To Pedro Sánchez Pérez-Castejón, president of the Spanish government, in these lines he does not wear the shirt on his chest. This is not a metaphor, it is just a simple observation of what happened after being able to observe it the other afternoon from all angles just inches from my jet. According to shirt masters, tight neck height is the result of measuring with a seamstress’s belt the collar of the garment just below the bare skin, leaving the neck to insert a finger. What doesn’t specify is which finger. Because he is not the same as someone who caresses the sotabarba like a spray who wants to cut waste. The fact is that the other day, in the Christmas Cup that the Government offers to journalists, to the president, free from the yugo of the corbata with which, for the morning, he was asked before his uncomfortable questions apparently of the balance of the political course, leaving a minimum amount of three figures between the galillo and the first open button. Partly, I suppose, because of disgust. Partly, I suppose, to leave room for the frogs who, according to the same, had to swallow each other until some of them, designated by their index finger as princes of the PSOE, left the house.
If I saw all this, it is because I am left with this ten-year-old custom called corridors, in which the chroniclers, in the middle of 2025, continue to gather around the spring, forming three, four and five lines of audience catching the ear to see something and with the face of being in the presence of the most almighty, that nadie is bitter and sweet to know each other in the ointment, even if the gods in question are not in your skin. Then you have to decide that Sánchez is in the area. The expense of the morning may have to be forgiven, the hours being distributed among all the guests like a beginner at a wedding, with the face of a mystic poet and the jaw of a witch chewing her unjust bell. It’s like, who was upset by a pandemic, a volcano and a dance without losing his mind, having to see in these times rotten manzanas and satyrs in his own basket, I’m sorry for what he thought.
At the end, when I took him to his room, someone asked him if he had put the Christmas lottery in the bag. Yes, but look, don’t touch me: the only thing I miss is that Gordo touched me, I contested, as if hearing the corresponding denunciation of Manos Limpias, to the UCO reviewing the balls and bombs of the draw, and to the Juez Peinado calling to declare as testimony to the children of San Ildefonso for their sudden enrichment. The same goes for my warm spirit and all my imaginations. I need a vacation.
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