Give yourselves up! You are surrounded by the people of Italy. Come out with your hands up!. No one will touch you. Your time is up. Donít meddle with luck that has been on your side until now. Now when people are talking about things out in the streets, they talk about you in the past, as though you were extinct persons. When you appear on TV, you trigger off insults that are equivalent to the vilification of cadavers. What is astounding is your mad insistence in not stepping aside as though you were entrusted with a divine mission. Thereís something pathological in that. Something that needs the intervention of a psychiatrist, but thereís also something sad, like the performance of an old man without a voice, and unsteady on his legs, playing the part designed for a young actor or like the song Memory performed by the decrepit Grizabella in Cats "Touch me/ It's so easy to leave me/ All alone with the memory/ or my days in the sun". The posters showing your faces in the streets seem like death announcements flapping in the wind with a bit of a colour touch up. You move around in the empty squares, in the theatres full of people with walk-on roles, in the TV studios interviewed by your employees, you enunciate promises that you will never be able to stick to, and you donít intend to either. Of those who are close to you, no one has the courage to tell you that it is all over, that itís gone badly and that from whatever point of view you could look at things, whether itís economic, social, political, or administrative, you are done for.
The Italian people, as though they are being led by an animal instinct, feel they are at a fork in the road and that to keep going with you is suicide. They have forgiven you everything, way beyond anything that is decent. But now they cannot forgive you for the collapse of the nation. You have to realise that you you have to go before you are kicked out by popular anger. This is a bit of friendly advice: "Give yourselves up!" This twenty year period has been like a Vietnam war for the Italian people, but you still have the possibility of climbing aboard the helicopter like the Americans on the rooves of Saigon in 1975. You are terrified, beset by anxiety attacks at the thought of losing power, at the thought of someone rifling through your drawers trying to understand, to discover stuff and to denounce you. However I advise you to take one, two, three, or even a hundred steps back. Even if you were to win these elections, you will only have put off the change. You will last a year, perhaps less. Is it worth it? Make a public admission of guilt and ask the Italian people to pardon you. Give yourselves up! Your very presence has become unbearable. The way you always brush off any responsibility, the way you puff up your feathers and start to issue threats like ruffians. The way you stalk the Italian people is way beyond anything that can be tolerated. Give yourselves up! You canít say I havenít warned you.
Posted by Beppe Grillo at 04:11 PM in Wailing Wall
(3) | Comments in Italian (translated)
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