Over at PH. Dehesa de Los Llanos is one of a number of brilliant cheeses from down Albacete way that I have been trying, and generally failing, to introduce to friends whose first choice tends to be something local and expensive made by rich kids with mullets and flags out of what tastes like dog…
The Emperor of the French, just in case anyone had forgotten. I suppose there’s a frying pan-fire unionist argument to be made against secession, and who better to put it than a Frenchman: Well, one of the participants was a Frenchman. Here’s another load of Bellocs of which I’m also rather fond:
The other day some kind person passed me the memoirs of the influential moderate republican writer and politician Carlos Esplá Rizo, Mi Vida Hecha Cenizas [Diarios 1920-1965], who sees his life turned to ashes by Spain’s political failure after WWI and by his long exile following the Civil War. In 1950 someone fixes him up…
Jerez is in Spain. Dickslessia is not our national sport. Someone here thinks it sounds German, but you’d probably say “Hexe raus!” Your Ausweis is your ID. (H/t)
Anything la madre patria can do, Provincia de Río Negro, Argentina can do better, said governor Alberto Weretilneck to himself, taking a break from the commission charged with finding a spelling for his surname that was not an anagram of Erect Winkle. And so he commissioned a premium-rate translation for this walking route map: Lacustrine…
You’re a policeman. Sometimes they put the winky-winky on as they jump and then turn it off again, often they don’t bother. You know a policeman. You don’t intend to go very far on the other side. I find this the most puzzling, and one of its practicioners almost nailed me this morning.