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.
- Summer travels
Not as dramatic as this gentleman but probably better company, Steve Vaught (“The fat man walking”) is walking across the States
“Neighbours and neighbouresses, this man injured a woman at knifepoint with the intention of raping her. We don’t want rapists in
- A Caja Castilla la Mancha anecdote
Broadly illustrative of how we got where we are, with a joke at the end.
Tired of my never-ending get-poor-slow schemes, I went gold-panning in the national park today with Lluís, who is 74 but doesn’t
- Blair in Scotland
John at Barcablog claims to have a cunning plan. I do not, but here is a punning clan: The British Prime Minister,