I would not like to know what the “ours” are, and we always have to defend the “house” it seems to me that it is a lot of journalism; bad, we have to discard.

On August La Real faces a major champions match in Lyon and the realistic hobby is wrapped up in one of its best places. At one point, a single follower of the Olympique has begun touring the Plaza de la Virgen Blanca. The party is over, and the time has come to make known who the Real hobby is. The dream moment.

Suddenly, about twenty people from a well-known La Real rock have approached him and, while most of them observe, they have shot down three or four people and stabbed him. In the Plaza Grande some have not had time to see anything; others do not know for sure what has happened; some believe that the show has ended too quickly; others think that, being followers of the opposite team, they have given him little. The moment he has been beaten has become longer than eternity. Others have been ashamed. Embarrassed and frightened that revenge has become logical in the interpretation of the situation. The aggressors are known to the fans of the Real Sociedad, although they have hidden in the jersey their white and blue t-shirts to cover their "bravery".

In the coming days, I have put a long ear, and I have focused on the media that speak in Basque and in Spanish “ours”. Not a single reference to what happened. Adulation, on the other hand, is an exemplary hobby, an example for Champions League supporters for football teams across Europe, a txuri-urdin wave that prides itself.

And because it has always seemed to me that corporatism has a corrupt base, to me, embarrassed. Or the journalists who were there knew nothing, or if they knew it, they hid it so as not to stain the immaculate image of the “here”. If you didn't hear anything, wrong, because it's up to you to know what's happened. Although they heard something, they did not confirm it, but, in fact, it is wrong, because we must also explain what is not appropriate. And if they didn't even talk to him after they knew what had happened, they did, worse still, because not telling the truth is as serious as mentir.Es it's possible for someone to mention
something like that, in a disguised way, and I don't realize it, but I'd be amazed.

The worst thing, though, is that that aseptic hobby is the model of society that you want to sell us. “Our” are always clean. The others are the ones who always look for the scratch. I don't care about those who beat the young French. Mercy is the only feeling that emerges from my interior when I start looking at them. Those who hurt me are the ones who have become mute. It always oscillates in the middle of reason. Those who have been discontinued without taking office. Those who think “Peace is worth more.” Has not the beer you have drunk in the next bar been bitter?

Maybe in a moment I saw myself in the Place of Lyon. Too far away, too comfortably in my warmth, to understand what happens next to me.

I've started writing first person. It's that I have to end.