Temperatures have dropped in Madrid and it’s raining.

I had to grab a jacket from the coat rack before I took the bottles out to do the recycling earlier. How neglected they all looked hanging up there. And the shoes — kicked to the back of the cupboard save for a pair of knackered old trainers I use for shopping trips and taking the bins out. 

Once on the street, I pulled the toggles of my hood and it closed in around my ears, amplifying the patter of rain. Puddles were collecting in the uneven pavement slabs and small streams were racing around the turn in the curb. 

I felt as though I had been transported back to Inverness.

If I shut my eyes, I could even have been walking up the road by my house on the Black Isle. Constant drizzle. Clean, cold air. Hands in pockets.

When the quarantine began, I felt close to those back home as I was inundated by messages asking after my safety. But now I feel miles away.

After five years, I consider Spain to be my home but it’s not as profoundly my home as Scotland is. 

If I was to try to quantify it, I’d say that I have soaked up Madrid skin deep — its language, its way of life, the friends it has offered me. But Scotland goes all the way to the bone like an easterly wind blowing up Church Street in Inverness.

The kind of wind that feels like it has a personal vendetta. One that can penetrate a 10-pint beer jacket. But not one that will stop you from getting chips and cheese.

The weather in Madrid, by contrast, is a breeze. 

I only usually get homesick on Sundays but as the days blend into each other under lockdown, every day could be a Sunday. The fact that I’ve binge-watched 10 hours of Outlander in the last two days doesn’t help my cause. 

For those of you who haven’t seen Outlander, it follows the story of a Claire Beauchamp — pronounced Bee-chum for some reason — who is accidentally transported from the 1940s to 1740s Scotland when she touches a stone circle during her honeymoon in the Bonnie Highlands, leaving her new husband, Frank, distraught. 

Back in time, she quickly settles into life among the Mackenzie clan. Her attempts to get back to her husband become fewer and farther between when she shacks up with a ripped ginger guy called Jamie. 

I, myself, am using the quarantine to become a ripped ginger guy.

But all too often my workouts consist of me writhing on the floor like a worm in the rain while an American fitness instructor with impossibly white teeth shouts at me from Youtube. 

“Smile through the pain, you can do it.”

If only you could see me, Mr Popsugar, you would not be saying that.


I find myself jealous of Claire BeeCHUM, not because of her polyamorous and cross-dimensional love life, but because she is free to stroll down Church Street in Inverness. 

When I’m not seething with jealousy watching Instagram stories of friends back in Scotland on the beach (must be rough), I’m constantly pausing Outlander and shouting “I know where that is! I’ve been there!”

I can’t be transported back to Scotland. There are no stone circles near my flat, just recycling bins. 

The shattering of glass bottles as I pushed them one by one through the hole echoed around the square outside the market as though I was announcing my presence. The only person nearby was a man wearing a surgical mask walking his dalmation, and he wasn’t keeping count, which was my main concern.

It got me thinking, though. There must be at least one day a year when the sun shines directly through the holes of these bins. 

When that day comes, I shall crawl through the opening —providing I’m not too ripped by then — and perhaps I’ll emerge from the bins near the Fairy Glen in Rosemarkie. 

From there it’ll be a short walk up the hill to get home. 

And if it’s raining, I’ll just pull the toggles of my hood tight around my head.


Spain’s general elections, a litmus test of a nation’s fear and loathing

About a week ago, I was sat having a beer outside a bar in a well-heeled street across from Madrid’s Retiro Park.

At the table next me were three Spaniards, two women, and one man, all of whom were probably around retirement age and had an air of not being too economically troubled.

They were discussing Catalonia within the wider context of the general elections coming up on Sunday, 28 April.

“I don’t know, I think Pedro Sánchez isn’t that bad, he’s good-looking!” one woman said, addressing the man, who I believe was the partner of the other woman.

“He’s a son of a bitch traitor,” came the retort.

“Well you’re not telling me you’re voting for Vox, are you?” the woman asked.

“No, but who can I vote for?”

“I suppose we need some sort of a dialogue with the Catalans, this thing goes back years – whether or not they want to be in Spain – maybe just let them decide,” she said.

Through a screen of smoke billowing up from a graveyard of Marlboro butts in the ashtray that made for the centerpiece of their table, even I could see she was not exactly enrapturing her audience.

“Don’t fuck yourself like that, seriously, don’t fall for their fucking trap, they’re a bunch of bastards, Catalonia is Spain,” he said, voice rising to the point where things were becoming a bit socially awkward.

His partner, the source of most of the smoke, chipped in, trying to lighten the mood.

“Anything other than politics?” she chuckled.

They moved the conversation on, so I stopped listening.

It’s a touchy subject. I sometimes find myself tip-toeing around it in conversations at work or with people I’ve just met for the first time.

Outside of Spain, the reaction to seeing Catalan separatist leaders go on trial to face hefty charges, including rebellion, in a process broadcast live on TV in lieu of having international observers, has been one of muted indifference – whether that is tongue-holding or otherwise – or of cautious condemnation.

As an outsider in Madrid, admittedly one who openly feels uneasy watching the trial at work day-in, day-out, it can be hard to find common ground on the subject, even with people who share most of your political convictions.

“They broke the law, what do you expect? You have to uphold the law or else it’s meaningless,” is a frequent go-to.

Push too hard on the topic and someone might kindly remind you that it is not really your issue to worry about anyway, all the while drawing comparisons with Scotland’s own independence push.

They are right in a way. It is a very Spanish issue. In fact, it has consumed the nation.

The debate is often vitriolic, not only among friends outside bars near the leafy Retiro Park but also at the highest political levels.


Ciudadanos leader Albert Rivera, Madrid. Photo: Jake Threadgould

In February, I went to cover the pro-Spanish unity rally in Madrid’s Plaza de Colon (nothing to do with bowels, it means Columbus Square).

It starred Pablo Casado, leader of the right-wing Popular Party, Albert Rivera, leader of the center-right Citizens (Cs) party, and featured Santiago Abascal, the frontman of Vox, the far-right group whose heady rise can largely be attributed to the Catalan independence bid.

The demonstration was called to pressure the prime minister, the aforementioned “good-looking” Sánchez, leader of the Socialist Party (PSOE), into slating early elections – which he did a few days later – but it also acted as a preach-to-the-choir moment of it’s ok to be proud of your flag.

A compère standing by the huge monument at the back of the square kicked things off with: “Let me see your flags held high, I want to see them.”

And so the flags were hoisted high, red and yellow atop a crowd gathered under the largest Spanish flag in the world.

“Yo soy español, español, español, español” rippled through the audience.

Other people held up signs saying “coup-plotters to prison,” in reference to the Catalan separatist leaders, and “Sánchez = traitor.”

The events in Catalonia back in October 2017 rocked the whole of Spain and, as if prodding a sleeping dragon, revitalized a latent nationalism that blossomed in Madrid’s streets in the form of Spanish flags, which emerged by the thousands on the city’s balconies.

The response from the Spanish right has been reactionary and based heavily on legal arguments drawing from the 1978 Constitution which, as the date suggests, was drawn up as the country transitioned into democracy after Franco’s death.

For many on the Spanish left, such overt displays of nationalism still reek of Franco.

Many people gathered at Plaza de Colon back in February, however, felt their identity was under threat. As if those in Catalonia wanting to tear away from the rest of Spain were forcibly stealing something that did not belong to them.

But that fear often manifests itself as loathing.

“Golpistas,” loosely coup-plotters or putschists, has become a well-accepted epithet for Catalan separatists among those on the Spanish right-wing.

Traitor is a heavy word so lightly thrown.

And yet, standing in the crowd that day under a small sea of Spanish flags, the impression I got was not one of national triumphalism over a political class seeking to breakaway or unilaterally alter the definition of what it is to be Spain, or Spanish, but rather a sense of fragility.

The possessiveness is such that removing Catalonia from Spain would be akin to yanking a block from an already leaning Jenga tower.

In this instance, we cannot forget that Spain’s modern democracy is only as old as the movie Grease.

Spain’s right-wing politicians, backed by favorable coverage in a number of widely-read dailies, have instilled this fear and hatred and have tried to capitalize on it.

The PP, Cs and Vox have therefore positioned themselves as the defenders and saviors of Spain’s geopolitical integrity all the while claiming that the PSOE would allow for it to be destroyed.

However, when the time came for the politicians to address the crowd on the day of the rally, both Casado and Rivera insisted that they could not share a stage with Abascal.

They instead gave short addresses to the press just off to the side of the main stage.

Abascal’s presence loomed in his absence.

Pushing through the crowd to the press pit, I saw a visibly excited woman on her phone.

“I just saw Santi (Abascal), honestly, yeah, he just walked by the stage, yeah I saw him!”


Leader of the Popular Party, Pablo Casado, Madrid.  Photo: Jake Threadgould

Enter Vox.

“Well you’re not telling me you’re voting for Vox, are you?”

Free from any sort of track record in government and proudly spurning political correctness, Vox looks set to become the first far-right party to enter the national Parliament since the end of the Franco’s fascist military dictatorship with his death in 1975.

Vox proposes a simple solution to the Catalan issue – end all autonomy across Spanish regions and centralize powers in Madrid.

Ironically, this would be unconstitutional, but it is the kind of constitutional change Vox supporters would not mind.

Although careful to keep a distance from imagery harking back to Franco, Vox shares some overlapping rhetoric, with its ideas of a grand nation united under one flag, its push to rid the country of “illegal immigrants,” to downgrade LGBT rights and neutralize feminism.

Abascal also sees himself as the Christian defender against the “Islamification” of Spain and even posed for a photo dressed as a reconquistador, although the helmet he wore was actually from the wrong century.

Like Salvini, he has harnessed social media to amplify his message and play the victim of a wider conspiracy against his party, pushing the idea that his supporters are unfairly shamed or made to feel scared to openly admit they support Vox.

All this not only plays well in the minds of those who feel nostalgic for Franco’s regime but also, and perhaps more importantly, it chimes well with traditional PP voters looking to jump what appears to be a sinking ship.

Whether or not they agree with Abascal’s other policies, they certainly feel at home with his hawkish position on Catalonia.

Casado knows this and has left the door ajar to the possibility of collaborating with Abascal in the future – like the PP did when Vox broke onto the scene taking 12 seats in the Andalusian chamber last year.

Spain’s public research body CIS has tipped the party to take around 11% of the national vote on Sunday but – and this is where this article becomes pretty bloody subjective – based on conversations I have had with people whose ears are pressed to right-wing circles, Vox looks likely to take more.


Pro-Spanish unity supporter, Madrid. Photo: Jake Threadgould

I would hazard a guess at around 17% (this is a guess based entirely on instinct but so what, it’s my blog – also, bet your grandparents on it).

Should this come to pass, Spain will have three major right-wing parties in parliament, spanning the center-right (Cs), right (PP) and far-right (Vox).

Most pollsters predict the country is on track for another hung parliament although Sánchez’s PSOE, which has campaigned on a message that it is the only party that can stop an unholy trinity of right-wingers, is tipped to take the most votes.

Spain’s left-wing parties, which includes the progressive Podemos, hope to sway the roughly 10 percent of undecided voters if they want any chance blocking a Frankenstein right-wing executive.

Alternatively, Cs might break with its election promises and strike up a conversation with the incumbent PM.

Perhaps the most logical coalition would be between PSOE and Podemos, although Pablo Iglesias’ grassroots formation looks set to be dealt a blow in Sunday’s ballot.

So, the make-up of the future Spanish government looks uncertain.

What is clear, however, is that hordes voters will be heading to the polls with a belly full of rage and Catalonia on their mind.

At a time when emotions are running high and when friends are arguing over their beers outside Retiro, Vox is waiting in the shadows to use the disgruntled right-wing as a springboard to national decision making and beyond.

The tip-toeing around conversations at work is far from over, although with Vox few people mince their words.

“Anything other than politics?”




Out with the old and in with the young

Although it was the brainchild of the older generation, Brexit has become a youth issue. Even Victorian factory overlord and chief backbench Brexiteer Jacob Rees-Mogg said we may not know the economic benefits of Brexit for another 50 years. If so, not even I, at the tender age of 27, let alone him, at the ripe old age of 167, will see that fanciful trough of money slide into our bank accounts once we’ve cut ties with Brussels until is too late.

So, assuming that Mogger’s prediction is accurate (it isn’t), why would the likes of him, spineless Boris Johnson and Michael Gove et al. want to call the Brexit shots? Why not immediately hand over the reins to the generation who will be affected by the UK’s withdrawal from the bloc? To leave a legacy? Doubtful.

It’s the longest game of I told you so in history.

In 50 years, when the last survivors of Britain come across a crackling radio buried deep in the radioactive snow that blankets the rubble where Birmingham once stood and tune in to hear a distant broadcast in Mandarin saying that the pound has risen one percent against the new euro and now equaled 0.002 cents, then, and only then, will Jacob Rees-Mogg ease out his dying breath to his 52nd grandchild: “I knew it would pay off, Etonious Harrowious Plonkerous, I knew it. “

Until then, the blame for everything that goes even slightly awry with Brexit will be laid at the feet of the EU or with those who don’t want it to happen at all.

Who can wait that long for a cash-out? Well, the Brexiteers can. Rees-Mogg has already started shifting some of his investment company’s assets over to Ireland, an EU member state, just to be sure. What a patriot. A good old top-hat wearing pinch of salt of the earth.

I can hear the clicking now as millions of regular working class Britons send their own savings offshore. Take that, EU, there’s a bloody app for that now, I’ve seen it on TV. But, of course, they’re not. They can’t. And that’s one of the many tragic things about Brexit.

The arch-Brexiteers, all from the upper echelons of society, successfully tapped into reserves of working-class rage. Putting the obvious racist contingent of the pro-Brexit electorate to the side for the sake of word count, it’s not that hard to see why someone might have voted to leave.

During the referendum, there was a strong showing from the UK’s forgotten corners. If you wake up in a blind panic every morning trying to figure how you’re going to put food on the table for the rest of the week and then someone comes along saying all that can change with a simple vote, you might just hedge your bets. You’ve got nothing to lose. Except, of course, you do.

Recent research published in the Financial Times suggests that a no-deal Brexit would cost the average UK household a grand. And yet, a no-deal is being championed by Moggers, Johnson and the Male Daily. Rest assured that not one penny will be alleviated from their pockets for the cause. For many, a thousand pounds is the difference between surviving or not.

Our resident I’m not a fascist I’m just a regular bloke Nigel Farage recently had the audacity to claim he was skint, conveniently forgetting about his measly 8,500 euro (pre-tax) monthly salary at the European Parliament, which is just a side job for him. I’ll do it if you want, Nige.

He won’t be there much longer, though, and while that is a cause for celebration, it also rings in a darker era in the UK’s relationship with the bureaucrats in Brussels at a time when the far-right is on the march across the continent.

This is where our knight in shining cardigan ambles in. The absolute Jeremy Corbyn boi.

Ever a eurosceptic, Corbyn seems fairly content letting the Brexit process run its course until May’s government inevitably crumbles and she is forced to live in his allotment shed. He might like that, he could get back to nationalizing his carrots and making sure Liam Fox doesn’t get into his chlorinated chickens.

By that time, UK politicians will not only have reduced their international clout, but they will have absolutely no tools at hand to influence the EU. This is music to the ears of die-hard leavers, but surely not to Jeremy Corbyn? As the messiah of the British progressive left, does he not want to be at the frontlines of the looming political battle with the far-right?

From Italy to Germany, Austria to the Czech Republic, the far-right is hoovering up the vacuum left by the nigh on total collapse of the center-left. Center-right outfits are budging up to make room. In these turbulent times, when controversies are swiftly forgotten with the swipe of a thumb and fascism has put on a fake mustache to sneak back into government, the left-wing needs to put its myriad differences aside and unite.

The battleground has been set for the European Parliament during the elections in May 2019, after officials have clicked Ctrl+Alt+Del on the UK’s seats. Corbyn’s willingness to slide out of the EU recuses him from the task of sticking up to Europe’s far-right bullies on behalf of those without a voice, those will suffer the most with fascists in charge.

At this rate, by the time Corbyn gets into government, he’ll be stood on the white cliffs of Dover with a homemade jam sandwich watching on as the EU’s democratic institutions are slowly dismantled. Steve Bannon wouldn’t miss it for the world, Corbyn would. If he doesn’t feel up for it, maybe it’s time he passed the buck to someone who is going to feel the full brunt of Brexit personally.  

But then again, perhaps this is all a lost cause. We’ve stepped off a political cliff edge already and are venturing into uncharted territory. Politicians are improvising. Everything they learned in their journey to the top became irrelevant on June 23, 2016. This new chapter of global politics is looking fierce and I doubt history will smile kindly on those who asked us to turn the page. I’d like to put the book down now, please.

At least Mogger’s money is safe, I guess.

MAD COOL 2018 (Despair in the departure lounge)

The festival grounds at Mad Cool 2018 were completely surfaced over with verdant astroturf and rose out of Madrid’s city limits like a succulent desert mirage. It looked good enough to eat.

Our desire to graze on fake plastic grass may have stemmed from the fact that we had been stripped of our 1-liter bottle of water at the entrance. It was deemed too large, too thirst-quenching in the 36C heat.

IMG_9241It cost me and my brother, Theo, who had flown out from Edinburgh for the occasion, 90 euros each for the day pass on Friday, which was headlined by our long-time favorites the Arctic Monkeys. We had been too slow out the blocks to grab the three-day pass.

In hindsight, I am grateful for that. Sometimes lack of foresight pays off thanks very much.

The lineup was impressive and the organizers had obviously spent time curating the festival area, which was replete with instagrammable food trucks and boutique merchandise. It was pretty.

However, if, like me, you went through a turd-polishing phase in your teens, then you’ll know it’s not easy. (I’d recommend cream-based polish, rather than liquid.)

This superficiality was compounded by a tangible air of exclusivity. We were ants to the VIP picnic. The first 30 or so rows of space in front of the main stage were reserved for those able to pay more for their tickets. As was the four-story scaffolding tent-come-bar thing plonked squarely adjacent to the main stage.

I’m sure some of the bars were off limits to us, too, but I can’t be certain as my view was blocked by my dothed cap as we shuffled grovelingly by.

IMG_9242It’s no less than insulting to fork out nigh on 100 euros for entry, plus the 60 or so on food and captive-audience beers, only to be told: “here? oh no, you can’t go here, get back over there, sweaty.”

Can’t fault him on the sweaty, though.

We were in dire need of liquids when the card machines in all of the festival bars went offline.

Out of cash, and with no ATM on site, we were forced to move from stall to stall like a bow-legged Mary and Joseph to see if there was room at the inn for our baby VISAs. No, came the reply.

We managed to cobble together our remaining ducats for some #Aperol at the #Aperol Spritz stall.

Despair in the departure lounge. We were trapped, money-less and thirsty.

After the Arctic Monkeys, whose fantastic set we were forced to watch from the safety of the Very Unimportant Person section, we barged out of the crowd in search of the free water dispensary located somewhere in the grounds.

IMG-9235Our bottle languishing somewhere in a bin a three days’ camel ride back through security, we were forced to pick up a couple of used beer cups from the ground but hygiene concerns took a back seat when confronted with the queue for water.

Theo was nominated to take on what could only be described as the writhing hordes of Mordor. The mass of parched souls was dozens wide and dozens deep. Everyone jostled to get a drop of the sacred liquid.

He emerged 20 minutes later with plastic-scented water served in what was essentially someone else’s litter. It was hard to find a reason to stay any longer but Massive Attack were soon to play on one of the smaller stages.

The tent was so overcrowded we couldn’t even get near the door, let alone inside the tent. The Bristol trip-hop lads were late and the air filled with whistles. We left and joined the streams of other heading for the exit with three hours to go until the festival actually came to a close.

I later read on Twitter that Massive Attack had canceled, complaining of noise leaking over from Franz Ferdinand.

Although we are loyal disciples to Pastor Alex Turner, the extremely high quality of the music on display was not quite enough to counteract the overwhelming feeling that we had been completely mugged off.

Take heed.

Mad Cool is neither mad nor cool. Don’t go.

Death of migrant in police raid sparks riots in downtown neighborhood of Madrid

Go Fry Asparagus

Madrid, Mar 16.- A neighborhood in downtown Madrid on Thursday erupted in a flare of collective anger as rioters clashed with hundreds of police officers following the sudden death of a migrant after he had been chased by law enforcement.

The district of Lavapiés was ablaze as dozens of containers were set on fire while protesters lobbed rocks and bottles at police, after Mame Mbaye Ndiaye, a 34-year-old man of Senegalese origin, died of an apparent heart attack when allegedly running from local officers who were pursuing him along with other street vendors peddling their wares illegally.

In the aftermath of Ndiaye’s death, an enraged mob congregated at Lavapiés square and soon began to confront police.

The protests turned into full-blown turmoil when agents from the national police’s riot unit (UIP) rushed to the scene, wearing heavy riot gear and shooting rubber bullets to disperse the crowds.

Antifascist groups spread…

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A Brits guide to the Catalonia independence referendum


Left-wing protesters demonstrate in solidarity with Catalonia, Puerta del Sol, Madrid. ©Jake Threadgould

I thought that by leaving Scotland for Spain I would be spared constant referenda. Alas, no. Catalonia, a northeastern region of Spain home to some 7.5 million people, plans to go ahead with a separatist poll on October 1.

Rolling news coverage of the events here in Spain is non-stop, but it has also garnered considerable international attention. The other day, I replied to a tweet shared by the Scottish National Party’s Westminster spokesman (and my MP) Angus Robertson in which I argued that the Catalan referendum was not the same as the 2014 indyref in Scotland.  I was swiftly set-up on by a small group of SNP voters telling me what to think about the situation in Catalonia. It got me to thinking: how are they so informed about what’s going on here? Or are they?

I don’t know where I stand on the independence vote in Catalonia, and thankfully, being neither Catalan nor Spanish, I don’t have to. That’s good, I’m all “referendumed“ out. However, some of you — especially those watching on from the post-Brexit ashes of Britain where ‘referendum’ is a swear word — may be wondering, what is going on exactly? ¿Qué coño está pasando? ¿Què està passant?

Like Scotland, Catalonia has a devolved government. Unlike Scotland, Catalonia’s first minister, or in this case president, is a bloke. A bloke who goes by the name of Carles Puigdemont. He presides over a regional pro-independence party called Junts Pel Sí (Together for Yes, JxS) which has a slight majority in the local parliament — with a little help from his leftist friends.

Puigdemont has long dreamed of Catalonia being an independent republic so, earlier this month, he used that slim majority of his to push the referendum through parliament and write it into local law. Sí voters in Catalonia are a vocal bunch and their movement is intrinsically linked to their distinct culture, language and heritage. Furthermore, the number of pro-unity voters in Catalonia is hard to accurately gauge. Those against independence tend to shy away from even non-binding referenda, which they do not consider to be legitimate. Most polls tentatively suggest a roughly even split. This keeps the Spanish government on its toes.

Another engine driving the independence movement is the fact that many Catalans feel they are unfairly picking up the economic slack of underperforming Spanish regions such. Separatists would rather see their money re-invested in Catalonia, which is consistently ranked as one of the wealthiest regions of Spain, jostling for top-spot with the industrial Basque Country and the capital, Madrid.

Some might see a compelling case in Catalonia’s bid for nationhood. It already has many of the foundations required of an independent state: a regional police force (the Mossos d’Esquadra), a judiciary and an autonomous government with all the mod-cons. However, Catalonia’s regional institutions are attached to strings held by officials in Madrid. The process of becoming an independent Catalan state would mean severing those tendrils of power. That hits a nerve. That triggers a response.


Protesters in solidarity with Catalonia face-off with a group of far-right demonstrators, Puerta del Sol, Madrid. ©Jake Threadgould

The vast majority of Spaniards do not think the referendum should go ahead and this sentiment is reflected in the country’s largest political parties and in the judiciary, which has ruled the referendum to be unconstitutional and suspended the legislation. According to the Constitution (which also enshrines Catalonia’s autonomous status), the separatist ballot would need to be greenlighted by the Madrid-based national parliament. This did not happen.

The Spanish government is currently run as a minority by the right-wing Popular Party (PP) of Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy (think: Jacob Rees-Mogg/Nigel Farage lovechild). The PP will not sign off a referendum in Catalonia in case it back-fires Brexit-style. Remember those silent pro-unity voters in Catalonia? They are the PP’s damsels in distress.

So, what has the Spanish state done in retaliation to the unilateral independence developments in Catalonia? Several things. First, around 700 Catalan mayors who agreed to make polling stations available for the vote were issued court summons. The militarized Guardia Civil moved in to confiscate all referendum-related material. While ransacking the regional government offices, they took the opportunity to arrest a dozen or so Catalan officials on suspicion that they were involved in preparing the vote. The Spanish interior ministry activated a mechanism to assume control of the Mossos. There was even talk of sedition charges.

How did Catalonia react to this? The mayors kept quiet. The detainees were freed or fired by their peers to avoid fines. The Mossos rejected the national police takeover bid (although that one still hangs ambiguously in the balance). The sedition chat has been put on the back-burner for now.

If it sounds heavy-handed, it’s because it probably is. Yet, although it may be presented by some in the international press as a hark back to the days of Franco, it raises very few eyebrows among Spaniards. Part of that may have something to do with how it is normalized in the national press but another part comes down to the fact that the vast majority of people outside Catalonia simply disagree with the referendum. To them, Catalonia is a region of Spain. A region of Spain cannot just unilaterally declare independence and wander off.

Imagine if Nicola Sturgeon used her Holyrood majority to push through an indyref2 bill and write a separatist poll into local law. Imagine the SNP then vowed to unilaterally declare independence with immediate effect, even if yes voters only won by 1%. How would it feel for the no voters being whisked away from their beloved Blighty? The rest of the UK would be up in arms because you can’t just do that. That’s not how things work.


Iñigo Errejón, a key strategist and on of the most recognizable faces in Podemos, attends a Catalonia solidatrity rally in Puerta del Sol, Madrid. ©Jake Threadguould

Surely not everyone outside of Catalonia is against the referendum? Correct, there is a group of mainly left-wing movements that have advocated for dialogue and the negotiated legalization of the vote. The grassroots Podemos, the third political force in the national parliament, occupies a funny half-way position between the regional separatists and the common narrative in Spain. They do not back a unilateral referendum, however. The main opposition Socialist Party (PSOE) and the center-right, freshly ironed suit types in Ciudadanos – Spain’s fourth largest party – are in agreement with the PP government on the topic. That puts PSOE in a slightly awkward position.

But the Catalan referendum transcends traditional left-right politics in Spain. It sends shudders down the spine national identity in a country where, for many, even flying the national flag conjures up connotations of the dictatorship.

What is certain is that a huge portion of people in Catalonia have never felt comfortable in Spanish skin. What is also certain is that a huge portion of people in Spain cannot bear to see Catalonia walk away. There’s a good chance the referendum will be blocked. How that will happen is yet to be established — as has my opinion.

If they ever build a fence between Spain and Catalonia, I’ll be on it.

Jeremy Corbyn, beware the personality cult

The most memorable chorus at Glastonbury this year was undoubtedly the chant of “Oh, Jeremy Corbyn.” Clips of the crowd singing the Labour leader’s name went viral. Something incredible has happened; June 8 saw the return of a populist Left in the UK. Odd, perhaps, that the shift was spearheaded by one of the country’s traditional parties, which tend to only dip one toe in the extreme while always courting the center ground.
Lacking support from media and even his own party, Corbyn was left largely to his own devices to get his message of hope and alternative governance across. He breathed that message into Britain’s dejected and forgotten corners and Corbynism blossomed into a chorus. He arrived back in parliament an easy-going celebrity, buoyant on a grassroots support and with a whole new Labour Party at his feet; one that belonged to the people.
Across the Commons floor, Theresa May is still standing, albeit with a slaughter date branded on her head. The raucous Tory backbenchers in the driving seat will put her to pasture (perhaps a nice wheat field?) in due course and replace her with another unelected Tory leader. In the meantime, however, they are back to focusing on destroying the country with their pursuit of a hard Brexit. They have decided no to heed the advice of trade experts, economists, academics, and (most) world leaders.
As a side, what era of British history do the rabid Brexiteers so desperately pine for? Is it the post-war idyll of village greens and local butchers? That would be apt, for British global trade was teetering on the brink then, too. But, however nihilistic their venture may be, Tory backbenchers are at least vociferous. The same cannot be said for Labour. Some of the 50 Labour MPs who voted against pulling out of the EU single market in yesterday’s vote were sacked by Corbyn.
Perhaps Corbyn is stifling them as a reprisal for their revolt last year, perhaps the unions are doing that for him, or maybe the centrists are still reticent to accept such a left-wing leader. Whatever the reason, there must be a compromise. The Labour Party as a whole needs to be more vocal. Corbyn needs more teammates.
Although he has support at a grassroots level and looks to be enjoying his new-found life as an internet meme, populism is a bucking bronco and personality cults are fleeting – like fidget spinners. I would ask whether those who voted Labour, voted for the party or for its leader? Furthermore, how many of you have fidget spinners? The latter being of personal interest.
While the populist bubble that holds Corbyn aloft is a truly admirable feat, it has the potential to leave him exposed in the Commons. A shift in public sentiment or a return to apathy would see the bubble pop and send the Labour leader tumbling back down onto an unforgiving terrain. To avoid that, he must continue in his public relations, a feature that really sets him apart from the Tory robots in the government benches. But he must also soften his back-bench in the event of a fall from grace.
Perhaps he should be careful where he points that pro-Brexit stance of his. It could take someone’s eye out.