kalebeul: anythingarian bubbles and troubles from the land of the fretting nun
kalebeul's barcelona walking tour service. why else would i write this blog?
kalebeul anythingarian bubbles and troubles from the land of the fretting nun
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/ kalebeul / 2005 / 05 / 20 /

Nitty gritty

I haven’t the faintest idea whether “nitty gritty” originated in the slaveships (”no te grites”, stop moaning? Nope) and thus should be avoided by good folks or whether it’s an American Indian training service, but I did like the following gangster talk: “Noo, man! Mi an di man fos taak boo dat, man, aa sins [...]

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Catalan cocks

Since I’m arsing around this morning, here’s some more chicken news. There’s a good story developing up in a small village near Figueres at the moment, where Adela Sánchez has been put on trial accused of murdering Mercè Catalán’s rooster, Matildo. Adela and her daughter, Paqui, had previously sat up at night playing the trumpet [...]

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Give me your answer true

The right is perturbed because men are getting married on Los Lunnis. Their objections are historical rather than theological–no one’s suggesting we respect Genesis 24:3 and 38:6 and allow fathers to select girlies for their sons–and their problem is that the world has moved on. I’d regard myself as a natural PP voter (although that [...]

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The Local Police of Girona are the first of Catalonia to make flowerpots

I hope that machine translation doesn’t get too good, too fast. It’s good to hear that separatist Rafel Homestead is taking flowerpots seriously (the Lads already have two devices now): his wine-producing colleagues further south opposed them as an Espanyolista attack on the local economy.

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Apparently some ladies & gents with whom I sing when the big geezer is off doing other stuff are going to be on the telly quite a lot.

Apart from the odd bit of arranging, the barrel organ is the thing at the moment, when I get time. It’s a somewhat more lonely path, but I’m not very good at dance steps or 80s music anyway.

Kalebeul wouldn’t watch a hagiography of a faghating totalitarian fuckwit like St Paul, so it sees no reason this weekend to take cinema seats away from Barcelona’s chiliastic masses in their nostalgic lust for Hispanic dictators and good-looking saints. Paul Berman’s piece from 2004 applies. Even the regime sociologists seem to have noticed that Cataloonia has lost track of reality.

Graffiti of Camarón de la Isla and guitarist, somewhere in Barcelona, I think in Carmelo, so overlooking the place where he died:

More here.

Kabe-Otoko/Wall Man, neither human nor demon, observes the world from within walls:

Velen verzeggen Schiedam, maar sluiten dadelijk een verbond met Barcelona.” Is it about drinkers swearing by Dutch gin/jenever, only to turn to Spanish wine and brandy?


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