When it looked like the administration’s Alyansa team would take nine — possibly 10 — of the 12 senatorial slots up for grabs, Malacañang was imperiously crowing that the 2025 elections would be a referendum on the Marcos government’s performance and approval.

It wouldn’t be wrong to say that midterm elections have always been a barometer for how the electorate views the first three years of a President’s reign. If it is perceived to be good, the voters elect the President’s anointed national candidates. If the President is found to be wanting, his candidates are left in the proverbial “kangkongan” (swamp).

Besides, at the start, the administration had every reason to pompously declare that a vote for the Alyansa candidates would be a vote for the President’s governance. With the triple advantages of incumbency (for many bets), name recall (for almost all), and substantial resources both private and public (for all), the administration team appeared poised for an easy victory.

After all, the opposition ticket consisted of an underfunded ragtag team of unknowns, newbies, has-beens, or a combination of some or all of the above. Only two — Go and Dela Rosa, incumbents both — stood a chance.

And then the unexpectedly idiotic happened: the administration shot itself in the foot. Sorry, in both feet.

First was with the impeachment of the popular Vice President. Exhibiting an unbelievable lack of intuitiveness, the Lower House sent the impeachment complaint to the Senate, knowing full well that nothing would come of it until after the polls.

Not only was it an immensely unpopular move, but it went against the explicit stand of the Iglesia ni Cristo (INC), a potent bloc-voting force whose members turned out in the millions last January in support of the President’s stand against impeaching Duterte.

The INC leadership understandably felt slighted and betrayed by the President it had consistently supported throughout his political career, and his father’s, too. The impeachment also — rightly or wrongly — made the President come across as duplicitous, since no one believed he could not have called it off with a wave of his hand. In the alternative, it made the President look weak.

If that weren’t sufficiently half-witted, someone had the idea that former President Duterte, the opposition slate’s best campaigner, may be neutralized by shipping him off to the Netherlands to be tried by the International Criminal Court (ICC).

Thus, somehow, notwithstanding Marcos’ protestations of non-cooperation with, and lack of jurisdiction of, the ICC, Duterte was arrested right after arriving from a campaign sortie in Hong Kong. Not only was this a complete volte face on the part of Marcos, but the high-handed manner by which his fawning sycophants in the police force effected the arrest sent shock waves of negative reactions throughout the entire nation and even to Filipinos working abroad.

Malacañang’s clumsy-as-Keystone Kops attempts to explain the arrest and rendition of the former president not only forcefully fanned the flames of discontent, but they may be characterized as one of the most disastrous failures of communication arts in recent memory.

The result: five members of the opposition won — two in the top five. Malacañang’s vaunted star player, Erwin Tulfo, was relegated to Number 4. Two — Villar and Marcos — who had been written off, surged into the winning circle after pointedly disengaging from the administration lineup and being endorsed by the Vice President. And Marcoleta, whom conventional wisdom had considered a goner, jumped to Number 6. With two independents (but obviously Yellow) sprinting in, only a minority of the government candidates won.

Indeed, if the Palace would refer to the last elections as a gauge of its continued political strength, it would realize that it is doomed. It now enters the last half of its term with greatly reduced political capital, a Senate it has largely lost control over, and a chasmic credibility gap with the sovereign people.