There is a question that every four years Spaniards ask with a natural tease: “Who are you going to vote for, Manolo?” However, given what we’ve seen and what we’ll see, the formulation seems wrong: the question carries the error within it. In Spain, except for occasional exceptions, no one votes for anyone. Here we always vote against someone, which is not the same. Our Manolos and our Marujas, you and I, go to the ballot box without truly thinking about productivity, education, public debt, pensions, culture or foreign policy. We do it by mulling over the names of individuals of both sexes that we long to see pack their bags and take to the olive grove. Because the vote of the Spaniard is never a declaration of affection, but a kick in the teeth.
We’ve been like this since Viriato, or around then. To Felipe González, who seemed eternal, we cheered him with Sevillanas until his seams burst. Then Aznar appeared. And let’s be honest: it’s hard to imagine millions of Spaniards dripping lemon water, excited by the prospect of that serious man with a moustache governing. Nobody shouted “He’s my man.” We voted en masse against Felipe, against the scandals, the corruption, the ministers, the ex-ministers and the ministers’ friends. Do you remember?… The dance began.
Afterwards we tired of Aznar because, like yogurts, rulers have a sell-by date: first we see them as competent, then arrogant, then unbearable, and at last we yearn to twist their necks. The thing is that after we voted against Aznar came Zapatero, not because we voted for him for who he was, but because we voted against the other: the Azores photo, his government and all that shabby junk. Zapatero had a fool’s face — then we learned also that he could be a scoundrel — but he held on for a while, with the brow and with those brow fans that roam around today, forgetful, saying if I’ve seen you I don’t remember. And when, despite the rhetoric and the good vibes, reality began to scorch us all, we looked around again. To see whom we could mess with this dumb guy, we told ourselves. And Rajoy appeared.
Let’s be honest: Rajoy did not govern Spain because millions of citizens were thrilled by his audacity and his charm. He did it because we were fed up with Zapatero to the dividing line, and he governed as one would expect: dull, apathetic, paralyzed like a hare in the headlights of a car, waiting for problems to solve themselves, to die of boredom or be replaced by others more serious. And in the end, between paralysis and the corruption of his crew, voters sought someone to topple the setup. Pedro Sánchez was taller, better-looking and friendlier. No one better to piss off Rajoy and his garbage gang. And we clung to Sánchez.
Thus, always against one side or the other, we reach the present. I don’t know how far we are from the matter, but the thing is plain: when the moment comes we will not vote for Pedro Sánchez, but against Feijóo; we will not vote for Feijóo, but against Pedro Sánchez. Nor will we vote for Vox: we will vote against the progressives, the separatists, the excess of Muslims and Blacks, Brussels, the woke circus, Ceuta, Brussels, Bildu, Puigdemont, Marlaska, the drug trafficking in the Strait, Pablo Iglesias’s ego, his family business and his legitimate wife. And on the other side the same will happen: we will vote against Vox, against Ayuso’s penthouse and her boyfriend, against Trump, against Meloni, against the rich, against Israel, against xenophobia, against Hernán Cortés, against the coup d’état of the evil right and its fascist judges.
Pedro Sánchez, who is a resourceful opportunist without scruples but an undeniable political talent, understood this national peculiarity earlier than many. His voters don’t need to worship him; many hate him, I have names and surnames. It’s enough for them to fear or despise the alternative. And his opponents don’t need to admire a Feijóo who has spent years insisting he is ready to govern Spain while Spaniards try, unsuccessfully, to recall something notable he has ever said. For both sides, it’s enough to want to see Sánchez out in the damn street or Feijóo far from the Moncloa.
And there you have the punchline, the tradition made into novelty: you no longer need to thrill the voter, it’s enough to scare them. The electoral program is secondary; what matters is pointing out the monster. If those win, Spain breaks. If those win, Franco returns. If Vox enters, a zombie apocalypse. If Sánchez remains, Venezuela with Begoña in Delcy Barriguitas mode. And so, millions of citizens will go to vote believing they are fulfilling their duty, when in fact they participate in a sordid, petty, infamous neighborhood quarrel.
That’s why polls should stop asking which party you will vote for and ask: “Who makes your guts churn?”… “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to vomit when that candidate appears on the nightly news?”… “Would you change sides to avoid greeting them, or would you break their face if you were guaranteed impunity?”… “Would you vote for Ábalos, Cerdán, Bárcenas, Cristóbal Montoro, just to prevent Fulano or Mengano from governing?”… “If the king and Pedro Sánchez were to walk on foot from Sol to Callao, which of the two would arrive alive?”
The responses would allow predicting outcomes better than the usual showmanship, because that is our true democratic impulse: we don’t elect, we eject; we don’t reward, we punish; we don’t vote for the best, but for the one we believe capable of blowing up the person we consider worse. And when we finally discover that our elected avenger is another scoundrel or another wretch, we restart the process: first the illusion, then the doubts, then the anger and finally the hatred. Back to the ballot boxes. Back to saving Spain. Back to discovering whom we want to blow up this time. And, well. It’s what those sons of bitches have managed to make of us. Or perhaps, thinking it through, what we have made of them among all of us.
