The Temple of Debod is an authentic ancient Egyptian temple. It is estimated that between 200 and 180 BC, King Adijalamani ordered the construction of a chapel on the bank of the Nile dedicated to the gods Amun and Isis. In the 60s of the 20th century (small time jump), the huge reservoir caused by the Aswan Dam. Spain collaborated to save these monuments, so in 1968 the Egyptian Government donated the temple to Spain. If we had helped save the great pyramid of Giza, we would have to see Callao today. Stone by stone, the temple was moved to the Parque del Oeste area of Madrid. It is one of the few monuments of pharaonic architecture outside of Egypt, the only one of its kind in Spain, and the only one at the level of Isabel Díaz Ayuso, who delivered this Sunday, at the PP demonstration against the Government’s corruption, one of the best expressions of the year: “Our beloved Pamplona!”
Pamplona, yes. Pamplona sold to PNV and Bildu by the PSOE thanks to public works and whitewashing the history of terrorism, Ayuso said. Pamplona, where the first plots of Santos Cerdán and Koldo García came from. “Our beloved Pamplona!” shouted the president. It was a heartbroken cry of loss, of nothing that can be done now. What they have done with Pamplona. Terrorism and public works have deposited us here. “Cunnilingus and psychiatry have led us to this,” Tony Soprano tells his wife Carmela, sitting on the bed, despondent over the imminence of a mafia war.
“Indeed, mafia or democracy” is the motto of the demonstration. You already have to be more than enough, you already have to know that you are going to win the elections with 50 seats difference, when you call a demonstration on Sunday on Thursday and you put in the motto an adverb ending in -mente, which were what Vargas Llosa was looking for in his drafts to eliminate them in a sudden way (witheringly, I was going to say now). The anticlimax, but there they are: cold as hell, thousands of people and only one leader without a jacket or coat, who is Alberto Núñez Feijóo. The leader of the PP warned that after Cerdán and Ábalos it will be Sánchez who ends up in jail. These phrases cannot be said with a three-quarter dress or with a scarf like the one Rajoy wore. They must be said openly. Among the people, hundreds of Spanish flags and none of the PP, as Feijóo had requested the day before. In Galicia he also asked that there be no PP flags and sometimes, when things were going very badly in Madrid, he also suppressed the acronyms. Rajoy has fame but be careful with Feijóo, there is a commedia good in there.
In the surrounding bars, cheers with hot chocolate and Telemadrid at euphoric volume. There is a special for the demonstration. Spain on the eaves. Tremendous anger of the commentators with Vox, to whom they dedicate their worst words for not supporting the demonstration. One criticizes Abascal’s “shamelessness” for not being present when a 600-year-old nation is being destroyed (every ten years its age is increased by a hundred). Another or the same, I think Carlos Dávila, warns that this is not the time for lukewarmness: “What is happening in Spain is so important that the tiquismiquis have to stay at home.”
The music sounds The Godfather before the event and after The final countdown from Europe, poor Joey Tempest who has ended up in the hands of DJ Pulpo. I go to Google to see what happened to Joey Tempest and it turns out that he is 62 years old. So he must have been 11 when he sang the song. Almeida presents Ayuso as a woman persecuted by the powers of the State. She looks persecuted. He dedicates a good part of his speech to terrorism and another part to an unknown talk show host, someone he does not cite but constantly suggests. He must have argued with a journalist from his ideological orbit before going up to the lectern and it shows. Pseudomentions all the time. The “equidistant” ones, those who are “moderate and are just cowards,” and have “neck sprains, we who go forward don’t have those pains.” Tremendous ovation (people applaud a lot, but it’s horribly cold).
“Our pains are different,” says Ayuso, addressing the person who has sprained his neck from looking the other way, who knows what he read that morning in the newspaper. “Our pains are different: in the soul.” He made a gesture as if to point it out before realizing that who knows where we have the soul, and if we have it. So he just looked at the horizon, his gaze bright.
