New Years have to be spent. And yesterday, more. Of all the recent year-ends, the one that fired in 2021 seemed by far the strangest. We were there in front of the television wanting to have fun, to laugh heartily, to choke on the grapes, to say the phrases of

Cachitos

, to even get excited ... but there was no way. We did not know how. First of all,

Jacob Petrus

. I'm not saying he wasn't the right person, but, I don't know if you've noticed, his name is Jacob. And then Petrus. His name is not Manolo, for example, nor Jacobo, nor Santiago. No. Neither is his last name García or Pedro or Pedrus even. Jatrus Pecob. But this, perhaps, is my problem.

Then the

Pedroche thing

. Which, I admit, is already part of the tradition and must be respected. But, I don't know if they realized it, she came out bald. I leave it there. Nothing to object, of course. Like Sinesio the Cyrenaic, I am convinced that too long pastoral poetry has been entangled in sinuous, flaming and angelic hair and, what a married man, what would I say, damn it, it's time to end all-inclusive flights to Turkey. But the fact is, she came out bald. In addition, it should not be overlooked that in

the friendly chain

the one that served as the host of the grape intake,

Paz Padilla

, made it clear to us that the '

spider

'

vaccine

(sic) is valid for the '

Luján

' bug

'(sic) and that, therefore, it has nothing to do against the variant'

oritrón

'(sic). And he did it under the watchful eye of the one who was always there,

Anne Igartiburu

. That I will not be the one to censor anyone, but I do not know, they will agree with me that what less than an explanation, an apology, something. Weird.

In truth, looked at closely, it was all part of the same plot. This year there was nothing to celebrate. The past either, but this less. In 2020, with the Puerta del Sol empty and the general and evident feeling of mourning, a kind of common mourning took place. And with the pain, the hope. And with hope, the need to share that moment of overactive joy that is New Year's Eve. Now not even that. From the outset, we do not know if this pandemic will end the Greek alphabet or, like the Turing machine, it has an infinite alphabet.

It is not clear if the masks are for outside, for inside or for the two-meter stretch that goes from the entrance of the bar to the bar.

Nor are we clear that the antigen tests that we long for more than the toilet paper of before are used for more than to piss off because they are over. And on top of the bewilderment,

Ibai Llanos, he

too, congratulated ... 2020! And Jacob Petrus. With this scenario, it is even understandable that

Ana García Obregón

became ill.

The first, as always, was

José Mota

. The manchego has been on time for his appointment for 13 years. And there are 13 times when it does not fail. This year either. But let's face it, her 'Vanity Tale' spent more time on not bothering anyone than on anything else, including the healthy and very fun habit of bothering someone. The whole series of allegedly provocative jokes about the limits of humor and political correctness ended up being a long, time consuming and very rhetorical saying nothing to say the same thing. His determination not to twitch anymore or to denounce the tension, ended up being somewhat tense himself. Be that as it may, just the '

sketch

'of the terraces deserves a monument. And that of Segura too. That and how not to surrender to the most elegant, sincere and even fun vindication of public health that has been made since all this started. And the latter should suffice.

And then there is the matter of the grapes. Perhaps it is time to give it a spin. What's more, the proof that something isn't working is that as soon as an alternative like

Ibai Llanos'

Twitch comes up

, there we go. Although, as in the case of Jacob, we are not clear how it is pronounced either. Faced with the scripted showmanship until the illness of the others, Ibai, seconded this time by

Ramonchu

and his cape, offered basically nothing; naturalness as the best excuse to get carried away. And there, sin and penance. It likes that there is nothing to be aware of, but it disturbs the apparatus with the Puerta del Sol and everything stops, effectively, nothing. The fact that everything is played on the strict field of

the furiously hetero-geek

doesn't help either.

If you like, Ibai is to the present what

Pedroche

was to the past. The latter was the alternative to the perhaps excess of rigorism always perfect

'made in' Igartiburu

in La 1. And now, the hidden dress of one and the flawless red of the other are simply the canon. And as such they behaved last night. Perhaps the most remarkable thing was Pedroche's determination to play against. If in each of the previous editions what it was about was to impress with a hypersexualized and provocatively provocative image that opened the usual debate on both sides of feminism, now the opposite: an elegant suit of almost time to pay tribute to an immortal designer and nonexistent hair. It must be recognized that, once again, he won (or '

ganuvo

'). And you have to recognize to the same extent that ... it's okay. Perhaps it is all the irresistible charm of the desire that we all have to have traditions whatever they may be. And Pedroche is already our tradition. About Igartiburu, just say that Jacob was by his side. And Petrus.

Be that as it may, what won was the bewilderment.

And there, in troubled water, the one who triumphs is always '

Cachitos

'.

Brilliant, strident and

raffaelesque

, the special dedicated to the immortal

Carrà

.

And outrageous the label that read, literally: "The camera comes close, but without touching ... like the PSOE to the monarchy."

And behind and in front of him, other so many genius making it clear that the limits of humor are, now and always, the same: to be funny.

And then, finally, it's all over.

At night I dreamed of the summary of

Carlos del Amor's year.

I got up more than sweating, but, yes, not half as much as

Blanca Portillo

had to sweat

.

But that is another matter.

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