LITTLE HISTORY Ignoble
" Ma che piccola storia ignobile mi tocca raccontare: così solita e banale come tante. Che non merita nemmeno due colonne su un giornale, o una musica, o parole un po' rimate: che non merita nemmeno l'attenzione della gente, tante cose più importanti hanno da fare..."
Le parole di Francesco Guccini, provenienti dal lontano 1976, introducono il racconto di questa ennesima piccola storia ignobile dell'Italietta berlusconiana, solita e banale come tutte le altre vicende a cui siamo stati costretti ad assistere in questi anni, ora manifestando sconcerto, ora rassegnazione, ora speranza, ora un disperato desiderio di reazione.
E' la storia di una lista presentata, ritirata, e poi ripresentata fuori maximum time, when the election office had already closed its doors. It 's the story of a candidate on the verge of a nervous breakdown that apostrophe with an unequivocal "bunch of idiots," the authors of the colossal papocchione; of signatures not found and no stamps to be seen, a square packed with shouting neo-fascists obsessively that mark the slogan "Who Executioner Spring!" under the freezing rain which have lashed the roofs of Rome.
The epilogue of this story should be obvious: it is expected that the lists showing irregular excluded from the elections, the leader of the party claiming the elections ousted the head of the management which have proved unable to carry out their task with efficiency if not, at least with dignity; dell'autogol that those responsible are identified and exposed to the reaction of angry voters.
However, this linear path logic collides with the strange reality that currently characterizes a country adrift: the lists are clearly not all lists are lists of the Head of a party that for years assumes a conception of politics under which the culture of the rules, respect the balance between the institutions, the autonomy of the sponsors are constantly overwhelmed by the resounding voice of the Princeps, always amplified by the inevitable chorus conducted by journalists subservient mouth shut, hard-working minions, intellectual fake, subject more or less ambitious. The rules are changed, the Constitution has been estimated, the collateral is sabotaged, the institutions are attached: Only the voice of the Princeps, has just what he requires or prohibits.
And so, after many nights of the last of the long knives that have marked the evolution of the Second Republic, that's the Princeps promises and threats, program, and denies, and finally sees it and orders: the order comes that the sound irregularities, which remove the delays and omissions, which allows managers and candidates to pull the classic sigh of relief, which returns to the neo-fascist frozen breath from the incessant rain in Rome. All this, as expected, because of the supreme necessity of protecting the sovereign right (indeed, never questioned) of citizens to express their vote properly.
Now, as it is ignoble little history quickly his epilogue, while the purple people invade the streets and while the opposition is prepared to the nth democratic battle, is not it more the case once again to highlight the multiple profiles of illegality that distinguish a measure intended simply to produce yet another abuse of power. To identify those in the Constitution the fundamental substrate of their political thought, is only room for one last, desperate cry of indignation: indignation than usual annoyingly thin and piled on the occasion of the story and the approval of Eluana Lodo Alfano, the scandal of Civil Defence and Vallettopoli of power.
E 'the indignation of those who struggle to become recognized in a private traditional points of reference that govern the normal democratic coexistence, where - in order to repeat the words of Gustavo Zagrebelsky - "the laws with a capital" were "bent partisan interests for those who have the power of numbers believes that it can bend to their own purposes even the most public of acts'. It is the indignation of those who just can not resign themselves to having to act as a silent appearance in the usual, mundane, small stories disgraceful that echo the voice of the Prince requires daily addicted veterans di questa povera, triste Italietta berlusconiana.
Carlo Dore jr.
Le parole di Francesco Guccini, provenienti dal lontano 1976, introducono il racconto di questa ennesima piccola storia ignobile dell'Italietta berlusconiana, solita e banale come tutte le altre vicende a cui siamo stati costretti ad assistere in questi anni, ora manifestando sconcerto, ora rassegnazione, ora speranza, ora un disperato desiderio di reazione.
E' la storia di una lista presentata, ritirata, e poi ripresentata fuori maximum time, when the election office had already closed its doors. It 's the story of a candidate on the verge of a nervous breakdown that apostrophe with an unequivocal "bunch of idiots," the authors of the colossal papocchione; of signatures not found and no stamps to be seen, a square packed with shouting neo-fascists obsessively that mark the slogan "Who Executioner Spring!" under the freezing rain which have lashed the roofs of Rome.
The epilogue of this story should be obvious: it is expected that the lists showing irregular excluded from the elections, the leader of the party claiming the elections ousted the head of the management which have proved unable to carry out their task with efficiency if not, at least with dignity; dell'autogol that those responsible are identified and exposed to the reaction of angry voters.
However, this linear path logic collides with the strange reality that currently characterizes a country adrift: the lists are clearly not all lists are lists of the Head of a party that for years assumes a conception of politics under which the culture of the rules, respect the balance between the institutions, the autonomy of the sponsors are constantly overwhelmed by the resounding voice of the Princeps, always amplified by the inevitable chorus conducted by journalists subservient mouth shut, hard-working minions, intellectual fake, subject more or less ambitious. The rules are changed, the Constitution has been estimated, the collateral is sabotaged, the institutions are attached: Only the voice of the Princeps, has just what he requires or prohibits.
And so, after many nights of the last of the long knives that have marked the evolution of the Second Republic, that's the Princeps promises and threats, program, and denies, and finally sees it and orders: the order comes that the sound irregularities, which remove the delays and omissions, which allows managers and candidates to pull the classic sigh of relief, which returns to the neo-fascist frozen breath from the incessant rain in Rome. All this, as expected, because of the supreme necessity of protecting the sovereign right (indeed, never questioned) of citizens to express their vote properly.
Now, as it is ignoble little history quickly his epilogue, while the purple people invade the streets and while the opposition is prepared to the nth democratic battle, is not it more the case once again to highlight the multiple profiles of illegality that distinguish a measure intended simply to produce yet another abuse of power. To identify those in the Constitution the fundamental substrate of their political thought, is only room for one last, desperate cry of indignation: indignation than usual annoyingly thin and piled on the occasion of the story and the approval of Eluana Lodo Alfano, the scandal of Civil Defence and Vallettopoli of power.
E 'the indignation of those who struggle to become recognized in a private traditional points of reference that govern the normal democratic coexistence, where - in order to repeat the words of Gustavo Zagrebelsky - "the laws with a capital" were "bent partisan interests for those who have the power of numbers believes that it can bend to their own purposes even the most public of acts'. It is the indignation of those who just can not resign themselves to having to act as a silent appearance in the usual, mundane, small stories disgraceful that echo the voice of the Prince requires daily addicted veterans di questa povera, triste Italietta berlusconiana.
Carlo Dore jr.
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