Were Zapatero to read the Bible as thoroughly as we Carpathian Independents, he’d be in a better position to understand the significance of the first photo-album of his glorious Alliance of Civilisations: the crowds sent to die in a desert in connivance with Morocco, the stigmata on the hands of those who make it over…
Thanks for the concerned mails. The cooperative gave us the day off, so I’m able to report that, far from being drunk or dead, I am in fact drownded, and that neither in the Jesus Sea, nor in the Odys-sea, but in the rippling Manchegan earthsea, where gypsies wear latex and smell of Eau de…
In Amor se escribe sin hache (Amor is written without H, 1929), “an almost cosmopolitan novel,” Enrique Jardiel Poncela describe Birmingham as “the Albacete of the United Kingdom.” Not to be outdone, José Martínez Azorín (who also gave the Generation of 98 its name) baptised Albacete “the New York of La Mancha.” That all this…
Not as dramatic as this gentleman but probably better company, Steve Vaught (“The fat man walking”) is walking across the States to try to lose weight. Two local guys (“Dos en un burro”) are cheating and have a donkey pulling them. I hope it gets more Three men in a boat-ish, because there’s promise in…
Kamagurka: An orism is an aphorism that. Omelettes are eggs that dream they’re falling. –How’s the digging in your garden going? –Not bad, they’ve just hit New York. Manhattan’s already completely uncovered. –Isn’t it a bit busy having a major city in your garden? –It’s not that bad really. The time difference means that they’re…
On the bus this afternoon I had some French girls in front, as it unfortunately were not, and an old Andalusian couple (I think they were from Córdoba) behind. At a certain moment someone in both groups said they were looking for something, the French using chercher and the Andalusians using buscar, or rather bujcar,…