotel works, eventually. My Black Card has apparently decided Uber (especially the Barcelona branch) is a gateway to money laundering or something equally dramatic, so transactions are “too risky.” Brilliant. What’s the point of a premium card if it vetoes the one thing everyone actually uses it for? Switch to debit card like a peasant.

Hotel looks properly opulent. Finally, something not actively trying to ruin my day.

 

 
Ah, Britain—world leaders in stupidity, a title we clutch like it’s the last Empire trophy we haven’t pawned yet. Truly the only Olympic event we’re still competitive in.

So there I am, attempting to order a simple brandy in the lounge—like a civilised person from a bygone era when men wore hats and planes didn’t double as flying pubs for Hen does – yes I blame the Hen does. No Cognac available, naturally, because why make anything straightforward? But wait! To prevent the nation from descending into total Bacchanalian chaos at 35,000 feet, the geniuses in charge have decreed that spirits must now come pre-watered-down with a “dash” of water. Or perhaps a mixer, if they’re feeling particularly generous. Because nothing says “responsible drinking” like turning a decent brandy into weak tea with ambitions.

Can you even parse this majestic logic? A splash of H₂O is apparently the magical barrier between “mildly tipsy” and “drunken Hen party projectile-vomiting across three rows.” Forget training cabin crew to spot obvious pissheads or—wild idea—refusing service to the already-slurring minority. No, no. Better to dilute everyone’s drink so the majority can enjoy the thrilling experience of paying premium prices for flavoured water. Classic symptom-treatment masterclass: punish the sober to babysit the idiots. The few ruin it for the many, and our solution is collective punishment. Revolutionary.

Perhaps one day we’ll elect a government with the spine to actually tackle root causes instead of slapping plasters on gaping head wounds. But let’s not hold our breath—oxygen masks might drop first.And while we’re marinating in bureaucratic brilliance, can we talk about those endless “accept cookies” pop-ups that have somehow survived Brexit like particularly clingy exes? We left the EU, told Brussels to sod off, yet here we are still clicking “Accept All” every five minutes like trained lab rats with repetitive strain injuries incoming. GDPR ghosts haunt us still—because nothing screams “sovereignty” like mandatory permission slips for websites to remember you like dark chocolate.

Will I get compensation when my mouse-clicking wrist finally gives out and I need a government-funded ergonomic tribunal? Or will they just suggest I “accept” the pain with a nice cup of diluted brandy?How do we excise this sort of gleaming, polished idiocy from public life? Step one: stop treating adults like toddlers who need their booze cut with water and their data choices micromanaged. Step two: maybe, just maybe, start dealing with the actual drunks instead of watering down the rest of us. Until then, Britain will keep excelling at exactly one thing: turning minor inconveniences into national pastimes.Cheers—or should I say, watered-down cheers—to that.

Oh let’s buy a bottle of water. Cheaper in the terminal than on the plane but we still need a 2nd mortgage and not forgetting a boarding pass. More stupidity. Firstly why do you need a boarding pass to buy water? Secondly you can only get airside if you have a boarding pass. Just more pots for rags from batshit bonkers Britain.

0800 breakfast—heroic effort. Kurt hits the gym like the virtuous one, then we both spa it up. Pool? Too cold, obviously. I’m not here to get hypothermia for Instagram. Sauna it is—sweat out yesterday’s indignities.

Hop-on hop-off bus next. Booking? Credit card rejected again. Gremlins at Black Card still clutching pearls over Barcelona. Debit card saves the day once more. At least give me an honest error message like “Sorry mate, your card thinks Barcelona is dodgy—use cash like it’s 1995.” But no, just “declined.” Helpful.

Bus tour? Fine. Red and green routes give a decent overview. Until the bus breaks down smack in the middle of a traffic light junction. Not on the brochure, but very on-brand for public transport.

Few beers scattered through the day (civilised hydration), then a final pint at a local spot before dinner. Hotel-recommended restaurant, naturally Paella.

Big prawns and mussels perched on top like they’re posing for a photoshoot—pure decoration. Taste? Minimal. Next time, I’ll order the version where the seafood has actually bothered to integrate into the rice instead of just sunbathing on the surface. Amateur hour.

Back to hotel bar. Plan: stay up for FCB match at 2100. Reality: I bail immediately. Kurt valiantly nurses another beer but taps out 20 minutes in. Youth these days—no stamina.

 

Glorious sleep. All that beer acted like a knockout drug. Who needs melatonin when you’ve got San Miguel?

Another solid breakfast. Skip spa/gym—I’m on holiday, not boot camp.

GPS self-guided “Sim City” walking tour of highlights. Translation: 5 miles of wandering punctuated by strategic beer stops. Essential sightseeing.

Of course it’s an EU city, so bonus protest parade: International Women’s Rights. As Kurt so delicately observed, “not a looker among them.” More lesbians per square metre than a pride parade planning meeting, and enough nose rings to open a jewellery shop. (Sorry, my mistake—thought it was industrial-grade snot hanging from their nose.) If they love freedom so much, ship them to Iran for a week—they’ll be begging to come back. Meanwhile, police tied up, traffic gridlocked. Peak Barcelona efficiency.

Post-protest, we’ve another 2 miles uphill to the Cathedral. First glimpse? Properly jaw-dropping.

Plonked ourselves at a street bar with that awesome Cathedral as a backdrop. Beers the size of small children — €18 each, so presumably they should come in gallon jugs. Worth every cent for the view and the sunshine.

I think I must be pregnant as I’ve this yearning for a Bounty. Can you believe the shop where we meet our tour guide sells Bounty – a glimpse of civilisation. Being the EU no doubt the wrapper will be welded to the Bounty.

Guided cathedral tour? Surprisingly excellent guide, interesting facts. Money actually well spent—miracle.

Evening: booked “highbrow” Flamenco extravaganza. Professional, highly rated by Trip Advisor, can you believe top 10% Worldwide … and about as Kurt-friendly as interpretive dance. Should’ve gone full tourist-trap version with sequins and dramatic hair flips.

Uber home, collapse into bed. Absolutely cream crackered.

 

We really have to stand up against this evil ideology and the takeover of our country. OUR TOLERANCE WILL BE OUR DOWNFALL.

Kurt gyms, I breakfast. Balance restored.

Leisurely final stroll down La Ramblas. What a treat—an eyesore construction site. They’re repaving the whole bloody thing at once instead of sensible sections. One of Europe’s most famous streets (and pickpocket central), turned into a building site. Genius urban planning. Why inconvenience tourists gradually when you can ruin it spectacularly all at once?

Few beers around Columbus’s statue to numb the pain, then Uber to airport. Lounge? Excellent—proper food, proper drinks. Civilisation at last.

Passport control: two scans then still a human to stamp it. Progress, eh? Probably why we Brexited.

EasyJet only 20 minutes late. Practically early. Smooth flight home.

Barcelona: beautiful when it’s not actively trying to sabotage you. 7/10. Enjoyed it but never again.