Listen. I’m going to tell you a story about monsters, and it’s
not the kind you’re thinking of. No shambling creatures from the mist, no
ancient evil sleeping beneath a small Maine town. These monsters wear Armani
suits and wave flags in stadiums that cost more than most countries’ GDP. They
smile for cameras and they count their money and they tell you—oh, they tell
you with such earnest faces—that sports and politics don’t mix.
That’s horseshit, friends and neighbors. Always has been.
Professor Alan Tomlinson knew it when he sat down with the
Johan Cruyff Institute, his words carrying the weight of a man who’d spent a
lifetime watching the beautiful game get corrupted from the inside out. Soccer,
he said—and you could almost hear the weariness in his voice, the kind that
comes from screaming truth into a hurricane—is a product of human culture. It’s
intertwined with politics the way a tumor wraps itself around healthy tissue.
Inevitable. Inseparable.
But still, even now in our enlightened age, FIFA floats that
same tired mantra like a dead fish bobbing in polluted water: Soccer and
politics shouldn’t mix. They wield it like a cudgel, beating down any
campaign that doesn’t align with their particular brand of morality. It’s a
magic trick, see? Now you see values, now you don’t.
The thing is, everyone knows it’s bullshit. Open secret. The
emperor’s got no clothes, and he’s dancing naked in Zurich, and nobody with any
real power says a goddamn word.
When Russia invaded Ukraine, FIFA grew a spine. Suddenly,
politics did matter. They banned Russia from the 2022 World Cup, stood
up tall, beat their chests. Good guys, right? Heroes of democracy and all that
jazz.
But Israel?
Crickets.
That magic card gets pulled again, smooth as a card sharp in
a backroom poker game. Politics and sports don’t mix, they say, and if you
squint real hard and maybe drink enough, you might almost believe them.
The rot runs deep, friends. Deeper than you think. Like one
of those old houses in Derry where the foundation’s been crumbling for decades,
and everybody just paints over the cracks and pretends the whole thing isn’t
about to come down on their heads.
Take Real Madrid. Los Merengues. The Galacticos. All
that white and gold and glory.
Beautiful, isn’t it?
Look closer.
The Ghosts of Franco
September 2025. The Santiago Bernabéu stadium, that
cathedral of soccer, that monument to everything the sport’s supposed to be.
Security guards—good men just doing their jobs, probably, the kind who go home
and kiss their kids goodnight—stopped Marseille fans at the gates. The crime?
Palestinian flags.
Can’t have those, you see. Gotta stay neutral.
Real Madrid said it with straight faces: just enforcing the
rules, nothing political here, move along.
But here’s the thing about neutrality—and this is important,
so pay attention—neutrality is always a choice. And it’s usually the choice of
whoever’s already winning.
Behind that glamorous facade, behind the trophies and the
highlight reels and the merchandise sold in every country on God’s green earth,
there’s blood. Old blood and new blood, and it’s soaked so deep into the
Bernabéu’s foundation you’d need to tear the whole thing down to get it out.
The 1950s. The golden age, if you listen to the die-hards,
the true believers who can recite statistics like scripture. Five straight
European Cups from 1956 to 1960. Four La Liga titles. One Intercontinental Cup.
Glory days, they call them.
They don’t mention the puppet master.
General Francisco Franco—and wasn’t he a piece of work, a
real monster in the classical sense, the kind who killed his own people and
called it patriotism—had his fingers all over Real Madrid’s success. He loved
the club the way a parasite loves its host: deeply, possessively, hungrily.
Alfredo Di Stéfano. The name still echoes, doesn’t it? One
of the greatest to ever play the game. He ended up at Real Madrid because
Franco wanted him there. Simple as that. The General leaned on Josep
Samitier—Barcelona’s chief scout, a man who learned that some offers you can’t
refuse—and made it happen. Promised money. Promised perks. Promised whatever it
took.
Nick Fitzgerald, writing for These Football Times, cautioned
against drawing too direct a line from Franco’s interference to Real Madrid’s
dominance. Might be rash, he said. Might be correlation rather than causation.
But the intervention itself?
Undeniable.
That’s the word he used. Undeniable. It sits there
like a stone in your gut, doesn’t it?
The Sickness Spreads
The past is never dead, Faulkner said. It’s not even past.
Franco’s been in the ground for decades, but his shadow
still falls across the Bernabéu like the shadow of the Overlook Hotel fell
across the Torrance family. You can’t escape it. It’s in the walls. It’s in the
DNA.
Dani Carvajal, Real Madrid’s current field captain—the man
who wears the armband, the symbol of leadership and integrity and all those
words that sound good in press releases—is a supporter of Vox. Spain’s
far-right party. The kind that stands with Israel no matter what, no questions
asked, eyes wide shut.
Isabel Pérez Moñino, Vox spokesperson, said it plain: “Today
we proudly attended the presentation of the Gold Medal of the Community of
Madrid to Dani Carvajal, where not only a great athlete is being honored, but
also a role model for the values that build a strong nation.”
Values that build a strong nation.
Read between those lines. The truth’s hiding there like a
rat in the walls.
Carvajal had also invited Santiago Abascal—Vox’s leader, the
main man himself—to watch matches from the VIP box at the Bernabéu. Breaking
bread with the faithful. Showing his true colors.
Then there’s Thibaut Courtois, Real Madrid’s number one
goalkeeper. Married to an Israeli model. Posted support for Israel on social
media. Donated 200,000 shekels—more than fifty grand American—to Israel,
according to the Israeli newspaper Maariv.
Fifty thousand dollars.
Think about that number for a minute. Think about what it
means. Think about the choice it represents.
Never Lose
Franco’s Real Madrid was built on a simple principle: do
whatever it takes to get what you want. Win at all costs. The end justifies the
means and all that fascist horseshit.
That attitude didn’t die with the dictator. It metastasized.
Became part of the club’s DNA, coded into every contract and every transfer and
every decision made in those plush boardrooms where the real power lives.
Sir Alex Ferguson saw it. The old Scotsman, Manchester
United’s manager from 1986 to 2013, a man who knew a thing or two about winning
and what it costs, said it plain in 2008:
“The really shameful thing about all this is that Real
Madrid, as General Franco’s club, had a history—before democracy came to
Spain—of getting whoever they wanted and doing whatever they wanted.”
Getting whoever they wanted and doing whatever they
wanted.
Let that sink in.
The evidence is everywhere if you care to look. In 2024,
when rumors spread that Vinícius Júnior would lose the Ballon d’Or, Real Madrid
threw a tantrum that would make a toddler blush. They boycotted the ceremony.
The entire club. Refused to show up.
Childish, critics said. Unnecessary. Over-the-top.
LaLiga president Javier Tebas—himself a Real Madrid fan,
mind you—called it excessive. That’s the word he used. Excessive. Like
describing a forest fire as “a bit warm.”
But that’s the mentality, see? That’s how it works when you’ve
been raised on Franco’s poison. You don’t lose. You can’t lose. And if
you do, you flip the table and storm out of the room.
The Money Man
Which brings us to Florentino Pérez.
Now here’s where the story gets really interesting. Here’s
where the monster shows its true face.
Pérez has been Real Madrid’s president from 2000 to 2006,
and again since 2009. The man who built the Galacticos—both editions. The man
who turned soccer into a game of global monopoly, buying up superstar after
superstar like they were properties on a board.
It’s no coincidence that Real Madrid earned the nickname Los
Galácticos starting in 2000. The club’s funding seemed limitless back then, a
bottomless well of cash that let them sign Zinedine Zidane, Ronaldo, David
Beckham, Michael Owen, Robinho, Sergio Ramos, and Luis Figo—poached from
Barcelona, that bitter pill—all in pursuit of glory.
They won the Champions League once during that first era, in
2001–2002. One trophy for all those billions. But hey, who’s counting?
Pérez’s first Galácticos project kicked off shortly after he
took over the construction giant ACS in 1997. Initial funding came from the
Alberto and March families—both closely tied to Franco’s dictatorship, because
of course they were, because the rot runs deep and the connections never truly
break.
As ACS grew into a global powerhouse—tentacles spreading
across continents, into countries most people couldn’t find on a map—Pérez
returned as Real Madrid president in 2009. The Galácticos rose again,
phoenix-like, burning through money like it was kindling.
Kaká. Cristiano Ronaldo. Karim Benzema. Ángel Di María.
Mesut Özil. Toni Kroos. Gareth Bale. Eden Hazard.
Billions poured in. Trillions, if you’re counting in other
currencies. Money flowing like blood from an open wound.
If Franco helped Real Madrid get what it wanted through
force and intimidation and naked political power, Pérez does it with money. But
that money—where does it come from? How does it work?
Follow the money, they say in all the good detective
stories. Follow the money and you’ll find the truth.
The Machine
ACS. Actividades de Construcción y Servicios. One of the
world’s biggest construction firms. Founded in 1997 with backing from the
Alberto and March families—those names again, circling back like a recurring
nightmare—and grown into a behemoth that feeds on international projects the
way a vampire feeds on blood.
Eoghan Gilmartin, writing in Tribune Magazine, laid it out
plain: ACS’s influence in Spanish power circles, particularly under Prime
Minister José María Aznar, gave the company access to unlimited credit through
regional savings banks. Those loans—and this is where it gets beautiful, in a
sick sort of way—funded Real Madrid’s Galácticos projects.
Cristiano Ronaldo’s 2009 transfer. Seventy-six million
euros. From Caja Madrid. During the global financial crisis.
Let me say that again: during the global financial crisis,
while ordinary people were losing their homes and their jobs and their futures,
a Spanish savings bank loaned Real Madrid seventy-six million euros to buy a
soccer player.
The machine works like this: Pérez’s interests and ACS’s
interests are so tangled together you couldn’t separate them with a chainsaw.
Real Madrid is suspected—and when I say suspected, I mean everybody knows it
but nobody can quite prove it in a court of law—of playing a key role in
securing government contracts for ACS in certain countries.
How? Through player transfers.
Javier “Chicharito” Hernández from Mexico. James Rodríguez
from Colombia.
After signing James Rodríguez, ACS landed an
820-million-euro road project in Colombia. Twenty-five year contract. Mundo
Deportivo called it “another benefit” for Pérez and his company, and wasn’t
that diplomatic of them?
In Mexico, ACS scored a 432-million-euro contract for
factory construction, operation, and modernization. The timing? Two weeks after
Chicharito joined Real Madrid.
Two. Weeks.
ESPN Deportes said it “raised widespread suspicions about
conflicts of interest between Real Madrid and its president’s business
dealings.”
Suspicions. That word again. Everybody knows, nobody proves.
The monster keeps feeding.
The Blood on Their Hands
But here’s where it all comes together, friends. Here’s
where the story reaches its inevitable, ugly conclusion.
September 2025. The United Nations—and say what you will
about them, but they keep records, they document things—added several of Pérez’s
companies to its blacklist for operating in occupied Palestinian territories.
The UN accused ACS of using local resources to build
infrastructure supporting illegal Israeli settlements. The same went for its
subsidiary, Sociedad Española de Montajes Industriales. SEMI for short. Easier
to say. Easier to forget.
According to the UN, these firms provided equipment and
materials that facilitated settlement construction and maintenance. Home
demolitions. Surveillance systems. Commercial exploitation of natural
resources.
More than 700,000 Israeli settlers now live illegally in
over 250 settlements across the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Illegal under
international law. Illegal under every definition of the word that matters.
ACS and SEMI denied everything, naturally. They always do.
The guilty always deny.
And Real Madrid? The club that banned Palestinian flags from
the Bernabéu in the name of neutrality? The club draped in Franco’s bloody
legacy? The club run by a man whose companies build infrastructure for illegal
settlements?
They’ve never firmly condemned Israel’s occupation and
actions in Palestine.
Never.
But just a few years earlier, they openly backed Ukraine.
Donated money under the banner “Everyone Together with Ukraine.” Made it
public. Made it proud.
See how that works? See how the magic trick plays out?
Some occupations are worth opposing. Others? Well, those don’t
count. Those are just politics, and we don’t mix sports and politics.
The Truth
So here’s what I want you to understand, because this is
important, because this is the heart of the horror:
The monsters are real.
They don’t live in sewers or sleep in coffins or shamble out
of pet cemeteries. They run soccer clubs and construction companies. They wear
expensive suits and shake hands with politicians and smile for the cameras.
They build their empires on blood and corruption and the carefully cultivated
lie that none of it matters, that it’s all just business, just sports, just the
way things are.
Real Madrid is beautiful. The soccer is sublime. The
trophies gleam under stadium lights that could illuminate a small city.
But underneath?
Underneath is Franco’s ghost, still pulling strings.
Underneath is Pérez’s machine, trading players for government contracts,
building settlements in occupied territories, soaking in blood money while
telling you it’s all perfectly neutral.
The beautiful game, they call it.
Beautiful.
Right up until you look close enough to see the stains that
won’t wash out, no matter how much money you throw at the laundry.
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