Today, December 22, Spain is very hard to love. The rest of the year it's not hard for me to get along reasonably well with a country that has its little things, but it holds very well the comparison with countless other countries. Strolling down Carmen Street in the previous weeks and face the queue of Doña Manolita is already a very tough test; but, if we accelerate the pace and do not look much, we can get to Plaza de Callao, still convinced that Spain is not so bad, in spite of everything. On the 22nd, however, there is no escape: by cathodes, heresies and bits, the most superstitious, miraculous and counter-reformist Spain attacks, bombards and defeats any democratic focus of resistance. At the end of the morning, all the rational and progressive Spaniards have surrendered and we barely hold a white trapillo, begging for mercy: no more fifth prizes, no more millions of euros, no more champagne corks, no more holes covered. For mercy.
It is no consolation to know that the lottery is a Bourbon invention of the eighteenth century (and, therefore, unrelated to the black legend of the Austrians): the Catholic and carnivalesque Spanish people incorporated it very early into the repertoire of superstitions, and the tradition only endured in a century, the XXI, which has seen how science cures some cancers and sends probes into interstellar space, but it becomes strong and hegemonic between a pandemonium of irrational beliefs, such as homeopathy or the conviction with which Pablo Iglesias he expresses that he will be president of the government. The TV is largely guilty, because, although the Christmas lottery has a liturgy more than crier and costumbrista article by Mesonero Romanos -with orphans included-, it is very telegenic. The overacting, the delirium, the shouting at the doors of the administrations: nothing would have the same force without cameras. Luckily, it only lasts one morning. Tomorrow we will pretend that nothing has happened and we can defend again that Spain is not such a bad country.