Days Of The Seagull

"When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea." Last week was a good week for seagulls. Take, for example, poor old Henry "Blowers" Blofeld, a man who single-handedly has done more for pigeon and seagull life than any other commentator in the history of sport. And what happens? Having been prosaic in his admiration of seagulls at the Swalec in between Joe Root putting Mad Mitch to the sword, he steps out of the stadium and Jonathan Livingston promptly deposits his lunch over him from a great height.

Metaphorically speaking, they were waving their hankies at Palma's dockside to wish José Ramón bon voyage, he having been splattered upon from a less than great height, before they - thankful for his departure - turned their attention to a celebratory sardine barbecue. Bye, bye, Bauzá. Off to Madrid you go. The seagulls followed the trawler with its forlorn traveller but could dine out on no more than the scraps of a political career shredded and cast to the seven seas. Would Eric Cantona play JR in the story of his rise and fall? Doubtful. Eric is a man of social conscience and besides JR never aimed a karate kick at anyone, not even Mateo Isern. The pathos might appeal to Eric though. Sent into exile in the senate where former presidents of the Balearics go to be forgotten: José Ramón and Francesc Antich, politically divided but united in their memories of failure.

The denouement, the final act of airbrushing, save for the seat in the corner of the senate chamber, was the Partido Popular's conference in Madrid. JR had hoped to go there still able to puff his chest out as regional leader, to be able to announce to the party faithful that it had been he who had turned the Balearics into the motor of Spanish economic regeneration. He wasn't allowed to. Yes, he did say this at a forum but not at the main event. PP high command didn't want him anywhere near the stage. They were aware of the pestilence that had left the Balearic PP enervated, rudderless, flapping around like seagulls desperately hunting for a temporary leader on which they could swoop, spying one who would then hurriedly bury himself in the sand. No one seems to want the job, not even the regional secretary-general, Miquel Vidal, to whom high command afforded the honour of centre stage rather than Bauzá.

Consequently, JR was not able to join in the celebrations at the great unveiling. When all else fails and it has, except for the bribery of tax cuts, it's time for a new logo. Revival for the PP prior to the general election comes in the form of less seagull than previously. Ever since the party was formed in the late 1980s, it has symbolically soared but dive-bombed like a seagull, floated on the thermals of alternating fortunes. Now, the seagull has been deprived of the tips of its wings next to the word "populares", which is admittedly better than "unpopulares", but experts on such matters consider the new look a "disaster". Apart from anything else, the two colliding Ps are of a typography very similar to the P of Podemos.

The new logo would have been of minimal interest to JR. Madrid had tried to avoid his humiliation and they succeeded only in heaping more on to him. His Carnival is over. Like the sardine of Shrove Tuesday, he has been buried and consigned to the eternity of a Lent in the senate. His political fasting has begun.