I'm lucky I didn't decorate the house for Christmas. Not a nativity scene, not a tree, not a King doll climbing over the balcony, not an illuminated railing, not even a polygonal discotheque. Nothing. Because? Am I a follower of the Grinch? not at all Almost the opposite. I have always been very sad when the Christmas festivities ended, and the consequence of that ending was having to remove the garlands and other decorative elements from the house. So to avoid that, I decided not to wear any. It's an absurd act because by the same rule of three I wouldn't go on vacation because when I come back I'm very sorry that it's over.
I feel like I'm going against the times. In this country it is customary to overdecorate. There are municipalities that put up Christmas lights for Our Lady of August, turned into a tourist attraction. The ignition is a whole event to which the staff attends as if they were attending a ColdPlay or Camela concert. With much more public than the investiture of an aedile.
The mayors compete to see who has the most spectacular lighting, the biggest tree, the highest Star of Bethlehem. Before, the towns competed for who had the biggest summer trophy. A Coruña versus Cádiz. Teresa Herrera versus Ramón de Carranza. But global football no longer understands summer trophies, it ignores the appeal of a Colo Colo-Barça that ended in a sure fire. Now the big clubs prostitute themselves in such a way that they have no problem playing a classic in Miami at the end of July, or a Spanish Super Cup in Saudi Arabia, which we are used to, but next week he returns to play in Riyadh, a heritage that we receive thanks to the legacy of modern football professionals such as Rubiales or Piqué.
While this Super Cup is being played, many streets in Spanish municipalities will be taking down the Christmas decorations. A job of the municipal brigade, a power in the shadow of many councils to which I hope that Glòria Serra will dedicate a research team to them this 2024.
After this League of Extraordinary Mayors who fought for the cup of Aviamquitémésbombetesperòpocallum, it is time to dismantle the stand. And with that, the breakup of relationships that had become strong this Christmas. That neighbor who will miss the flickering light bulb of the B de Bones Festes, which crept through the window of the 1st 2nd, every night, like a bright and exciting wink, she who always loved it more with the light off Or this endearing twenty-fifth of December fumfumfumhascutunyonetrosiblancquet who has enlivened all his naps since last December 5th.
The fact that the festivities are over is confirmed by the fact that I have two open bottles of cava in the fridge, both with a coffee spoon in the neck. I know it doesn't work, but I keep doing it. With how many spoons in the bottle of cava do we continue to deceive ourselves? Signing up for the gym and not going; buy a stationary bike and turn it into a piece of furniture, or bring a Brazilian striker who in a few months will give you the same excitement as Rafinha cutting near the area.
We need stimuli, however false they may be. Carrots that allow us to continue, even if it is on a wheel. Fans are already excited for next month's carnival. Or for the Galician elections. Or for the future illegalization of parties. Or for the next genocide broadcast on television.
There are also those who will think that tomorrow is the 7th and that there is one less day left until Christmas. Meanwhile, in the office, at the supermarket or in the queue at the outpatient clinic, the most repeated comment will be quinesganestenia quesacabessien. We have eleven months to forget it.
