St George’s Day massacre

San Jordi in Barcelona, and millions of females who would be perfectly happy eating hay are receiving roses from males who have problems reading a football shirt, never mind the book of 500 Catalan jokes they will get in return for their floral investment. We ecolefties disincline naturally from needlessy fucking up Lake Victoria and the Ebro, but threats have been issued and time is drawing short so it’s round to the florist:

–Evening all, give me any plant so long as it’s not a sodding rose, and chop chop.
–¡¡JAJAJAJA!! ¡You English hooligans are so funny! How about this genetically altered Mexican violet that is happy as an elephant yam on a hot Mediterranean terrace and skilfully changes colour to adapt to your exquisite wine selection.
–Don’t bother with the gift wrap.
–That will be €4.40. ¡Since you are English hooligan I suppose that tonight you will be supporting el Manchestair!

I hadn’t warned her not to mention football, but I shot her anyway.

Worst ever Sant Jorge tragedy, a couple of years ago, with a different recipient. I have been up in the hills with people and don’t get back till most of the 6 million roses are already clutched to sweaty breasts. So 3€ to an ambulant Paki and up the stairs:

–¡Here you are my darling!
–¡Why, thank you my darling!
And then the bloody head of the rose falls off, having been stuck on with sellotape by Mr Islamabaddie.
–¡Our love is doomed!

Fortunately she didn’t shoot me, although she could (and probably should) have.

How I like my roses:

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