Jaime Bayly: A superior being

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The television program that Barclays directs and presents is precisely called “Barclays.” It seems a sign of self-centeredness, of narcissism, of cult of personality, as if he were the North Korean dictator, plump and puffed up. Couldn’t it be called “Barclays Nights” or “The News with Barclays” or “The World of Barclays”? No: Barclays has taken over his surname without asking permission, a surname to which his ancestors gave a certain prestige and which he has tarnished, tarnished. That is why his brothers think: By what right does Jimmy’s jerk appropriate our last name and turn it into a television brand, a product of dubious reputation, a bastard thing, a showman? Because the Barclays brothers, who have the same last name, do not watch the program called “Barclays”, as they consider it an absolute boredom.

Not only her brothers and her extended family, all of them in Lima, Peru, avoid watching her show as if they avoided catching the ominous “omicrom” variant of the coronavirus: in general, fewer and fewer people watch that show, except for those who consider it a sleep inducer, a sedative or anxiolytic, a natural, non-chemical formula to fall asleep in fifteen or twenty minutes, for the barclays chatter operates a staggering effect on its viewers and listeners, plunges them into a growing stupor, leaves them dozing and even snoring.

Despite the fact that the program has been on the air for more than fifteen years, broadcasting from Miami to the United States and Puerto Rico and the most confused countries in Latin America, there is ample evidence that only a handful of suicide bombers, night owls, and other people watch it. insomniacs, depressed and self-destructive people, despondent individuals, without a future, without self-esteem. That is why the Barclays heavyweight has recently received several blows to his papal ego, to his cardinal vanity, some insults or humiliations that remind him that his best times on television are a thing of the past and that the worst is yet to come and that for Consequently, he would do well to consider retiring, before they spit him out of television like someone who spits a spittle, a viscous phlegm, a stony gargau.

The owners of the Miami channel have informed him these days that they will extend his program next year, yes, but they will reduce his salary by ten percent. Scalding, Barclays has complained, has protested. He has said that next year his youngest daughter will stop attending a public school and go to a private school and that this school is very expensive, as expensive or more than a prestigious university. He has said that he must continue to pay for a law degree at a university of excellence that his eldest daughter is studying. He has said that his program is very often the one that marks the best ratings on television and that is why it does not deserve such a punishment. But the owners have not taken pity on him and have responded that they will reduce his salary yes or yes and that, if he does not agree, he may well go to another canal or another slaughterhouse or slaughterhouse. But Barclays knows that no canal, slaughterhouse or slaughterhouse wants to hire it, so, as bad as it is, it takes the hit and assumes it will make less money next year.

It is only the first blow to his excessive peacock pride: almost at the same time, the owners of the Peruvian channel who broadcast his program, and who have been broadcasting it for two years, and who paid him quite well, so well that they even asked him to do a special program every Sunday, to which Barclays agreed out of sheer greed to earn more money and the exhibitionist vanity of also going out on Sundays pontificating in a ridiculous professorial tone, they made the decision, in view of the lousy ratings, to displace the program at eleven at night, then at eleven thirty, then at midnight and finally at one in the morning. In other words, the program was dying, with artificial respiration, in worse hours, with worse audience ratings, in a coma. With this being the case, now turned into a clandestine conspiracy, a sneaky cabal of four cats, the program will go off the air in the coming weeks, as the channel’s owners have told Barclays, and the journalist has felt like a vermin that is being fumigated.

As if all this were not enough, the “Barclays” program, which apparently only works tepidly in the United States, has suffered other insults, other reprisals: the owner of the Chilean channel has informed Barclays that he is willing to continue broadcasting the program, but without paying him anything, as if the show itself was already an excessive favor; the manager of the Panamanian channel has informed Barclays that her program will no longer be released at eleven o’clock at night, but at five o’clock in the morning; The new administration of the Ecuadorian state channel, which broadcast the program after midnight, has taken it off the air, without saying anything to Barclays, and despite the fact that it publicly supported the current president of that country; and the rating that marks the foul-mouthed Barclays rostrum in Argentina, the country that broadcasts it on weekends, is not as tiny as just one point, but even more microscopic: one tenth of a point, which probably equates to ten people, eight of them dozing.

Barclays is then quite disheartened and thinks that perhaps he should retire from television in a couple of years, when he turns forty years exhausting that talkative, liar job, which consists of painting his face with powders and lying colors and then displaying all kinds of impostures, drills and fakes in front of a camera. However, every night, when he does his makeup alone, because due to the pandemic he no longer trusts the channel’s makeup artist, and when he rushes to the studio, and when he is about to say “Good night, I’m Jimmy Barclays, welcome to the show, ”he believes, as you certainly want to believe, that there are tons of people waiting for the show to begin, millions of people eagerly waiting to watch it from start to finish, not even stopping to go to the bathroom. It is then a narcissistic misunderstanding, a convenient misunderstanding for the robust ego of the journalist: when he speaks, when he raises his voice, when he pontificates or preaches, when he is funny, he is sure that everyone, literally everyone, is there. seeing him. But at that very moment, if he could see his imaginary spectators, he could witness something terrible, painful: almost nobody is seeing him, people see better things, only a handful of suicides, lunatics, self-destructive nuts, they insist on seeing the vinegary news pouring from Jimmy Barclays’ foamy mouth. He is, then, a man who speaks without noticing that, at the other end of the communication, of the line, there is no one, only an absence that spreads and multiplies. He is then a man who speaks alone to hear the echo of his own voice. It is, although he does not resign himself to accepting it, an orate speaking alone in front of an old television camera, thinking that his verb is electrifying and persuasive, when it electrifies no one, persuades no one, convinces no one to turn on the television to see it.

Barclays will make less money next year, what else is left, no one will give you a better offer. He will have to resign himself to no longer appearing on the Peruvian and Ecuadorian screens, to not charging the Chilean channel anything, to preaching in the Panamanian early mornings, to register a tenth of a rating point on Argentine televisions: like a veteran footballer, ventrudo, slow, bastard, who no longer scores goals or kicks off the ball, Barclays will have to understand, badly that it weighs him, that now he no longer plays in the first division, that he plays in the second division and the coach is thinking of asking him to stay seated, lethargic , on the substitute bench or, almost better, that he retires in a farewell match, which, presumably, will be very sad, since the stands will be unpopulated and only his mother, Dorita Lerner, will applaud, who considers Barclays to be the best journalist in the world, a classic in life, a superior being.

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