Lavitola is in Rebibbia, but Ranucci isn’t. Could there be a clearer example of injustice?

Valter Lavitola has never deceived anyone, whatever the charges he faces. Morally speaking, let’s just say he’s above board. He is the sort who dabbles in politics, gets things done, pursues money and the good life, takes the initiative, travels to risky places, misleads others and gets himself into a bit of a mess, forges so-so relationships, hatches plots both big and small, sends Fini into well-deserved retirement, and – undeservedly – tries to scrounge a crust from Berlusconi; in short, a talented scatterbrain who has been operating in a shadow as bright as the sun for many years. I have no objection to the gentleman whatsoever, and I am not pleased that he is in prison for the alleged attack on that other individual who is clamoring for prime time, unless it is with his closest associate and Tavares for the premiership via opinion polls and who knows what else that is manipulative and self-manipulative (“we’ve got to do it properly”). I do not like that other man; I detest his abusive power as a professor of public morality, as a so-called investigative journalist who ought to be thoroughly investigated himself, as a moraliser who’s been moralised, as a whinger with a family, as a betrayer of friendship and of sea bream with potatoes, as someone who idealises himself, as a reckless and revealing autobiographer, and as a narcissist of supposed inflated virility.

What a lot of scoundrels those who want to appear as something they’re not – the ‘gentlemen’ from Bistrot Cefalù, the self-proclaimed experts on so-called ‘ambiguous sources’, where the sources are clean and efficient, yet their cynical, professional use of them within the public service is far from clean, exploiting the gullible and somewhat careless trust of its staff – one of whom is dear to me and enjoys my undiminished respect because, when he came to Mugello, he was able to distinguish between an idiot, yours truly, and his super-cunning double, destined for what was in his cards; associates and assistants who are only now realising they’ve played a game that, in reality, excluded them and, in practical terms, left them in a right mess.

If I were the boss at Rai, I would dismiss without hesitation that self-righteous figure who has betrayed the trust of both viewers and the organisation for so many years. But these are cunning types; they want the process of self-righteousness to run its course, for the brand of the most grotesque programme ever broadcast to be safeguarded, so that no one can accuse them of censorship, and so that other chap gets prime-time slot – or demands it – whilst his loyal and dear manipulative friend, that is, his special assistant for politics and public relations, ends up in Rebibbia, whilst he himself aspires to the confirmation of his precarious television glory. Is there a clearer and more absolute formulation of the concept of injustice? No.

Among us professional CIA informants, we would never tolerate such an oaf; we would regard the "James Bond of Pomezia" as an affront to our unassailable reputation, to our passion for the state and politics, and, indeed, to genuine intelligence. He is hoping he will get away with it, and he certainly will, given the average ethical standards of the circles he moves in and of the Lavrov Camp, which is teeming with the likes of him; he has his own newspapers and experts in universities and embassies, and perhaps – indeed, undoubtedly – even a few obliging friends at Rai. At the BBC or BFM TV, a person like that would not have lasted an hour and a half. And yet there he is, the ‘Here He Is Again’ of the no-holds-barred purge; there he is, writhing amidst the compromises of the trade and turning against the seriousness and reliability of the famous great factory of culture and information. What are they waiting for to get rid of Sigfrido and dedicate a little Wagnerian concert to him in the name of deception?