Mail bonding

When I was a child I always wondered whether the 'personalities' who advertised things on Rediffusion or MTV actually used them. Until one day, at a family wedding, I heard one person say that though the money was nothing to wrote home about, he endorsed a particular foodstuff although he hated the sight, smell, and taste of it.

The scales, as they say, fell off my eyes, and I think that was the start of my cynicism towards the media in general, although, thinking back, the chap must have been simply showing off, for those days being in the limelight was quite an achievement.

It could only get worse, and this week, ironically during another family wedding, I heard a similar, albeit far worse, tale.

I have always felt for those actors whose names do not appear in the credits of their particular drama, as having being sponsored by such-and-so for clothes and/or make-up.

Presenters of certain programmes, too, make it a point to mention their seamstress, tailor, or clothing company firm several times - and the rumour is that some of them get to keep the clothes, although the man who went to purchase a jacket that smelled of armpit sweat, the likes of which he had just seen on television, has a different tale to tell.

It seems that one particular firm was offering clothes to one particular person, on the assumption that it would get a free mention now and again. This, it turned out, was far off the mark; through the letterbox plopped a bill for no less than Lm3,000 for "advertising services".

This week I caught the tail-ends of what I thought was an advertisement for Ir-Rokna Pizzeria. Cool, I thought, the actors may be a little stiff, yet this makes them appear more natural.

As it turned out, the vignette was one of those commissioned for Naghmlu Festa (Smash Television); there had been two playlets, the first of which had a woman (why?) behaving badly, and in the second, another being loving towards a boyfriend who had forgotten Valentine's Day because of his football match (hence the promised jaunt to the pizzeria). The plays were put up to illustrate reconciliation - quite a change from boring old religious doctrine lessons, I must say.

Some columns ago I mentioned an Italian station that had the endearing habit of lifting clips straight from the bulletins of other stations, and presenting them with a News Ieri credit as well as the original station's logo. I chanced upon something similar on RTK lately, but given that this was radio, the signature tune of One News and Radio 101 were played.

I wish that besides the "switch off mobile phones" rule, all studios would add a "remove chewing gum from mouth" reminder. It is so disgusting to have to watch someone looking like a cow, absent-mindedly ruminating as she is being milked.

The same may be said of people seated along a table chatting away while the main speaker tries to catch the attention of the audience. If they, his peers, do not think he is worth listening to, how can the audience be expected to show respect?

Our friends the sportscasters did not let us down this week. They glibly informed us that there was an unfortunate forma hazina ta' Liverpool, that a particular player had not managed to jirkupra fil-hin for the match, and that a number of players jinsabu dubjuzi, because they were unsure, perhaps, about whether the coach would eventually pick them for the team.

The people at Net have discovered the expression iswed fuq l-abjad. One time this week they used it twice in one bulletin; once to indicate that e-mail was fair dinkum.

Why is it that despite the several times The Maltese Falcon has been in the news of late, so far I have never heard the name pronounced correctly by any newscaster or commentator? Why is it that Basle is never pronounced correctly, either? Surely these days, when even mild profanities (what an antithesis) are to be found in play scripts, the proper pronunciation will not shock? Tour operators and weather forecast readers, please note.

Back in December 1960, when Coronation Street hit British television screens, the series made news as much as for the comings and goings in Rovers Return as for the fact that even the royal residents of Buckingham Palace were reputed to watch it.

This week the BBC broadcast a feature on soaps, citing their viewers' fascination with them as being partly due to the innate need for a steady supply of gossip innate in each one of us. If that is what gives us kicks, heaven help us.

Given that for the most part (let's include Ipokriti here), there is a great deal of family strife involved in the several sub-plots, it makes me wonder why anyone would want to involve himself, albeit vicariously, in more of the same.

Then there are places where the soaps involve another type of dream; some people in rural areas in Asia who were interviewed actually think that Americans can get away with living the life of Riley, stopping to drink coffee at Central Perk, whenever they feel like it.

Then there's the latest cartoon character to be given celluloid-cum-human life. The latest adventure of Largo Winch (RAI Due, Saturday afternoons) involved a Speed type of plot, where an aeroplane the hero was supposed to have boarded (but did not, because of a broken leg), was wired to explode if its occupants didn't guess the name of the perpetrator.

Sure enough, the guesses coincided with a favourite gimmick of series producers; clips from past episodes illustrating the several instances being mentioned. The dénouement was simply ridiculous; it was a turncoat in the selfsame agency, using voice distortion equipment, who had been masterminding the whole affair... and who did not, somehow, know that Largo had broken his leg and was actually in the same building. All he had needed to do was call his extension.

Some time later, Johnny Bravo (MTV), having quarrelled with his leading lady and the rest of the troupe, and the camera crew, did everything himself in the production of his feature film. Sounds familiar?

Life, happily, for the majority of us, is not like that at all. But there will always be those who watch the news not to find out what is happening in the world, but to read Jacques Chirac's body language as he greets representatives of other nations.

To some, he gave four kisses; others merited less in the pecking order. But on one occasion, he and his guest both stood ramrod straight, hardly glancing at one another, and shook hand briefly. The French President quickly ushered the man out of camera range with his free hand.