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The president’s revolver

The president's revolver

I well remember the president’s revolver. Inert, abandoned, almost a paperweight on the mahogany table: a relic, an old trophy with a dull echo, just a few notches from what had been a firearm. That pistol, as unreal as a hanging bear’s head, decorated the personal office of the president of a small football club in the 1980s. However, as in the paintings of Magritte, that was not a gun. He was an outdated icon of power. Legendary account of football negotiations, mythological animal, rusty chimera, the evoked image of the president of a football club who placed a revolver on the table to intimidate visitors has fallen short. It is no longer necessary to pull that trigger to embarrass others.

The series reminds us The League of Extraordinary Gentlemenan extraordinary tableau of what we were (are we?) through the presidents of the football clubs of the 90s. Lopera, Gil y Gil, Gaspart, Núñez, Mendoza, Ruiz Mateos, figures of a pathetic and morbid board. The ironic title of the serial, with an evocative air of superheroism in the heat of the comic Alan Moore (that Stephen Norrington froze in a very poor movie that neither Sean Connery revived), is far above the characters that star it: better defines them the dandruff of The League is NOT for menthat mess with Cassen transvestite, led by a decadent Ignacio F. Iquinowhich was muddied even more than The Iberian F.C..

Seen today, this gallery of presidential portraits darkens the gloomy and at the same time laughable corridor (you know, comedy=tragedy+time) of our past and leaves a question hanging from the crossbar: what remains of all that? The eye of the spectators fattened the monster that until then lived in the cave. Those of us who were there, submerged in the mud of football as a result of the television explosion (autonomous and private since the end of the 80s) and the media and business fury of the SAD, we did the choirs for them. Seemingly unique, yet crude and ordinary, these extraordinarily powerful men fed on our guilty passion, they are our old revolver on the table.

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