I’m going to pretend that today is not a struggle between fascism and democracy, or between freedom and communism. I am going to convince myself that these are only regional elections and not the final combat of the war between civilization and barbarism. I am going to act as if tomorrow I am going to wake up in a country substantially identical to today. It should not involve a great effort: I am a citizen of another taifa and I can afford to tell Madrid politicians that “go and let them wave with the remain “. In the elections of my autonomous community, they discussed public transport and how many students were needed to keep a school open in a town. The fascism and freedom thing was great for us, perhaps because we are very provincial.
The nation of nations of Spain tends to be summarized in two: Madrid and the rest, the rest being irrelevant. Just as books that are not novels resign themselves to the “non-fiction” shelf, most of us Spaniards already define ourselves as “not from Madrid”. Like non-fiction, we occupy the ugliest and least attractive place in the bookstore, and we contemplate with resentment how the people of Madrid take over the entire showcase and make any trouble that falls within the M-30 into historical and national.
I know I won’t be able to, and this column is an early surrender. My strength will fail as the closing of the polling stations approaches, and I can already see myself at night, with a pizza in front of the TV, enjoying the greatest political spectacle there is. I will play with the Ferreras pactometer and I will be infected with the euphoria and rage that dominate the count. As a good non-Madrilenian, I cannot lose the rubble of what happens in Madrid.
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