This Thursday had been marked in red for weeks. We celebrated a long-awaited dinner with two friends and a friend with whom it is easy to confess. We haven’t known each other since childhood, we didn’t share a neighborhood, or an EGB class, but it seems we grew up on the same block. We could have matched on instinct and remained friends ever since. Life brought us together later. Maybe if we had met in 2nd year of BUP things would not have gone so well. The three meek ones look like they’ve been meat from the recreation room and acne. She, to get excellent grades, and go out with the typical bad guy with Rieju called.
And Thursday came and everything went to shit, because what didn’t fail at his annual appointment with me was spring asthenia. I thought I had dodged it this year, but no. Fatigue, bone pain and boredom appeared. What was supposed to be wine and laughter turned into a combination in a bottle of Solán de Cabras mineral water with oral serum powder. delicatessen What were supposed to be confessions in a cocktail bar turned into pyjamas, a sofa and a payment platform, that very cool place where choosing a series is more difficult than agreeing on the left of the left of the PSOE.
It was the only one I nailed all night: El niño zurdo, on Movistar Plus, with an impeccable MarÃa León. I devoured all six chapters, one after the other. What happens when you find out your 17-year-old son is a neo-Nazi? With a knot in your stomach, you suffer as if the kid was yours and she was his mother.
I finished the series at that time when zapping inevitably leads you to some right-wing talk show. I hadn’t been there for a while, and I detected a certain disappointment with the Feijóo operation. The thing doesn’t work, and Mr. Alberto starts to have Casado’s face and Rajoy’s verb. One day he calls Bruce a sprinter, and the next his pupils dilate in Cadiz, with his history of dangerous friendships.
On the other hand, the right-wing talk show’s face lights up when it pronounces the name of Isabel DÃaz Ayuso, the muse of the entire right, also from the extreme right to the extreme right of the PP. It was Thursday and they were still celebrating Tuesday’s blockade of Minister Bolaños with gossip. Nor a nightclub bouncer placating the one presented to him in moccasins and white socks. The right-wing talk show continues to be fascinated by the tribute that Ayuso instigated. A line of t-shirts at Bershka with the face of its head of protocol is not ruled out. Because now a significant part of the right is a joke. And it grinds them.
I detect in some totems of the social gatherings a certain desire that Feijóo does not do so well in the municipal and regional elections. That Ayuso sweeps Madrid but that the Popular Party does not win, for example, in Valencia. With this scenario, we would reach their dream scenario: that Feijóo would not last, and that Ayuso would be the Popular Party’s candidate for president of Spain. He already has experience loading candidates. Sánchez versus Ayuso, the mother of all battles. The two most killer candidates in Spanish politics. The most ambitious. The two who always come out to win. Without victory his political career no longer makes sense. They are a Barça-Madrid Champions League final. The pinnacle of footballing politics. There is anxiety in the stands.
I finish the záping in a sports talk where the Cup Final is discussed, that trophy that is devalued less when Madrid plays it. They play it against Osasuna, and I don’t see in the national media that journalistic attachment towards the weaker team, as happens when the other rival is Barça. Maybe it’s the asthenia that confuses me. But I’d say I’m not that bad.
