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.


Tourism in Barcelona: deep ranks of visitors slung round cameras

Where is the Economist's Gulliver from, what is he/she taking? A robot wouldn't make this kind of error:

As any visitor can attest, the narrow Gothic streets behind Las Ramblas, a tree-lined shopping promenade, can feel like rush-hour on the tube; the must-see Gaudi sites tend to be well-hidden behind deep ranks of visitors slung round cameras; and at certain times of the year the beaches can be invisible under the quilted rectangles of towels.

Prediction: Colau will fail, because part of her vote relishes (and invented) the nocturnal alcoholic and diurnal velocipedic mayhem that so distresses another part of her vote; because councillors and functionaries also own illegal tourist flats, and pijo lefties have begun to realise that no evictions means no tenants; and because the police still won't give a shit, even now their sworn enemy has the whip hand. But what do I know.


It's English, but is it human?

Understanding Podemos, c/o Rikard. The old question: Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

Quick nod in the opposite direction to the human and apparently also English girlfriend of boxer Serge Ambomo: He’s speaking English a lot more what I’ve learnt him.