I finally married my bicycle on Saturday in a ceremony celebrated by a minister of the little-known but damn handy Carpathian Independent Church, and we have both been seriously well-oiled ever since. The downside is that my Ugandan friends have disowned me, quoting this Acholi poem:
The bridewealth of Laker,
Why do you marry a bicycle with it?
I hear a bicycle bell,
A bicycle has no eyes,
It cannot help your clansmen.
(A well-clad gentleman who claims to represents my interests apparently contracted me Friday night to play piano and sing German repertoire from the 30s for a damn horny lesbian theatre group, but that is not the kind of thing one necessarily tells one’s bicycle.)
- 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
- Potential accordion purchase
This is an option now the Casio kiddieboard is dead and there’s not enough time for the barrel organ.
- Worst ever theatre experience
Sergi Belbel’s A la Toscana, last night, first night at the Teatre Nacional de Catalunya, of which Mr Belbel is the
- Daisy Bell aka the little dicky bird
A curious marriage of songs.
- Blonde virgins
Last week I snapped a Scandinavian blonde Maria in Vilafranca del Penedès. Joan Amades (El pessebre (1959)) tells us that, in