Two South Asian gents photographing each other on the shore just short of Badalona. The younger man wore “traditional” baggy trousers, the older even more traditional “Manchesters”.
From Manuel Fraga’s dreadful Nuevos diálogos, found yesterday on the street (it’s becoming a habit): An old French song reminds us that “the pleasure of love only lasts a moment, while the sorrow of love lasts for ever.” A pragmatic English take, probably also old: What’s the difference between love and herpes? Herpes is for…
Two elderly ladies have just met for the first time and are sounding each other out: A: My dog is so intelligent it stands by the door and woofs whenever it wants to go out and have a poo. B: My cat is so intelligent it comes in at five o’clock in the morning and…
I think the laugh/laughter thing is probably quite a hard mistake for non-natives to spot. I am consciously aware of about as much grammar as is your dog’s posterior end, so don’t ask me to explain why it’s wrong. (From CaixaForum’s exhibition.)
This falls into the same category as the revelation by Arenys de Mar’s thriving community of dope-fiends historians that the three kings were all black. Dunno where that leaves trite lyrics like Siempre que pintas iglesias/pintas angelitos bellos/pero nunca te acordaste/de pintar un ángel negro. (On this walk. Critical discussion of inocentadas here.)
I’ve only ever been a witness of vomiting and fighting at midnight mass, but none of this is new. One of today’s Libro verde items records that until a few years [before 1848], mass was sung at one in the morning, but that the irreverences of the ignorant made it impossible. Henceforth it was celebrated…
Re this, some results. The comments in Dutch are grossly libellous, so don’t even try to translate them. I finally managed to get the mitre on my head–Spanish bishops don’t have much between their ears–but the only way the beard would stay on was to jam it over my nose with half of it in…
