The neighbourhood gym is a den of grunting rapists, but on my periodic visits I drift between them, avoiding their matey small-talk, and find the 80s disco remixes and the wall-to-wall replays of Barça minutiae conducive to meditation on subjects a million miles from the tiny bikinis which are the wonder of my gendermates. And so it was that I failed to notice that my towel bag was the same used earlier to transport several kilos of bloody boar, and that in wiping my head I was leaving a trail of porcine entrails. Life may not be the same again.
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Certainly not for the boar.
And you’ll be feared by the two-legged ones.
When I first started coming to Barcelona I went to the gym on the beach, where the atmosphere was equally predatory but of the other drift, and even tearing out and eating their kidneys was not enough to deter some of the guys. In London and New York they ban grunters and gropers, but here it is apparently all part of the fun.
Their whole sex life is like that here.