IT HAS been a bad week for Mexico’s high and mighty, and a good week for Schadenfreude. This is thanks in large part to the growth of social media (as a share of the population, Twitter is said to be more prevalent in Mexico than it is in the United States) and a public increasingly sick of the warped sense of entitlement enjoyed by parts of the political establishment.
There can be few Mexicans who are not relishing the downfall of Humberto Benítez, head of the consumer protection agency, Profeco, who was sacked on the orders of President Enrique Peña Nieto on May 15th. For weeks Mr Benítez clung tenaciously to his job, claiming he had nothing to do with a scandal that started when his daughter, Andrea (pictured), failed to get the table she wanted in one of Mexico City’s trendiest restaurants. She stormed over to Profeco demanding that the restaurant, Maximo Bistrot, be closed down. Her father was in hospital at the time, but his subalterns responded with alacrity, sending over inspectors who partially halted business at the restaurant over some minor misdemeanours. Not, however, before Twitter had started to buzz with the story (Andrea was quickly branded #LadyProfeco), turning it into a national scandal.
 
On May 9th, Mr Benítez absolved himself of responsibility and said the idea of resigning had never crossed his mind—even though four of his underlings were suspended from work for responding to his daughter’s precocity. Less than a week later, though, the president pushed him out to avoid further damage to Profeco’s reputation. It was a welcome move that made Mr Peña look good. It must have made those who named and shamed his daughter feel even better.
By coincidence, in the same week that Mr Benítez was sacked, a local radio station in the south-eastern state of Tabasco revealed audio recordings of Andrés Granier, a former governor of the state, bragging about his 400 pairs of shoes, 600 suits and 1,000 shirts, most of which he kept in his swanky homes abroad because, he said, he was obliged to dress down in Tabasco. Responding to the revelations, which were recorded shortly before he left office, he claimed that he was drunk at the time, and denied most if it. But newspapers were quick to note the old saying that children and drunks always speak the truth.
These stories suggest something positive is emerging in Mexico, a country that, despite some improvements, still has one of the widest gaps between rich and poor in Latin America. Those armed with iPhones, cameras and recording devices—albeit they too, probably, living far better than most Mexicans—are increasingly calling politicians and others to account for unjustifiable extravagance, in effect forcing them to take responsibility for their actions. So is the mainstream media.

There may be political benefits to the crusade. Mexicans have been regaled with stories about the opulent lifestyle of Elba Esther Gordillo, former head of the main teachers’ union, now languishing in jail accused of money laundering and links to organised crime. Her arrest came just after the passage of a big education reform that the union had long resisted. In the past month Reforma, a widely read Mexican newspaper, has also exposed the fabulous jet-set lifestyle in Miami of the son of Carlos Romero Deschamps, leader of the oil-workers' union. This will make it all the harder for Mr Romero Deschamps to stand up against reform of the energy sector.
Such stories make wonderful press: they offer a tantalising glimpse into the private lives of a privileged few; they also strike a chord with a society fed up at seeing such a cosseted elite lapping up so much of Mexico’s prosperity. The good news is that these days, society has more tools and more guts to bring them to account.