Julian the Apostate (331-363) addresses himself to Galileo (1564-1642)

Arturo Pérez-Reverte, The Dumas Club, tr. Sonia Soto (London: Vintage Books, 2003):

"I know what you mean. It's Julian the Apostate crying, 'You have defeated me, Galileo.'"


Brown Shit hair dye

Caca Marron: Solid Henna: Turn brown into amburn with a shine like fresh conkers: Vegan:

Some of you will probably get off on Polkadot Lily smearing Lush brown shit into her hair:

They also do Black Shit, known in the trade as the Guinness look.

H/t Manolo A.


Translation error in the puenting tragedy at Cabezón de la Sal in Cantabria

Two versions:

  1. El País: the instructor says, "No jump, it's important. No jump," and the girl understands, "Now jump."
  2. De Telegraaf, among others, citing words which no longer appear on El Diario Montañés: the instructor says, "[When it's time to jump], don't worry, just jump."


Wurst is German for sausage

Wrust is a Spanish speciality and a Botswanan all-black metal band:

Did they intend to call themselves sausage? How strong is the residual regional influence of German South-West Africa, not to mention boerewors camp?

More namby-pamby posturing from Gaborone:

A very shy black friend once became the lead singer of a moderately good all-white Leeds heavy band. Singing as a cure for stammering let him down then, as it did later when he tried to hold up a Manchester post office with some pathetic piece of scrap iron. Last seen in Strangeways. The best of times, the wrust of times. Life is like a sausage: there's a beginning and an end, but the middle is often a surprise.


SpainWTF? Fine but fake

Here. How can a country with such poor Photoshop skills regard itself as modern?


Joan de Son Rapinya: English lesson no. 1

There's a clever name for phonetic language parodies which I have forgotten because it's hot and I have been undergoing ye notorious Spanish wine torture:

Shades of Maria Luisa Puche, the undisputed champion.

My favourite one actually makes more sense than the poésie concrète I wrote for a political campaign some years ago and is of the Welsh cant dirge, Land of my fathers:

My hen laid a haddock on top of a tree
Glad farts and centurions throw dogs in the sea
I could stew a hare here, and brandish Don's flan.
Don's ruddy bog's blocked up with sand.
Dad! Dad! Why don't you oil Aunty Glad?
When whores appear on beer bottle pies,
Oh butter the hens as they fly.
Dad! Dad! Why don't you oil Aunty Glad?
When whores appear on beer bottle pies,
Oh butter the hens as they fly.

Joan also does wordless communication:

But his major hit is Rap a la mierda:

Here's Joan's secret: do what you're bad at, nay, celebrate it. Most Britons can't dance, most Dutch can't sing the Neapolitan popular repertoire, and most Spaniards will never speak any recognised human language; the sensible ones don't let their justifiable depression bother them or hold them back.

The Real Spain

Time for change, but literacy and numeracy and asking for advice from beyond the tribe might still be a step too far for The Real Spain, which is distributing postcards to tourists:

While the Spanish peple face fines of up to 600,000 euros for defending their social rights, Politicians and bankers still walk free after robbing the Spanish people of more than 6.8 million euros.

There is a terrible sense of plus ça change about all this everywhere one turns. Let me turn to Ada Colau reinventing her husband as an Ayuntamiento de Barcelona spad; saying that, like Mas, she will ignore the laws that offend against the people...

If it were only 6.8 million I think we could all afford a proper fucking holiday: Owen Bennett looking for a gents' in the Walpole Bay while awaiting the South Thanet result is for me the best of Following Farage.


Listen to the Chinese: branding is bollocks

This lot can't even decide if they're going to transliterate their trademark as Lepai or Lepy (I hope there's somewhere where they call it Leper):

But it's a brilliant little amp, none of your Apple shite.


Late June lawnmower roadtrip across Northern Spain: call for sofas, haylofts etc.

Company would be most welcome along the following route, assuming a purchase is made on Wednesday:

(Pontevedra,) N-541 O Carballiño, N-541/N-120 Orense, N525 Verín, Benavente, Castrogonzalo, N-610 Palencia, Villalobón, Valdeolmillos, Torquemada, Cordovilla la Real, Quintana del Puente, N-622 Lerma, Covarrubias, Hortigüela, N-234 Soria, Calatayud, A-1504 Miedes de Aragón, Cariñena, A-220 Belchite, A-1307/N-232 Alcañiz, N-232 Valdealgoría, N-420 Gandesa, Corbera d'Ebre, Mora d'Ebre, Falset, Reus, T-315 Tarragona, Vilafranca, (Barcelona.)

The route sounds a bit strange, but that's because I've used CycleRoute.org to check and vaguely optimise route elevation profiles, and that's because my prospective lawnmower:

Piaggio Ape Kasten.jpg

... is said to be able handle a maximum gradient of 18-22%, beyond which this happens (getting out of Galicia is particularly fraught):

At 25-30 km/h I reckon it'll take 5/6 days. Petrol consumption is ca. 30 km/l, so it shouldn't break the bank.


And then I'll be looking for space (250*126 cm) in a trustworthy premise/garage @BCN in exchange for promotion.

Contacts here.

They just don't create song titles like they used to

Sez Colin re "Make Love To Me!" (1954). Well-known but worth repeating, from a Dutch English-language school:

The Singing Organ-Grinder mashes the chorus onto a canon of Barcelona street songs (Ctrl-F for "Crits del carrer") but has not yet found an appropriate podium.