The first televised tournament among the five candidates, five, for the Quirinale was more like a meeting of ill-matched neighbors – where each community member repeats their traumas and no one talks about the stairwell’s spillage – rather than a (civilized) exchange of views. There was no duel, because there were many and everyone focused against everyone, without aligning in blocks. Each one sold their cloth and let their character show through. Moreno, the Great Laurel, green tie and prestigious blue suit, wanted to avoid confrontation at all costs (without succeeding). He sold institutional stability as the solution to all problems – which in his view are not serious because Andalusia has been the Tuscany of the Quattrocento since he has presided over the Junta – and defended himself from attacks flailing like a swimmer who, at times, swallowed quite a bit of water. He had some difficulties, although he disguised them with silences and a serious grimace. Without a doubt, it was the lack of habit.
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One thing is to preach and another to deliver. Gavira is worried that foreigners will take the harvest and the left that social aid does not reach the proletarian masses. But none asked the big question: Will we ever see an Andalusia that does not need aid? Of course, no one explained this. The (acting) president appeared weak in spirit and out of place. Not so much because of the vehemence of his adversaries – who were all – but due to a lack of reflexes. He had to defend himself by attacking, acting as the opposition to his opposition. He seemed surprised that the debate was like a lake with little water and full of crocodiles, instead of a session of mindfulness. He paid for it by receiving constant (verbal) blows from his competitors, ranging from sensationalism to demagogy, without shying away from the martial faith auto (“cruel,” “bad person,” “liar,” “uncompassionate”).
Montero, the Almighty, spoke incessantly about herself. To say it in the (elegant) manner of the classics: Et in Arcadia, Ego. The socialist, dressed in green and without her usual blood red (except for the shoes), replied without hesitation with the Peronist recipe of Susana (Díaz), The One Who Did Not Burn (until she burned), with the difference that She – the former vice president – defends Sánchez, which is one way or another of defending herself.
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The person in charge Gavira (Vox), green tie over executive gray suit, who was assigned the midfield – which is somewhat comical – demonized immigrants and defended national priority and a change of course (towards the ultramontane). The left – Maíllo, jacket without tie, with the elegance of a country fair, and Juan Ignacio (García), sneakers, jeans, t-shirt and jacket with a white and green little flag – were the most forceful and, at times, the most offensive. They had little to lose and much to gain from the confrontation. The more they waved the flaming sword of reproaches, the worse Moreno’s face became, who as president (of the bloc) did not like hearing so many complaints at all. He wanted to talk about love, tenderness, pride, and the future (especially his own). Just like in Verano azul.
Montero was very scandalized by the criticisms of the carriage green Trotskyists, who accused the PSOE of initiating “healthcare privatization” and defended the Catalan quota; Moreno challenged her without making a fuss. Gavira was already there for that. Everyone wasted the opportunity (boring the audience) by getting tangled in minor episodes, instead of articulating a substantive discourse with proposals. In the end, much noise and, as in Cervantes’ sonnet with a tailpiece, niente.
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