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.
- Nunca digas nunca Hamas
A pun on Never say never again on Gracia’s only SWP bodega (one of the proprietors claims to have known Yigael Gluckstein) may be suggesting that may be no imminent solution to the problem of bearded nutters rocketing their neighbours and then moaning about the response.
In other graffiti today, the anarchist nutters in the lovely little …
- The Devil’s Corbyn of Hell
A General Election post, featuring Edgar Allan Poe, a manual for medieval female anchorites, the RSPB, Le Corbusier, Magpie Corvid, a corvine conspiracy, and Tolkien’s Nazgûl.
- Some Itanglish in a Dryden comedy
One José María Trilladas has apparently been combing the accounts of the black card looters of Caja Madrid and has discovered that between them the great and the good, lefties and righties, spent everything on, to put it mildly, wine, women and song, and not a single cent on the printed word. But let that not
- Transvestite barrel organ dancers in 1930s Whitechapel and the 1860s London West End
With acrobats, clowns, and Doris and Thisbe, goddesses of wind.
- French lessons: Grannie on her bike rides across the pool
Boby Lapointe, an obsessive, deranged comic genius who seems to have drunk himself to death aged 50, points to one of the delicious traps lying in wait for elephants who proceed beyond their French-English phrasebooks – the fact that of the supposed infinity of possible sentences in natural language, most are nonsense: