Eyes that do not see

In the bar where I drink every day the coffee and the pulse of the bar before getting into the bubble of work, they have made a decision that has me talking alone: to tune out of their 85-inch TV the morning information and political debate programs to put at full throttle Radiolé, Spanish station specialized in copla, pasodoble and that marrullero flamenquito that gives you between high and embarrassment as soon as you take it out of the beach bar of the beaches of Cádiz. Thus, these days, at nine o'clock in the morning, instead of seeing the popular candidate Alberto Núñez Feijóo and the socialist deputy Óscar Puente waxing each other in the investiture debate, in the plasma of the garito Andy and Lucas could be heard chirping that they loved her so much, Bisbal crying the sorrows and Rocío Jurado begging the Lord to help her walk, between the general indifference of the clientele and my astonishment at the for me unusual fact that no one protested. I will be told what I am complaining about. That, with changing bars, everyone happy. I am afraid that the matter is more complex.

Information, not only politics, has less and less public, and journalism, less prestige. Not so many girls want to be princesses anymore, except Leonor de Borbón Ortiz, who nobody asked about it, nor so many boys and girls, journalists. Enrollment is down almost 19%. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the profession is for the UVI. That it is perfectly predictable what each colleague is going to say or write according to the ownership of his medium and the subsidies he receives. That, more than headlines, we throw baits so that the reader bites and that, willingly or unintentionally, we sneak cat for hare too many times. The over-actions of the fathers and mothers of the country, turned into trolls of each other, inside and outside Parliament, do not help to interest politics among citizens either. I do not have the solution to such a dangerous matter. What I can say is that the only bridge that is talked about this autumn in my bareto is the Pilar to get out of the way for a few days to sunbathe on the coast or to a rural house to pick mushrooms. The saying goes that eyes that do not see, heart that does not feel. Another version adds: and host that you stick, but that's too ordinary to write in a column. So I'll put it another way. The journalistic maxim says that the absence of news is good news. I disagree: no news, bad news, which is finer.

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