The story of the "Banyut"

The nation's tribal beer conceives our country as a legendary place that must be explained through actors, musicians, footballers, and some chef with an unsettling gaze, author of extravagant dulzainas. This is an idea that can only lead to disastrous consequences, because fables always bring us closer to the art of metaphor (that is, to the corny rhetoric of losers) and, in turn, the professions I just mentioned are the perfect example of the sidereal distance between the rational-ethical virtue that everyone presumes them to have and the discursive poverty they actually possess.

In the case of this year's Mediterranean apology advertisement, the idyllic nature of this string of big men and big women telling each other romances by the sea, with the joy experienced by the crowd who believes they are discovering the moon with beer in hand, has had a symptomatic unforeseen event, given that our curly-haired defender (I write "our" because he was anointed within the walls of La Masia) has decided to shit on his footballing childhood, signing for that team from kilometer zero that wants to steal our illusion.

Details and protagonists aside, the story of Canyut has its humor, because it perfectly expresses the melancholy of action with which many would like to castrate the national character. As you will know, the commercial explains the plot of an inland man, unaware of the magic of the Mediterranean, who is transferred to a coastal town to measure land (thanks to the fable, many compatriots have learned the definition of the word "theodolite," which is no small thing).

One must credit the advertisers with a certain immersion in Wikipedia, as many Mediterranean legends are made of men drowned in the sea who, as on this occasion, are rescued by a female who makes them fall in love but who, just when they realize they would want her forever, leaves to condemn them to eternal waiting. This is the burden of poor Canyut, who every day goes to drink his beer in the same bar where he had met the amazon—we will call her Meritxell—longing for her to have the kindness to return to the places of their first kiss. Roland Barthes said that the lover, simply put, is one who waits.

All this may seem very poetic but, in the case of our country, the Canyut ethic inevitably leads us to the most absolute of miseries and the most dreadful diminishment. This story, if we look closely, is based on the ethic of the famous "we have it within reach" because, according to these perfidious advertisers, it will always be better to imagine the return of a lady than to touch her buttocks in a cove. It's that very Catalan thing of playing the defeated in solitude so that others can praise your capacity for persistence; it's this idea according to which the important thing is not to take the girl to bed, but to make a silly face looking at the sea, like poor Cio-Cio-San, hoping that the chosen apple will have the kindness to appear. Let me tell you something that our little stars won't tell you, dear Canyut; Meritxell will not only make you wait in vain, but she is currently sunbathing in other coves of the world, while some gentle Brazilian rubs cream on her shoulders and she imagines how she will ram him on all fours when she grants him consent...

This disastrous film from the Mediterranean school should be renamed and, to do justice to the unfortunate protagonist, called "the story of the Banyut", because only then can this character who loses his nights while his beloved has long since moved on be considered. In this sense, perhaps the advertisement should only be starring the malevolent Cucurella, since at Can Barça they were still waiting for him, making poetry with sea views... while the boy was already buying himself a well-padded leather wallet.

Fortunately, not all Catalans fall into this dreadful ethic of defeat nor are we the result of such a painful example of moral dullness disguised as love for the salty sea. In fact, while preparing this article, I was frozen when I discovered that I, and who knows if only I, knew the true story of the Canyut. I had met him in Manhattan more than twenty years ago when, far from waiting for damsels and facing the ocean with a sad pose, he beautifully painted the city's contours thanks to the help of a few capitalist friends.

I will not go into details out of courtesy and because from time to time discretion must be maintained, but I love to confirm for the umpteenth time that -under the poetic legends of this country of ours and of the mystics who brandish them with an air of transcendence- there is always a money-grubbing spirit hidden. We will thus begin the summer, with this very dignified thought, dear readers of La Puñalada: expect nothing, for Meritxell will not return, and she is having a great time, the saintly woman...