#Franco Columbu

[risefromyour]

[messias2049br]

New York 1972: Arnold Schwarzenegger and Franco Columbu witnessing the IFBB Mr. World and Mr. America show. Photo by: Geroge Butler

[golden-era-aesthetics]

"I'm the strongest bodybuilder who ever lived..." - Franco Columbu (Mr. Olympia 1976 and 1981). And he really was. Pound for pound Franco was the strongest and most athletic bodybuilder of his time. He never weighted over 200lbs and yet could bench 520lbs with good form and pull 700lbs on deadlift easily. He was also very agile and quick from his previous years of being a high level boxer out of Sardinia. Where he lacked in height, he more than made up for it in every other faucet of physical ability. I challenge you to do some reading up on this man and try not to be awestruck by his list of accolades.

[nbnbd]

[theactioneer]

Taken Alive (Philip Marcus, 1994)

[bulkvanderhuge42]

[awasilyus-blog]

Franco Columbu ...Arnold Schwarzenegger collage

[sidonius5]

𝒪𝓇𝓅𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗮 𝗗𝗼𝗼𝗺 (𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐉𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬), 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗻 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒿𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝑜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑔𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓉𝒽 𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝑒𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝒷𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒸 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝒷𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝒷𝓈𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝓅𝓊𝓁𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓌 𝓈𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝓌𝓃𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝒻𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒶𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝓃𝑔𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗻, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝑔𝑒𝓉𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓐𝓽𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓢𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝗞𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗿𝗼𝗿 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝒻𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒. ℐ𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝒾𝓃𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓂, 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓅𝑜𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝒾𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝑜𝒹 𝗖𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝓂𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝒸 𝒢𝑜𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓒𝓲𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓷 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 ℋ𝓎𝒷𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝒜𝑔𝑒. 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉 𝗧𝗵𝘂𝗹𝘀𝗮 𝗗𝗼𝗼𝗺 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝒾𝒹𝒹𝓁𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓁 𝒷𝓎 𝒽𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈. ℐ 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓋𝒾𝑒, 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 4𝓉𝒽 𝐀𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐳𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓂 ℐ 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓉'𝓈 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉. ℐ𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓉, 𝓉��𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓉.

[checkyourhead1992]

joseph quinn announced for horrorhound when

[fadingtimetravelqueen]

Vancouver Whitecaps Earn a Point with Late Penalty in Draw against Kansas

 Ryan Gauld's goal secures a 1-1 draw for the Whitecaps in MLS clash

Date: June 4, 2023

In an exciting Major League Soccer (MLS) matchup on Saturday night, the Vancouver Whitecaps fought back to claim a point against Sporting Kansas City with a(more)

[morallyinept]

Pump - A Javier Peña One Shot

Summary: A man starts coming into the gym where you work, and you find you can't keep your eyes off him when he starts to pump...

Pairing: Javier Peña x GN!Reader (No name, defined sex or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 2.6k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️ “Don't hurt me, cadejo."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: PWP/Javi wearing the tiniest satin shorts ever made/cock outline/possible peek of a ball/very pervy thoughts over a very sweaty Javi 🥵

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I saw this amazing fanart today of Javi, and the thots just thotted the fuck out of me... 🫠

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

His visits are the fucking highlight of your day.

You find yourself searching for him as you meander through the gym with an added bounce in your step, stack of laundered towels in hand as you drop them around the equipment like newspapers tossed on garden lawns.

Rows of clunky weightlifting machines stand proudly, their chrome frames gleaming under the dim fluorescent lights.

Tattered, vinyl-covered benches line the perimeter of the room, each one bearing the marks of countless hours of use by sweaty bodies and muscled lunkheads striving for physical perfection.

The sound of heavy metal plates clinking together fills the air as the group of agents, from the local DEA office across the steamed pavement street, load up barbells and dumbbells, their focused expressions a melee of pinched, taut brows and refined muscles.

Despite the seriousness of their profession, the moderately sized gym is a tatty haven where they can unwind and bond over their shared passion for catching dangerous narcos and pumping iron in machismo camaraderie.

The walls in Manny’s Gym are adorned with curled edge motivational posters featuring slogans like No Pain, No Gain and Train Hard, Fight Easy, with iconic muscle men of the current era plastered over them like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Franco Columbu, and Lou Ferrigno, serving as constant reminders of the grit and determination required to succeed in both the gym and the field.

The air is always thick with the unmistakable scent of musky sweat, mingling with the earthy aroma of old leather from well-worn punch bags that hang from the ceiling like dangling scrotums swaying in a pendulous rhythm.

Steamy showers and weak powdery deodorant permeates. It’s a heady concoction that hints at the countless hours of exertion and dedication that's saturated the space.

A scent that you’re all too familiar with and breathe in like starved oxygen.

The wooden floor creaks beneath your sneakers as you make your way further into the gym, the sound echoing off the walls.

As you approach the rows of clunky weightlifting machines, the tangy scent of metal fills your nostrils, accompanied by the faint whiff of oil used to lubricate the gears.

Despite his gruff exterior, Manny himself hosts a warm and welcoming demeanour to the regular gym goers, always ready with a word of encouragement, or a pat on the back for those who train under his roof.

He takes great pride in the sense of community that’s flourished within the gym, fostering a supportive environment where the local Bogotá law and DEA alike choose to pump here.

It’s not exclusive, your regular Joe Sixpack will frequent on occasion, but the familiar faces make it far more easy on the eye as you bask in the array of sweaty limbs on the daily.

They give you wolf-whistles and jeers as you shimmy on by handing out towels and sweat bands with a beaming, enticing smile.

But you don’t pay them no mind when they flirt back and grin with glistening rows of hungry teeth like you’re ripe for the plucking. A juicy peach bobbing in a swamp full of toothless alligators. They're physically respectful despite their obvious leers.

Most of them aren't really your type anyway. Stiff, upper pale bodies with honeyed hair falling in waves; the Americans are all the same Mattel crafted hard plastic.

Whereas you prefer something more dark and velvety rich like Colombian coffee that goes down easy and smooth and leaves a heady aftertaste on your lips.

There's one man in particular you'd like to drink down, whom you’ve noticed coming in a few times in recent weeks.

It’s hard to forget him with those tiny, satin shorts he wears in a stark canary yellow, and riding dangerously high up his lean, caramel thighs.

A break in the tight denim jeans that wrap around his legs when you’ve spied him leaving the gym, freshly clean and dressed after a hard workout, and heading back into the office.

Package stuffed tight up in there, poor thing; the brilliant tightness restricting and choking around that hefty bulge all day.

A neatly trimmed moustache adorns his upper lip, thick and fluffy, adding a touch of rugged charm to his otherwise clean-cut appearance. His standard issue DEA gym t-shirt seems a little on the small side, hugging around his golden biceps and riding skintight across the broadest set of shoulders you’ve ever seen on a man his size; a complete opposing parallel to the trimness of his waist. He’s like an inverted triangle.

It rides up a little over his tiny belly; a galaxy of dark hairs trailing down into his shorts that makes you lick your lips every time your eyes fall onto that hairy column.

His dark brown hair, slicked back slightly and curling on the nape, glistens with sweat, adding to his aura of intensity and focus. He exudes an effortless confidence as he moves from one exercise to the next.

The Latino-looking man focuses on a combination of strength training and cardio, showcasing his versatility and athleticism needed for the job he does.

And you find yourself enthralled in his routine, interrupting yours as you covertly watch him from behind the small desk trying not to flood it with your drool.

He usually starts with a set of heavy deadlifts; the sound of his puffs hissing through his teeth and reverberating through the gym as he lifts with perfect form.

Next, he moves on to explosive plyometric jumps. Clad in those tiny, satin shorts that hug his muscular thighs, his powerful legs propel him effortlessly into the air before landing with precision. You can’t help but watch as the muscles and cords in his thighs ripple with each slam of his soles on the floor.

Throughout his workout, he maintains a steely determination and laser-like focus with punishing chocolate eyes, pushing himself to the limit with each repetition; sweat glistening around his brow and temples and falling in tracks.

Despite the intensity of his workouts, there’s a relaxed confidence in his demeanour, reflected in the easy, fluid movements of his svelte body as he moves through the reps.

You watch his back move and shift, broad shoulder blades folding in and out as they flex under the snug fit of his fading t-shirt. His posture is upright and nonplussed, conveying a sense of self-assurance.

Standing at an average height, his frame is lean, yet powerful, and you can’t help but let your thoughts drift into murky territories as your eyes wander all over him and drink him up like a quenching soda on a sweltering day.

You know very little about him, only hearing his name muttered by the other agents as he addresses them pre-work, out or when they stop mid-way through to discuss, what you can only assume, is the cases they’re working on.

The dusty jukebox in the corner playing the current Billy Idol hit drowns them out somewhat at this distance.

But they call him Peña, or Javi as they sometimes greet him through lazy Spanish chit-chat.

He called you cariño once as he passed, mouthing a good morning to you with little effort.

He speaks with a soft, deep cadence; a gravelled grizzle wrapped around his pert lips, which is almost muted and out of full earshot.

But the one thing that's unmistakably loud and clear, is the grunting that pelts out of him.

Particularly when he does bench presses, or those barbell squats with the large weight resting on his shoulders. A deep, guttural grunt ruts out of him that sets your skin alight and makes your genitals want to break out the pompoms and start cheering his name doing high kicks.

They flow unabashed out of him as he pants and hisses. And you like it when he does those squats the most, watching as he parts his feet steady, and slowly lowers his pert ass down towards the floor, rendering those tiny shorts to almost disappear entirely into the rounded crack of his cheeks.

Fuck...

Javi focuses on his reflection in the mirror, lips curled back under that buoyant dark fluff lining his top lip, and teeth clenched in a snarl as he breathes out and grunts loudly with every push upwards from those strong thighs that tense and quiver.

As you observe him from across the gym, you can't ignore the undeniable attraction you feel towards him as it licks up your spine; it makes you clench and sweat just watching him and the fantastic sex-like faces he makes in the mirror.

His sculpted physique and rugged good looks are certainly appealing, but your eyes betray you and head further south at the constant movement inside his flimsy shorts.

Gaudy in their brightness, you see past them at the way they flout their thinness like they’re almost fucking see-through. You like the tease of how low they sit on his svelte hips. A simple tug and they’ll be round his ankles with ease.

You can make out the perfect outline of his heavy, flaccid cock hanging between his legs. Curves and ridges imprinted against the material like muscle memory. Flopping about so uncouthly as he moves like it’s battering you in the face.

Jesus fucking Christ.

With your task temporarily forgotten and brain slowly sluicing out of your ears, the sight of his cock outlining around the thin satin draws you in further. A third arm beckoning you in. Punching against the material with every movement from his hips as though you're mesmerised and drunk on the wildly pornographic view.

You’re pretty certain he’s not wearing any underwear, which is only confirmed by a fuzzy, pink sack peeping out at you some time later when he works on the bench, and draws his leg up.

You swallow dryly as you stare at it, and wonder instantly what it would taste like as you imagine running your mouth around its swell.

Tasting damp, matted pubic hairs sticking to your tongue, with a salted sweat and mixture of his own masculine musk on your tastebuds, and the more you ponder it, the more it makes your mouth water.

You just want to push him back on the bench, naked from the waist down except for his faded white sneakers on, ribbed thick socks pulled up to his shins, and spread his legs wide.

You want to slide your inquisitive tongue all over those sweaty, heavy balls of his and watch his cock throb and pulse before taking it deep into your throat.

A tight clench and a hiss. A pucker of a fluttering hole as you tease it with your tongue. Lips and hips bruised in unison.

Googly frog eyes stare out at him in wonder. A noise at the back of your throat registers, something inhuman between a gulp and a hiccup as he rises up again off the bench.

Humming and sighing audibly as he presents that ass out at you, shorts flapping around his cock lewdly in the mirror’s reflection as he squats again.

As you observe him from across the gym, you feel the pull of heavy want flooding your body in a stifling and suffocating heat. It makes your toes tingle and your heart thrum a bit harder. White noise steams inside your ears.

The dull, aching throb between your own legs makes you shift uncomfortably in the chair as you gulp and swallow at the spectacle.

With each lift of the weights and every drop of sweat that glistens on his brow and moustache, you find your mind sinking further into a perverted swamp of lust and unbridled thoughts running amok over your amygdala.

In your mind, Javi’s pushing you up against the mirror, face crushed against it, trailing bites down on the back of your slick neck like a dog in heat. Your breath fogging against the reflective sheet as he pins your wrists to it with his hands, leaving misty fingerprint smears on the polished glass.

You can taste the sweat on his top lip, fuzzy and damp, and it's damn delicious as he pushes his crotch into your ass. Hard and thick under those flimsy, lacquer-like shorts, leaking a patch of pre-cum soaking into them that blooms and darkens the silk.

His hands let go of your wrists and work their way down your arms, tickling gently and sending prickles to bubble and blister against your burning skin. He skims over your belly and hovers above your waistband; his hot breath inside your ears in gaspy, mouthed moans as he breathes out.

He whispers how much he wants you, how much he wants everyone to watch him fuck you up agasint this mirror, before he slips his nimble, thick fingers down inside the front of your shorts, grinding and rubbing himself against you.

He’s pulling down his satin shorts to let his hard, thick cock bounce out at you, pumping its uncut, rosy head inside his giant hand. Weeping and sticky, it shines at you as his fingers and thumb smear in the secretions, and you watch as he licks his fingers free of his own greased drippings.

You lick your lips ready for a taste as he guides the bulbous head towards your mouth as you sink, thudding to your knees. Feel him weighty and warm in your palm, squeezing just under the head and sliding the skin back to reveal that succulent bulb as you lick the tip and taste glassy bubbles flowing from him before swallowing him down deep.

Suck it, cariño, yeah like that… Tómalo todo. Trágatelo profundo. Si… aah, si. Fuck... (Take it all. Swallow it deep. Yes, aah yes.)

Lost in your thoughts, you barely notice when Javi actually glances in your direction; his dark eyes meeting yours briefly with a knitted brow and pink pout, before returning to his workout.

The brief exchange sends a thrill of wanton excitement coursing through your veins, igniting a spark of curiosity and anticipation that you can't ignore as it pulls tight between your legs and makes you pulse.

As the DEA agent finishes his workout and begins to gather his belongings - he carries a modest blue duffle bag, although never takes anything out of it's fullness - you can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of him leaving you so riled up for another day.

He grabs his worn water bottle and squeezes a stream of water into his mouth, swallowing deep and plentiful mouthfuls of the jet, and wipes at his lips with the back of his hand when some of it trickles down his smoothly shaved chin.

You watch him pick up the towel you’d laid out, wipe his face off and that onyx-like stare is in your direction again. Two pools of dark tar sucking you in.

A wet, slithery thought creeping in between your ears makes a mental note to take that towel when he's done and defile the fuck out of it.

He finds something in your eyes, perhaps something that excites him, or repulses him. You’re not sure. You’re yet to embark on any formal conversation beyond a simple greeting out of politeness.

As Javi makes his way towards you, passing the desk towards the showers, you're convinced you see a small smirk prick at the corners of his lips.

Another wanton thought bolts its way into the filthy pit of your mind. You see yourself rising up on the balls of your feet in the shower block and presenting your behind out to him and he bends you over further to touch your toes.

You feel his grip around your waist as he slides in and packs you out, stretching you around him. Knees buckling and being drowned by the spray from above as he fucks you hard against the cool, mildewed tiles in the shower block.

You feel like your spine will crack with the pressure, but you don’t care as he pulls you back, hammering up into you. Fingers grazing around your throat, teeth biting into the ball of your wet shoulder.

So fucking tight, just like I love it, baby...

You're gasping his name as your orgasm rips through you and he spills himself inside of your hole with Spanish expletives howling in your ear.

His thick, plentiful come seeps out of you; leaking, pouring. So much pumped into you as he grunts into your ear - shuddering with a high-octane thrill as his moustache tickles against your skin.

You’ll think about this again - about him - when you're at home later; that towel shoved between your legs and soaked with your own leakings.

You catch the hazy scent of Javi as he passes by the desk, subtly inhaling the stench of his sweat; an intoxicating, potent blend of musk and masculinity that leaves you feeling breathless.

A primal aroma that grabs you by the lapels to shake the cock-addled stupid out of you as you catch a glimpse of that package swaying and bobbing around in his tiny flaxen shorts to torment you further.

And once more you swallow around a constricted gulp as he meets your wandering gaze.

“Hasta la próxima vez, cariño.” (See you next time, honey.) He simply husks, as he tosses his duffle bag over his shoulder and struts towards the showers.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this sweaty story. Please consider re-blogging so others can enjoy it too. Thankies! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST

[fatehbaz]

Don Quixote in fascist cyberspace. Following Francoist propaganda in the 20th century, fascist politicians of the 21st century continue to co-opt Cervantes and Don Quixote in service of nationalism. The contemporary Vox party calls for a “new Reconquista” of Spain, a “crusade” against feminism and African immigrants, to defeat the “giants” of “climate fundamentalism” and “gender ideology”.

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It’s said that Don Quixote and his faithful squire Sancho Panza were riding their horses in the dark night when they heard the sound of dogs barking. Trying to console the frightened Sancho, Don Quixote uttered what may be the most quoted line attributed to him: “Let the dogs bark, Sancho, it’s a sign that we are on track.” Today, the phrase is used to express the notion that if someone criticises (barks at) you, it’s a sign you are on the rise. Dogs bark at the moon, don’t they? Unfortunately, the quote doesn’t appear anywhere in Miguel de Cervantes’ famous 17th century novel Don Quixote. But that hasn’t stopped it appearing all over the Internet. [...] Anyone who reads the novel will know Cervantes’ hero is first and foremost a parody of a knight. [...] The dreadful and never-imagined (at least, certainly not by Cervantes) portrait of Don Quixote as a crusader is the kind of mistake that sets scholars’ teeth on edge. [...] But that image, sloppily posted on the web, actually comes from somewhere other than mere literary ignorance. From the early 20th century onward, Don Quixote has suffered a paradoxical fate, wrapped in a crusader’s cloak by nationalist propaganda. And this misrepresentation seems to be growing in the 21st century [...].

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The closing of the 19th century saw the gloomy twilight of the Spanish empire. The loss of its last colonial possessions dealt a severe blow to the national spirit. Around this time, the novelist, poet and philosopher Miguel Unamuno wrote an influential essay where he imagined a holy crusade to rescue Don Quixote’s grave.

For Unamuno, Cervantes’ hero was a nostalgic reminder of Spain’s heyday in the 15th to 16th centuries – the days of the “Reconquista”, or Christian reconquest of the Iberian Peninsula from the Moors, and the beginning of Spanish imperial history in America. Tellingly, Unamuno placed Don Quixote alongside Columbus and Magellan – heroes, in his opinion, led by “a generous and big dream: the dream of glory”. Don Quixote thus underwent an odd metamorphosis, from a fallible antihero to an epic ideological hero, from a comic literary character to a national myth. [...]

During the Spanish civil war, the image of crusaders against the “communist and atheist rule” was invoked with ardour by the nationalist cause. After the fall of the republic in 1939, the newly enthroned dictator Francisco Franco flooded the squares with statues of the author of Don Quixote.

With Spain still strewn with war victims, Francoist propaganda recalled the author’s left hand being mutilated from fighting against the Muslims. What better model of Spaniard than the great writer who was crippled in the service of his nation! Thus, Cervantes himself was turned into a crusader knight and a national hero.

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More recently, leaders of the far-right Spanish party Vox have compared its political agenda with Don Quixote’s quest. During a visit to a field of windmills, former party general secretary Javier Ortega Smith declared: “Those are the giants we have to fight against in politics: climate fundamentalism, gender ideology, historical lies, Agenda 2030, absurd animalism […]”

The true Don Quixote was an infamous dreamer, consistently misreading reality and seeing imaginary enemies. That’s probably the only trait he shares with his current nationalist eulogists. But Vox’s identification with Don Quixote is an irony we can’t afford to take too lightly. While reality always defeats Cervantes’ hero, it doesn’t seem to prevent people from tilting at windmills with nationalist rhetoric.

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In its rise to popularity, Vox has encouraged crusades against various “enemies of the nation”, such as the pro-independence campaign in Catalonia and contemporary feminist movements. African immigrants and Muslims are also regular targets.

Santiago Abascal, president of the party, has explicitly called for “a new Reconquista” of Spain to stop the so-called invaders from the south. When asked about it, Abascal said “there was no danger of Islamophobia in Spain: the real danger was Islamophilia.”

Islamophobic and xenophobic views, as well as the use of crusader tropes, are unfortunately familiar among today’s Western nationalisms. Misleading content on the web revolves around the image of medieval Europe as a land populated by white crusaders and nobles. Promoted by white supremacists around the world, this notion of a mythical “West” is even more indefensible in Spanish culture. From the 8th century to the late 15th century, Muslims, Christians and Jews dwelt side by side in Al-Andalus, the Arabic term for medieval Iberia. [...]

There are many wrongs in nationalist appropriations of Don Quixote. To right them is not for the sake of literature alone. [...] Meanwhile, the flamboyant crusader-usurper rides on through cyberspace [...].

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Text by: Roberto Suazo. “From hapless parody to knight crusader -- how far-right nationalism hijacked the real Don Quixote.” The Conversation. 5 January 2023. [Bold emphasis and italicized first paragraph in this post added by me.]

[ultraclassicbodybuilders]

Franco Columbu

[bondshotel]

THE KINGS OF VENICE BEACH!

Arnold Schwarzenegger and Franco Columbu walk down the sidewalk with (now Schwarzenegger's ex-wife) Maria Shriver (C) in the late 70s.

[mattydemise]

Worked out hard with the weights yesterday so haven’t picked them up again today. Went out and hit the heavy bag for about an hour until my shoulders and back were molten with overwork. Focused on the motion and fluidity of my movements. My footwork is good but it could always be better. Good footwork and form is half the battle, the other part is keeping your fucking hands up. Go chuck on some old tapes, back in the golden era with Ali and Foreman, men never dropped their guard. Even in the late 1980s and early 1990s, go back and look at Tyson, his head movements and guard and impeccable, even fighters like Tommy Morrison held up strong. Put on some recent tape and boxers are always dropping guard. When the fuck did that happen? Mayweather is a good example of someone that guards so well it wins him round and after round. In the second half of his career, he became the exemplar of hands up, stand up. Fucked his wrist, lost his power, and then changed his strategy to become the best defensive boxer of all-time. Pernell Whitaker was an exceptional defensive boxer, too. Wladimir Klitschko was great in defence but didn't lack power and the ability to throw hands when he needed too. Pull up the tape and watch the masters work. Footwork and form are the hardest aspects of boxing to master. If you want to see someone with an innate mastery of movement go watch a clip on YouTube called ‘Franco Columbu Being A Badass’. It’s Franco jumping rope and hitting a heavy bag with absolute precision. That’s why he was able to transpose that gift into his bodybuilding career. The man was a naturally gifted athlete. Ranked number fifth in the world in the first ever offical World’s Strongest Man competition and still to this day the shortest man (5′5″) to hold such a high ranking in the competition. Franco is pound-for-pound the strongest professional bodybuilder in history. All of these men, paragons of physical achievement and mastery. I’m proud every time I pick up a weight and throw a well-timed, accurate punch. I think back on the generations of men that’ve come before me that’ve mastered their craft and succeeded. They succeeded and left a legacy and thus I must follow in their footsteps.

[byneddiedingo]

Pumping Iron (George Butler, Robert Fiore, 1977)

Cast: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lou Ferrigno, Matty Ferrigno, Victoria Ferrigno, Mike Katz, Franco Columbu, Ed Corney, Ken Waller, Serge Nubret. Screenplay: George Butler, Robert Fiore. Cinematography: Robert Fiore. Film editing: Geof Bartz, Larence Silk. Music: Michael Small.

The semi-documentary Pumping Iron is often credited as the movie that made an unlikely star (not to mention California governor) out of Arnold Schwarzenegger. But if anything, the film shows that Schwarzenegger possessed the kind of ambition and drive and intelligence that might have propelled his career anyway. The film gets its narrative drive from competition, first between the aspiring bodybuilder Mike Katz and the more experienced Ken Waller, and then repeating that motif with relative newcomer Lou Ferrigno taking on Schwarzenegger at the Mr. Olympia contest. There's a good deal of wit in the characterization of the men, as well as a good deal of fictionalizing -- for example, in the film it's implied that Waller wins because he steals Katz's “lucky” T-shirt,  when in fact it was only a prank that didn't really annoy Katz that much. Schwarzenegger finds similar ways to needle Ferrigno. Pumping Iron is also credited with having propelled physical fitness into a national phenomenon and turning a struggling Venice Beach, Calif., gym into the franchised Gold's Gym International, Inc, with almost 700 locations around the world. It legitimized competitive bodybuilding as a sport -- or almost: There are still those who find the oiled, hairless bodies displaying slabs and blobs of muscle masses in strained and contorted poses ludicrous, and who find the sport graceless in comparison with others that display bodies in motion, like running, swimming, diving, or gymnastics. But even Pumping Iron hints at this gracelessness with an opening scene in which a ballet instructor tries to help Schwarzenegger and other bodybuilders refine their poses.