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.
- Lo vostre cul, solucionado
La respuesta a esta pregunta es sencilla: el editor omitió los sonidos de cagar de la versión impresa, y el “trobo divertit sens pecar de la merda y del cagar” debe haber sido un poema de seis quintetos, con esquema de rima ABABA (?) y bastante parecido al rondó redoublé francés de dos / tres siglos …
- 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 a comprar un pato” came to mean “Let’s get stoned out of our fricking tree,” but today is a day of joy, hope and peace, and so they may slumber on while I cook …
- Some migration songs
With an introduction by St. Spike in the Moon.
- Invasion of the feet
A bouncer was standing outside a club when suddenly a horde of feet poured down the street and began squealing, “Let us in, let us in!”
“This establishment’s non-discrimination policy doesn’t apply to autonomous human body parts,” he replied, “so fuck off.”
But they began kicking at his ankles, and hopping up his legs to …