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ON THE SEVENTH DAY THE LORD RESTED (BUT HE DIDN'T LET ME)

The street I live on is within spitting distance of Barcelona's Santa Maria del Mar. Yes, it's very pretty, but it's also the main thoroughfare between the Born and Barceloneta. This means I'm used to being woken up by drunk English girls in heels, gypsies singing flamenco, Italian whorehounds, all of the above screaming bloody murder after being mugged, and a Senegalese beggar who's off his nut and occasionally dismantles household appliances with a hammer at 6 AM. But this Sunday was the straw that put the camel in a wheelchair. Despite hardly having made it to sleep the night before thanks to the street's usual nocturnal cacophony, I got up early, made breakfast and settled down to watch

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The Boston Strangler

. At 9 AM, just as Tony Curtis was about to garrotte an old man my peace of mind was shattered by one of the godawfulest rackets I've ever heard. Going out on the balcony to see what the noise was about I was greeted by about 70 bald priests in all their priesty splendour, passing the time of day.

In among them were 10 bodyguard-looking guys in suits, whose job I guess was to turn the other cheek in case anyone had a go at the best dressed priest of all. This guy turned out to be none other than the Vatican's secretary of state, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, there to Beautify a 14th century monk called Josef Tous. At that point I thought about putting Venom's

In League With Satan

on while dancing naked on my balcony in a devil face mask I got in a pound shop. but I didn't. I took these photos and turned up the volume on the TV. It was as if God himself had sent his minions to my house to send me this message: "You're getting old dude. You don't go out any more and you don't want to dance naked because you've got a beer belly. Ha ha. HAHAHAHAHA." SANTIAGO SALVADOR