The nature of Risto Mejide

According to one of the favorite rumors of golden Hollywood, the viperous Louella Parsons owed her career to the blackmail she subjected to the communication magnate, and master in the art of hoax, William Randolph Hearst, whom the chronicler would have covered up after a murder.

When I read that Risto Mejide and Mariló Montero, two of the people who arouse the least sympathy in a media group that does not enjoy many, would broadcast the grapes on Mediaset, I thought of Louella and Hearst, blackmail seemed to me the only justification for a decision that seemed taken over by Atresmedia.

When Risto unleashed his outburst, undisguisingly accusing the competition of using his personal life to gain audiences, I forgot about Louella and remembered the scorpion's words to the frog: "It's my nature."

Risto did what is expected of him: he was lackadaisical, impertinent and unpleasant, and hypocritical, he accused others of something in which Mediaset is

to quote Guardiola's verses.

Precisely him, who not only broadcast #

their last relationship, but also turned their breakup into an embarrassing spectacle, a countdown to the abysses of other people's shame that no withered

overcome.

Like the lumber defender who jumps onto the field to break the leg of the skilful striker because he knows that playing soccer he cannot compete, Risto went to Torrejón de Ardoz with the idea of ​​breaking Obregón and Pedroche, if he could not win in spectators he would thrash indecently .

Not even expelling all its poison did it avoid a tiny audience, inappropriate for a chain that aspires to be the most watched.

A small punishment for a lamentable provocation to which the aforementioned gave an overly elegant response, Greta Thunberg would have deserved that of Andrew Tate.

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