Three years after, like Isabel of Castilla at the gates of Granada, Ada Colau took off her sweaty PAH shirt to dress in long clothes on the main floor of Barcelona City Hall, Pablo Iglesias and Irene Montero – budget rapists – left behind the strictures of Vallecano, they shelved the Ikea catalog in which they pasted the cutouts of the Podemos candidates and moved to Galapagar in a movement that ended up explaining the supreme value of meritocracy to the 15M subscribers. The thing about “You’re not going to have a house in your fucking life”, which didn’t go with them, is quite old. Now recovered by the so-called ‘tenancy’ – already infrastructured, according to the pattern of the manteros and the students, pioneer groups of platform neo-syndicalism -, that slogan was coined just on the eve of the real estate bubble bursting in a financial crisis that, in addition of social havoc, made good the slogan “You’re not going to pay the mortgage in your fucking life.” Precursors of group whining and middle-class victimhood, they did not correctly calculate the tempo, and even less so the object of the bitch. Almost two decades after that founding wail, cackle and claim for every fox with a vocation as guardian of the henhouse, what “You are not going to have a house in your fucking life” returns this fall to the streets, mostly central and with good endowment parameters, as an expression of the impotence of a lumpo left – a substitute for that caviar that served as a surname for our first aristocracy of progress and commitment – that for years has been displaced by the distortion of the real estate market in the urban areas that it chose as an ecosystem and that now strives to spread its anguish, inciting the group of renters. Some move the tree and others collect the nuts that fall inside the chalet. The tree and the nuts, or the grasshopper and the ants. If we continue rewinding this same tape, in 1988 we find the debut of Tarzan and His Puta Madre Okupando Piso en Alkobendas, released on cassette by Sabotaje, an anti-capitalist bray in which can trace the first measures of Spanish ‘hardcore’ and that for the matter at hand places in Alcobendas – at that time accessible in real estate – the headquarters of a relocation with which the Madrid quartet drew its own red line and marked ethical and spatial with the pijerío of that caviar left whose larvae were beginning to nest and spawn in the center of the capital. From those eggs, these chickens. We know who they are, where they live, what places they frequent, from what media pulpits they preach their housing distress, what clothes they wear, what books of self-indulgence and help they read and, above all, how much politicized hatred they profess for the city to which they paradoxically cling, always for the center part, which takes everything at hand. Through social networks we learn about their exquisite gastronomic and spirit tastes, their love for the establishments that open or close and the moral height with which they look over their shoulders. The lumpo left stars in the new Ikea catalog so that members of the tenants’ union (sic) can redecorate their lives, their fucking lives. “Welcome,” said Irene to Pablo, “to the independent republic of your caste.”
#Jesús #Lillo #caste
