Once again, my bar last night was the thermometer to measure people’s desire for carnival. About eleven o’clock there was not room for a soul and, as you will understand, the topic of conversation was the jury’s ruling on the phases and what today’s final can bring us. Leveraged at the bar was my friend Paco El Cabraloca; original uncle if ever, who told me that he would be leaving soon to prepare everything he needs for tonight.
Seeing my astonished face, he explained: You see, tonight there are eight murgas at twenty minutes, but between one and the next you have to wait for the TV to put on its advertising, which, even if you are in the venue, you have to swallow it. That he do his interviews backstage, that the messages on social networks are read, an invention of this year that Paco does not see any incentive for. In short, the final will end as usual at three in the morning, despite the fact that the performance time was reduced by ten minutes due to murga. For this reason, El Cabra will carry in his backpack: a crossword puzzle to entertain himself between murga and murga; two sandwiches from home, because he asked for a mortgage extension to buy some puppies on the premises and they denied it; a cream for the neck, muscle relaxant, because he had to sit on a side step; some earplugs, for song endings, and a song translator, because with the quality of sound that we have this year, understanding many murgas well is as if you had gotten the eleven o’clock coupon. All this, in a good backpack, is what Paco has come to call the final pack.
