I.M. Beck - Quote Unquote

I suppose the day I added my own tuppence worth to the Great Tip Debate had to come, it being the summer season and our politicians having taken some time off from providing me with stuff with which to beat them about the head.

I am not an environmental expert and I would be the first to jump up and scream and shout if someone were to propose sticking a tip, environmentally engineered or not, outside my front door (being as I live in Lija, this would take some doing, as the road is about 10 feet wide, but you get my drift) but, as Ned Seagoon once memorably enunciated, everybody gotta be somewhere, so unless we stop producing crap like it's going out of fashion, someone is going to have to have a tip in the vicinity.

Whether or not having temporary landfills next door to World Heritage Sites is the best thing since sliced bread is, one has to say, a touch debatable, but since no one on the MLP side of things had been all that vociferous back when those flipping great quarries were set up in the first place, it might be seemly if they were not to act so virginal right now. And if you drive around the area, as I have been for the last couple of weeks while playing with the son and heir's truck (he's got his driving licence now, so vacate the roads unless you want to be unceremoniously shoved aside by a large white Discovery) you'll notice that, hey, it's already quite a tip already, so having an organised one doesn't strike me as being such a sacrilege.

But then, I'm not an environmental expert. Nor, it seems, is anyone on the MLP side of the debate an expert on consistency, because in the few short weeks since promising (among many other things) that Maghtab, that blot on the landscape, that curse, that mountain of horrendousness, would be closed within days of them getting elected, they're now saying that there's not such a rush after all.

Come on, guys, get your act together.

That's worrying?

Last Sunday, the bishops transmitted to the faithful their views on family life, the preservation of the sanctity thereof, which was a very commendable thing to do, of course.

The thing is, what seems to have been worrying the ecclesiastical gentlemen concerned is, not to put too fine a point on it, pole-dancing and the other silly aspects of life as we know it.

Why, I have to ask, don't the bishops come down on the pseudo-religious claptrap that is being churned out by the skip-load on cable television? It might be coming over the airwaves as well, for all I know, but I only get cable. American right-wing crypto fascists mix with American (surprise, surprise) New Age Christians mix with American (yes, I know, astounding) Jewish Christians to give a backdrop against which our own, home-grown, spouters of balderdash, purveyors of false hopes and saccharine preachers create a religion which is inward looking, commercialised and crass, to say nothing of intolerant and exclusionary.

This, however, fails to move the bishops to any condemnation or even, at the very least, to a small word of warning. As long as sex and such-like threats against the family are kept at bay, all is well and snake-oil salesmen and religious twisters (in all senses of the word) can keep their shows on the airwaves as long as they like, getting out of it what they want to get out of it. Never mind that they're addling the brains and psyches of their viewers and their congregations and creating social systems that are worth little more than the air over which the junk flies onto our screens, as long as they look decent and don't strut their stuff all over the place, then that's all right.

To feng shui or not to feng

Feng Shui, so far as I can see, is the art of furniture moving to create a restful environment in the home. This is not a completely illogical art, as having a nicely set up room can be a good idea, if it saves messes adding to the stresses of life.

OK, OK, so maybe I'm oversimplifying to a degree... or even more than a degree. For all I really know, this is the one, true religion that will lead to world peace, universal tolerance and hamburgers for all. But I don't think so.

The sum total of my knowledge of this peculiar art comes from a beer ad and from watching a local practitioner in the art of Feng Shui who plies his trade on Super One TV during the time of day when impressionable folk are watching. By impressionable folk, I mean the people who ring in to ask whether having their bed facing a window with a pink bedspread on top is against the Criminal Code - they are usually told that it is.

According to this paragon of Oriental Mysticism, as I heard him say last week, having a staircase just inside the door is a no-no, especially if the door to the yard is also within sight. Precisely why this should be the case, especially when Mars is not even starting to wane in Sagittarius with Aries rampant, was not explained, though of course the opportunity to have a chat with the expert was extended to all and sundry, though the cost, if any, of this little chat was not made known to anyone at the time.

Something was mumbled about the energy of the home being allowed to rush out as soon as the door was opened and I am not sure if it was this that prompted Enemalta to warn against the indiscriminate use of energy lest they be forced to let us have it (it being scheduled, as opposed to unscheduled, power cuts).

I would, of course, have been a bit more impressed if the Feng Shui man had taken the time to shove the furniture in the studio around a bit, because the word "cluttered" doesn't even begin to describe the disaster in which he and the bemused looking presenter were sitting. Potted plants vied with cheap and nasty furniture and a set that was even cheaper to create the impression that they were sitting in a bazaar.

And it might be that Feng Shui doesn't concern itself with what people wear, but did this bloke have to wear a bright red checked shirt that shimmered and shone and gave me a migraine?

Yet another religion with which to discombobulate the masses, I suppose.

Oh, and while on the subject of commercial religions, have you heard? The high priest of teleselling, a gentleman by the name of Mario Morales, has become a crooner now, as well as a shifter of tat by the bucket-load. I know because last Wednesday, waiting for the son and heir to call me to pick him up from his driving test (did I tell you he passed? Get off the road) I was channel hopping a bit and I came across this guy, sat in front of what looked like a painting by numbers canvas, singing some ditty or other in a voice that was so lousy it wasn't even a parody of a lousy singer: it was worse than that.

Like the organisers of the opera which so captivated some people (the ones who couldn't say anything other than what they said in the Independent last Sunday, I mean), he should stick to selling things, though it's hardly fine china in his case.

Oh, and about that opera

I couldn't be bothered to get up and root about to look for the Independent that last Sunday carried the views of the great and good whose fair visages adorned the page. The views were about La Boheme, the opera that was put on a few weeks ago at the Portomaso Marina.

I recall, though, that not many people who know anything about music or the staging thereof, had much to say that was particularly complimentary about the production. The sponsors and the people whose job it is to be upbeat about things managed to say things that were not particularly damning, but it seems they hadn't heard the crack about damning with faint praise.

The line which amused me most, though, was attributed to Mr Richard England, the evidence of whose own artistic prowess, not a million miles from where the opera was put on, has caused some ribald comment of its own. According to the dear fellow, it was wrong to create a barrier between the haves and the have-nots because the latter would be resentful.

In the first place, 'Mr Have', we, the peasants, actually did have - we had Lm32.50 (to which you can add a couple of quid for programmes and soft drinks) each, which is obviously less than the Lm58 you shelled out (unless you were on a complimentary, subsidised by people like me who paid full whack). Even the have-lesses who paid less for a seat but without soggy canapés and sagging bruschetta, paid more than twenty quid each, which again is less than Mr England's seat cost someone but quite a considerable sum.

In the second place, it was not the having-not of the seat at the rich folks' table that made us resentful. It was being ripped off and treated like mushrooms that made us resentful.

But far be it from me to cast aspersions on the show, lest I attract the ire of the 'independent' publicist for the china shop operators by making remarks that are nasty and anonymous.

Smuggle on

Permit me a brief self-serving piece of shameless family publicity (after all, it is done in the best of papers). The brat's pics are up at the Old Smuggler in Balzan and you can trot along and have a look. Have a few beers, while you're about it, and make the expedition really worthwhile.

bocca@waldonet.net.mt"