NATIONAL RECONSTRUCTION: THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO THE SANHEDRINS OF THE CONTRACTOR

How to turn five millennia of Iberian tragicomedy into a thoroughly disinfected residents’ association.

Spain, that immense tavern with delusions of being a basilica, finds itself once again on the brink of the precipice. And naturally, when the precipice looms, the respectable Castilian does not look for a poet or a philosopher: he looks for a solicitor in sleeve protectors with an accounting ledger.

Here we are presented with the map to the Secular Treasure. Two hundred and forty-nine redemptive verses drafted in that neutral, skimmed-milk syntax smelling of a tax advisor’s fitted carpet that characterises saviours of the fatherland in silk ties. We are promised a country where borders will have moral temperature sensors, bureaucracy will apologise for existing, and taxes will be refunded with the punctuality of the sundial. Rejoice! The Iberian chimaera is no longer Don Quixote charging at windmills, but Don Quixote submitting a self-declaration form at the one-stop administrative shop.

Here is the point-by-point dissection, without anaesthetic, of the Great Ultra Conservative Prayer.