“Damn, Javi, how did we come here without wearing red? It is that you will tell me”. Javi’s girlfriend isn’t completely angry with him, but she makes him see that these things have to be thought about before leaving home. “Tere says that when she gets out of work she comes flying here, don’t worry”, clarifies a blonde in her twenties, the two of her friends, while the three of them approach the stage walking at the same time and dressed in reds. The choreography that would excite Santiago Abascal. “I should have brought the flag of Castilla-La Mancha or at least that of Albacete. It’s great that the father is at work, and the boy and the little dog are with the grandmother, ”a mother tells her daughter, while they regret measuring less than one sixty.
This Monday evening there were many women and many generations together to receive the world champions who flew to Madrid from Sydney after their victory in the World Cup final. Grandmothers, mothers and granddaughters. And boyfriends, and families. And very small children who asked for the flag on their cheeks as soon as they saw that a woman took the face painting out of her bag. What party. What karaoke.
What happened yesterday on the Madrid Río stage had as many clichés as people. Real Madrid and Barça kits, Catalan and Asturian flags, one from Ponche Caballero with more than one use. Soccer jerseys with more than deteriorated numbers, whose owners may not know that to keep the numbers from coming off they have to be washed without fabric softener. Fake Louis Vuitton bags, hundreds of frayed jean shorts, glitter and sequins on eyelids.
Many men. In diverse outfits, with and without feathers. And of course, the allies, guys who didn’t know the names of the players until a quarter of an hour ago but, as youth is daring, prowled the esplanade looking for someone to flirt with and whatever comes up. The most daring had painted “Alexia” on his left jaw.
The heat wave made drink cans proliferate. Tinto de verano, rosé from the bunch, energy drinks and liter beer. Bracelets from the Camino de Santiago, from music festivals and with the colors of the rainbow.
The women of the age of the world champions, those whom Luis Rubiales would also want to kiss if he had the chance, demonstrate at the celebration that not all is lost in Spain, except for governability. “Don’t fuck with me, or that they were dating,” says Lucía, 16, about the abuse committed by the president of the Spanish Football Federation with the player Jennifer Hermoso, while she is taking photos with her friends. Haughty, uncomplexed and excessive. They dance and do each other’s makeup, eat hot dogs brimming with tomato and mustard, devour skillet fries.
And not content with that, they sing it all. “You have a manual to warm my skin”, they chant while Anuel AA plays. They whistle when a man comes out on the federation stage, asks for patience and announces that Camela and Juan Magán, among others, will play that night. They whistle, albeit a little, when someone pronounces the Rubiales surname. Then they will continue singing Morat, Beret and Aqua with their I’m a Barbie girl.
The sun has fallen and hundreds of people arrive to join the party. The uniform includes supermarket bags that do not seem to include loin tape or sliced bread, but a bottle as the selection commands. There is a desire to drink, to dance, to celebrate.
A man, who had already been hurt since mid-afternoon, walks with difficulty and asks out loud: “But aren’t Iron Maiden or La Polla going to perform?” But who plays is DJ Michenlo, who mixes you the same with Carrá as with Los Piratas. There is a rave on the banks of the Manzanares. It is not a way like any other to start the week. Madrid receives the soccer world champions. And there is no snogging without consent that tarnishes the merit of these 23 women.
