The Luis Rubiales scandal is being presented in Britain as ‘The kiss that started Spain’s MeToo movement’. But, in reality, the overseas coverage of the Spanish Football Federation’s president’s kiss – and his refusal to resign – tells us more about the UK and our own ignorance than it reveals about the country we visit in vast numbers but still struggle to understand.

It’s not just that anyone with the slightest knowledge of Spain will know that it has been having multiple MeToo moments for many years – especially after the searing manada (mob) case of 2016–19, when five men were sentenced for the gang-rape of a women in Pamplona. The initially lenient sentence handed down for assault rather than rape prompted mass demonstrations and stiffer sentences for the culprits from the Supreme Court in Madrid on appeal.

A far more sinister story passes unnoticed

Violence against women has long been a menace in a society still blighted by machismo. Yet like many other observers, I soon started to wonder whether all the so-called cures for this disease weren’t themselves symptoms of another malady. Spurred on by the far-left Podemos party (his junior coalition partners since 2019), Pedro Sánchez enacted highly contentious new legislation whittling away older distinctions between harassment and rape. Miscarriages of justices persisted: this time, by contrast, a high proportion of the victims were young men facing false charges. Level-headed critics focusing on the need to enforce existing laws properly were ignored.

Though significant, this only scratches the surface of what’s wrong with measures deemed Orwellian across Spain’s political spectrum. A mistake in the drafting of la ley de sólo sí es sí (the new statute notionally governing consent) conflating different levels of assault not only means that supposedly minor cases are now viewed with greater seriousness. It has also resulted in a more indulgent approach to the most serious cases. The consequences are stark. About 1,100 dangerous criminals – including rapists and paedophiles – have had their sentences reduced. Of these, about 100 have so far gained early release from prison. Some have reoffended. Little wonder that this law is widely derided as la ley suelta de violadores (the law releasing rapists). No member of the government lost their job over the fiasco.

Luis Rubiales’s antics are admittedly deplorable. He should never have kissed Jenni Hermoso on the lips. His resignation would be a positive step. Meanwhile, a far more sinister story passes unnoticed. The Podemos party, including Irene Montero, the equality minister who talks a good talk on fairness, is letting women down as badly as many an old-school chauvinist. Though repeatedly calling for Rubiales’s head, she has brushed aside all demands for her own removal.

We are unlikely to hear anything about this double standard on the BBC or in much of the British press. American news platforms tend to be just as one-eyed. Virtually all the mainstream coverage of the recent general election focused on the extremism of Vox on the hard right, for example, without mentioning that Podemos are self-declared Marxists. As well as embracing runaway identitarianism, the party’s leaders express admiration for the Chavista ideology that has virtually destroyed Venezuela.

It is hard to resist an obvious inference. Whether through carelessness or bias, our media are happy to reflect fashionable hierarchies of victimhood and what is perhaps the leading fallacy of our times: ‘My intentions are good, which must mean that I can do no wrong.’

Rupert Shortt is a Research Associate at the University of Cambridge and a former Hispanic editor of the TLS