The other day, when Tamara Falcó released the bombshell of her marriage commitment to Íñigo Onieva on Instagram, I heard myself scream in the silence of the central chapel, sorry, Newsroom, of this cathedral of journalism: "Tamara is getting married!"
Immediately, behind my back, a colleague from Internacional who was covering the last hour of the Russian nuclear threat, terrified, replied, genuinely interested in the scoop: "Tamara, what Tamara?" absolute frivolity, I answered very dignified: “Putin, what Putin?”.
The laughter of the respectable farce-sized audience, at the time renowned journalists with decades of experience in deciding what is and what is not news, still resonates in my conscience.
What has happened since then — comings, goings, dimes, diretes, script twists and breaking up of the perfect couple until yesterday — is already the history of Spain, punctually glossed in some of the most viewed articles in this newspaper.
There are those who are scandalized that, while in the Ukraine the dead of Izium emerge, in Iran they kill women for removing their veils, in Italy the extreme right of Giorgia Meloni wins, and here the queues of hunger overflow and the murdered women pile up on us for their partners, so many of us are so entertained with the horns of an ultra-Catholic posh on the nose of another posh pichabrava who was seen coming from the very desert of Nevada where they have caught him kissing another lady.
And me, it doesn't bother you.
But I understand perfectly why it fascinates us to attend a fast-paced melodrama live that allows us to verify that the rich also cry, sing the I already said it, summarily judge our neighbor without paying the costs and evade even half a minute of our bitch life.
Pan and Tamara, okay, but, frightened as we are, there is no bomb news that competes with that, unless it blows up your own ass.
By the way, at this point, the colleague from Internacional, stung in her pride as a journalist by race, not only knows who Tamara is, but she is the one who tells me the news, without taking her eyes off for a second Vladimir Putin.
If possible.
Pan and Tamara, okay, but, frightened as we are, there is no bomb news that competes with that, unless it blows up your own ass.
By the way, at this point, the colleague from Internacional, stung in her pride as a journalist by race, not only knows who Tamara is, but she is the one who tells me the news, without taking her eyes off for a second Vladimir Putin.
If possible.
Pan and Tamara, okay, but, frightened as we are, there is no bomb news that competes with that, unless it blows up your own ass.
By the way, at this point, the colleague from Internacional, stung in her pride as a journalist by race, not only knows who Tamara is, but she is the one who tells me the news, without taking her eyes off for a second Vladimir Putin.
If possible.
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