Mayor García Albiol, who I would say has a Christmas tree for decades, has published the photo of a pathetic "human scum", he called him, presumably handcuffed, who had snatched a grandmother's bag. The mayor said: "If it were up to me, I'd send him back swimming to Morocco. Unfortunately, thanks to the current government, tomorrow he'll be back on the street", which is a very subtle way of highlighting his origin. "You have to be a real scoundrel to mug an octogenarian woman. Today it didn't go well for him", he also said.
Seeing the individual's eyes and his gaunt appearance, we can already conclude that he cannot be left swimming even in a ball pit. The being that García Albiol has rushed to show on social networks seems to have serious addiction problems. He is not "a Moroccan", he is not "a Badalonian", he is not "a Catalan". He is an addict.
We find ourselves at a vital moment when many things from the eighties, which we thought we had lost sight of forever, are returning. And we haven't learned anything. In those years, some of the boys in our class, the most unfortunate, became addicted to heroin. They prostituted themselves to inject there, on the same mattress of coitus. They stole what they could. Some died of overdose. From my class, one. We are there, again.
Pointing out that this being is Moroccan makes no sense, because it wouldn't make sense if it were pointed out that he isn't. Some of the well-educated young people who will applaud this tweet will never touch heroin, but they have already touched other drugs, the "cool" ones, the ones that seem easy to control, the ones that seem "recreational", the status ones. In the eighties, there was the drug of those who played the guitar and the drug of the managers. We must not forget, either, those bloated managers, incapable of focusing on anything, always hysterical, and chaining one isotonic drink after another.
