The tantrum that Madrid is throwing over the referees is the most apotheotic exercise in cynicism seen in recent footballing times. They are the footballing incarnation of eternal Spain, the señorío turned into a shirt, the Cid Campeador who scores winning goals in the ninetieth minute and beyond. They give interviews with the 15 European Cups behind them, they have more Leagues than anyone else and a president who is a de facto power of the Ibex who hires and fires journalists. To have it all, they even have the crown presiding over their crest. They have everything in their favor. They have always had everything in their favor (I made my debut at the Camp Nou with Guruceta). And yet, their TV channel states that "the only thing missing is a circular that allows Madrid's rivals to take the field armed with revolvers".
It is the monumental smokescreen needed to cover up the fact that the team has not won anything for two years, that the only time they tried to have a project (with Xabi Alonso) they destroyed it, that with Mourinho they still play nothing, that the squad is poorly built, that the Madrilenian Rodri preferred to sign for Barça and that, as the six points in seven league matches show, the comparison with Barça's play and goals is unbearable.
Seen from Catalonia, it has a delicious science-fiction component: Madrid is the victim and Barça is the master pulling the strings of a conspiracy to not let them compete, in which everyone participates (including those who welcome the blue and reds shouting "F... Barça, f... Catalonia!" and those who put their hand on their truncheon as soon as they see an estelada). It would be fantastic if Catalan politics, one day, were also capable of taking us to this upside-down world.
