Small Beds and Large Bears

The Hotel España has an air of faded glamour about it. Its entrance is on the Carrer de Sant Pau, just off Barcelona’s Ramblas; a quiet, semi-pedestrianized street, it leads few people to the hotel doors by mere happenstance. The windows that open onto the street suggest a clean, well-maintained establishment worthy at least of [...]

When I think of Spain as only recently emerging from the shadow of (what the hegemony calls etc. etc.) “the developing world” I tend to feel more affectionate and indulgent towards it. The presence of two vegetarian restaurants near Las Ramblas—even if, as at the Reading Festival, you can only buy dolphin-friendly falafel on wholemeal [...]

Santa is asleep, dead drunk on a rock ‘n’ roll combination of sherry and milk. Looks like someone’s been drawing on him in his sleep. Ssh. Don’t wake him. Get the camera first.
Merry Christmas.

I have a couple of items pending for tomorrow, but owing to Christmas drunkenness would like to disclaim any factual or grammatical errors until I’ve had a chance to peruse them with a clear head. That is all.

John Lennon. He’s 25 years dead, and what’re you doing about it this Christmas? Parsonally, Jocahsta and I are hahlahting his plaiht by drouwing a bowx rahwnd him. Free Mumia.

Serj Tankian, lead singer of System of a Down, recently declared at the MTV Music Awards that “Civilization has failed.” And that was before he got a box round his head.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house/ Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;/All except Bjork who, with lips puckered out,/ Looked quite like a mouse with her hamsterish pout.
Anyway, it’s Björk, isn’t it? And, from the looks of that stray umlaut on the calendar, December the twenty-föurth.

Overwhelmed by seasonal goodwill, Shakira can’t stop blubbing, the milksop. Her mascara is running, and one can clearly make out the numbers “2” and “1” on her cheeks.

Get ready for the turkey! December 2nd’s George Foreman, standing idly to one side of this set of quality knives in a space-age brushed-metal block, clearly approves. I don’t think you can get fat-free basters, though.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. But as Frank Black is wearing sunglasses, one has to be content with a newly-inscribed window on his paunch. Oh, look! There’s a Christmas pudding in there! You’re on Atkins in the new year, Charles.