In which I proffer my experience in the service of the East European mafia as a model for helping us help the Aricept generation.

Public auctions of wrecks in Barcelona, Pontevedra and Algeciras, with thoughts on how to reduce blogging competition.

Wait, let me check that.

Trademark theft to liven up the Spanish fruit and veg price-war?

Fill in the gaps in this pasquinade on the voiceless velar fricative, which I found last night in Mesonero Romanos’ El antiguo Madrid:
En la plaza hay un cartel
Que nos dice en castellano
Que José, rey italiano,
Roba a España su dosel;
Y al leer este cartel,
Dijo una maja a su majo:
–Manolo, pon ahí abajo
Que me C….. en [...]

Half roasted Frenchmen, some o’er Gratings Broil’d/Do mix with Spaniards in the Sea parboil’d;

(Even if they can’t make a decent paella.)

Between-wars texts about Zaragoza by Germans who appear never to have visited the place.

A Catalan children’s song remembered by Francesc Candel; early rave culture on Central America’s eastern seaboard.

Yo, el vaquilla, quinqui cinema, and the usual political whining.

Xenophobic atavism in the 1640 Reapers Revolt.

A Barcelona scrap-metal dealer only has 12 on the favicon on his website.

With a description of how thieves work Barcelona’s metro station platforms.

Will the pigeon get the cat’s food, or will the cat get the pigeon?

Don’t try to force feminism on women.

Joan Txàpal strikes at the heart of dorkness.

I wondered here whether pew-beating as a means of reliving medieval pogroms was a nineteenth century invented tradition. It was a rather naive question, and confirmation that the practice was already popular in Barcelona in 1848 is to be found in this Libro Verde entry for today, Holy Wednesday.

A British soldier’s hazy recollections of civil war in Portugal.

I hope to post interviews and analysis soon.

It’s no longer a swinging safari now the nature-lovers have got guns too.