Vannacci is Pontida's "foreigner." The League is blocking the way. Salvini, on vodka, says, "Never again should we have soldiers in Ukraine."

Pontida, from our correspondent. Now he's a stranger in his own country, Vannacci is staying. The League is putting up a wall. It's not getting through. He's a general, but he's not the "leader." Giancarlo Giorgetti is the antibody, Luca Zaia is the vaccine, Silvia Sardone outshines him with "remigration, remigration," while Salvini dreams of the Kremlin: "We will never send our children to Ukraine. We're not at war with anyone." Venice has moved to Pontida. The chants are for the Doge, Zaia, the anti-Vannacci, who defends the Veneto because "it's not lèse-majesté to ask for it; if the candidate isn't a member of the League, it will be a problem," and who reminds the general: "The rules must be respected. Vannacci must become a member of the League if he wants to stay in the League."

Pontidacci lasted a day, the Saturday of the pub, of blasphemies against Allah, of chants against the world. Pontida does not fall. Giorgetti defends it like Lepanto. Deputy Secretary Sardone grabs headlines when she shouts: "I don't want the people of Pontida to be replaced by four Mao Mao." Vannacci has to catch up and blurts out: "Let's teach the X Mas oath in school." They keep Salvini, who acts like a half-Vannacci, Calimero, he who owns four local newspapers, the RAI shared with Meloni, but who complains: "Other parties may have more money and financial power behind them, powerful friends and TV stations to serve, but they don't have you. You are the strength of the League." Vannacci is now the Étranger , the foreigner. He is a communication phenomenon, but he doesn't convert the Padanian people; they listen to him but don't praise him even when he extols "the foreigner steals and rapes." Polenta beats the Tithes, and Salvini receives the caress of the "best economy minister in the world," the League's deputy leader, the man who will accompany her even in a wheelchair, like Bossi, after Bossi. It's Giorgetti who carries Salvini on his shoulders and silences the crowd with party discipline, saying: "We can only survive if we are mindful of the values ​​of a movement. We can only survive if we have a leader, and we must respect the hierarchy, otherwise we'll end up like everyone else." Obey, fight, but for Salvini, Salvinacci.

There's no Predappio, and it's not the general's dacha, because Sammy Varin, the voice of Radio Libertà, the Renzo Arbore of the old Radio Padania, notes, "the Northern League members get up early, at dawn. Vannacci? It seems to me that the general's people are still asleep. The general is compatible with the League, but this obsession with tithes must end." It's like being in Charlie Kirk's Utah: Kirk T-shirts, Kirk videos, silence for Kirk. The Paduan elf who was the beloved elf every year, the old grandfather who was asked for a photo, is missing, but in his place is Sergio Copetti with a papier-mâché cart. Vannacci's aides-de-camp have fled, and the Tuscan Northern League members are keeping their distance because the general, a wise politician, has led everyone by the nose. He declared to the agencies that "in Tuscany the lists have been approved by the regional executive," but no one is aware of this approval. He's cheating. He's become someone else.

Last year, as a non-member, he walked around Pontida as if he were wearing a tailcoat, awkwardly, while this year he drinks like he's in an Irish pub, tearing up tickets at the stands, offering stamped Vannacci sausages, and singing "Generale" nonstop, "not even to piss." He deserves credit. He woke them up. Attilio Fontana, the "fuck you, we're going to brag," meets him, talks to him (he says, "Everything's cleared up"), but on stage he rages against Rome, his de facto government, against "centralized power," against "Roman bureaucracy, the Roman swamp that slows down Calderoli's work." The only pro-Vannacci banner is this one: "It's pointless to blame the general after betraying every ideal," but the Northern League members cover Vannacci with the garb of old militancy, as Giorgetti advises, "raise the flags," and obscure him with the free "Salvini number 10" t-shirts they distribute. Vannacci? He's treated like a high-class immigrant, granted a temporary residence permit by Salvini. Zaia tutors him in philosophy: "Your freedom ends where mine begins." How long can Vannacci continue to refuse to pay contributions to the League and serve as deputy secretary of the League? Luca Toccalini, the youth leader who has truly assembled a movement that would make the Democratic Party envious, at least in terms of numbers, explains: "Look, you're making a mistake. Vannacci works, he works in schools, he works the way Nicola Fratoianni works." Near the beer stand, Paolo Savona's student, economist Antonio Maria Rinaldi, is another pragmatist: "Parties evolve, Vannacci is an evolution of the League. And he's good at getting hyped up by the press." But he also knows how to move on stage. He takes the floor after Claudio Durigon, heroic, voiceless, and begins to dance, microphone in hand. He even studies the League's oath to get into character, he quotes Manzoni, and then, after getting off the stage, he gets drunk on Decima: "The Pontida oath, which sanctioned the birth of the Lombard League, should be studied in schools like so many other things. Like the heroes of the X mas." Nothing. He can't do it. He wears Decima like they were long underwear. He plays with his other deputy, Sardone, to see who is more radical against Islamists and the left. Vannacci comes up with "it's them, the leftists, who don't want ham served in schools," and Sardone precedes him with: "The communists are illiterate about freedom. We're fed up. Radical Islam is the sword the left uses to cut off the head of the West," and finally: "Should we send them home or not? Yes or no?" And the lawn, chorus: "Yess ... Alberto Stefani, the Veneto candidate who is melting in the sun, has already been elected governor, to applause, because the League needs to administer municipalities and provinces, which then mean positions in state-owned companies, salaries that translate into a small amount of local power.

They're still holding on to Salvini, who announces a large demonstration for February 14th "in defense of the West, of freedoms," like in London; Salvini, who recalls Silvio Berlusconi (he's angry with Mediaset when he talks about "serving TV"); Salvini, who votes for weapons but shouts in Pontida: "Not against European debt to buy weapons, we shouldn't go to war against Russia, but against criminals," and who would like to do as Brecht did with the banks: "Instead of earning 46 billion to distribute dividends, they'll earn 42 billion, and I don't think they'll have trouble paying the bills." He demands that every League office become a signature collection center for a "yes" referendum. He's still safe, remaining leader, but he's the first to know that Vannacci isn't compatible with the League and that the idea of ​​making him a party speaker is an illusion. No. He's not compatible with the government; this natural ambition of his isn't compatible. Vannacci's only merit is having shown that within the League there is a leader who saves the leader. Pontida didn't fall solely because of Giorgetti's words: "We're not like the others. We need to respect the hierarchy. We have a leader." Vannacci is Salvini's intuition, but Salvini is the intuition of the old League members. It will pass, one day, it will pass. It's not Salvini who remains. After Bossi, this figure will remain, to whom a community recognizes the power of ultimate decisions, the ayatollah of the League. The Po's ampoule is in Giorgetti's pantry.

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