Boris Johnson this morning has in his slightly misty sights

the new species of pissed ladette, profane, belly-flaunting, swigging shots of cocktail from brightly coloured and cunningly marketed bottles, and sweeping the streets in terrifying gangs.

For all the problems created by 24-hour drinking in Barcelona (the old town is full of well-established illegal bars that take up the slack when the licensed ones close), wasted northern women have here been instrumental in persuading local women that there is absolutely no reason why they shouldn’t go out and behave as disgracefully as their partners and brothers have always done.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking past a sports hall in the Raval where a male five-a-side match was underway when a bevy of blondes staggered up. “Go on, show ’em yer tits, Natalie,” said one. “Yeah, all right,” said Natalie.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen men look so nervous. That can’t be such bad thing in a society where women are still regularly stabbed and burnt to death because Mr is feeling a bit twitchy.

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