Curiously, while the registrant’s address is said to be just round the corner from Ankara’s gloriously Martian Altınpark, the phone number is Dutch, and the only Turkish news that I’ve ever heard come out of Tottenham, north London, is of this planet’s most splendid kebabs, fruit and veg, and cab drivers (but not from Ankara).
The most famous Turk ever lives in Islington, but I fancy myself even less as a football blogger.
And, in case you’re wondering, there are a couple of rides in Altınpark, and the dotless ı is pronounced rather like the o in Alton (Towers), and wouldn’t it be nice to find out more about this pleasing coincidence in time for Christmas, of which I hope you have a happy one!
(I’m celebrating with at least two bands of joyous hippies, so instead of fretting about inlaws I’m up to my armpits in cake mixes and bread dough.)
I have probably already offered lame excuses as to why I can’t speak Turkish.
- Memento mori = Don’t forget to die
Over at Mr Harvey’s place, to whom and all a happy Christmas. One day I’ll explain how for certain folks “Vamos
- We keep our fine wines in old boots
Avert your eyes, epilepsy sufferers, as the Flash animations load, but stay on for the fucked goodies on the Bohórquez family
- In which the Spanish Inquisition strikes down a translation and saves an English sailor from a fiery fate
Werner Thomas (* 1931) is an accordionist from Switzerland credited with composing a tune popularly known as the “Chicken Dance” or
- “I’am Barcelonian” feels all wrong, but which demonym do we deserve?
Barcelona Council features over at Harvey’s Barna cream. “Barcelonian” has a long and respectable tradition, though, like Peter, I wouldn’t use
- Some Itanglish in a Dryden comedy
One José María Trilladas has apparently been combing the accounts of the black card looters of Caja Madrid and has discovered