I.M. Beck quote unquote

You're reading this week's version of my efforts at literate punditry thanks to the wonders of the interweb superhighway (not my description but I like it) since because of work-related things, I am currently in the centre of Italy, literally, about 1,000 metres up in the fresh(er) air.

It's a filthy job, but someone has to do it. I am tempted to sing the praises of our lodgings, hosts and the nosh (especially the nosh) but I won't bother as they don't really need my praise.

When I wrote that we are literally in the centre of Italy, I was a touch inaccurate, since the (self-proclaimed) centre of this rather wonderful country is in Rieti, down the road a smidgen, more precisely in the Piazza San Rufo, which actually has a plaque stating this fact. I've got a picture of it, if you don't believe me, snapped before me and the missus repaired to the Bistrot (at Rita's, whose spelling leaves something to be desired) in the same square and downed a moderately excellent dinner.

As is our wont when away, we hired a car, once the queue at the car-hire desk (consisting in two American couples who, consecutively, seemed intent on making it their life's work to irritate everyone in the vicinity) melted away and I was able to get my hand on the keys, and we've driven quite a few miles. Sorry, kilometres. You see, work starts in about an hour or so (I'm bashing this out at the crack of dawn on Thursday) and we've been here since Tuesday.

Like I said, it's a filthy job but someone... but you've heard that bit before.

But to get back to the point, we've been driving pretty much all over the place, doing about seven hours or so through the Abruzzo National Park and environs, and the roads, as always, are superb, to say nothing of the views, of course. The Italians have this knack of throwing autostrade up, through, round and over mountains with gay abandon, and it doesn't seem to have taken them a century and half to do this little thing and you can drive on them without rattling the fillings out of your teeth.

We, on the other hand, take seven months to resurface a strip of road not longer than 200 metres from Luqa to Luqa and all our roads can be used by Land Rover to test their more extreme off-road suspension systems.

Moan, moan, moan.

And, yes, for those of you who were wondering, I was in Italy at the same time as their footy team lost to France, which was pretty ironic: The world champions being unable to beat the people they beat only a few months ago, while I was there, to witness their discomfort. To be fair, the only people who evinced any such discomfort were the Maltese people in our party - the Italians in our midst seemed not to give much of a toss.

Just for fun

Thanks to the integrity of the lady concerned, I've been given a preview of Ms Davinia Hamilton's epistle to the editor of this rag's Sunday version, wherein she pokes me with a sharp stick for my moderately pompous "When one gets oneself astride an equine beast of high stature..." last week, when I was getting at her.

She pointed out, not without some justice on her side that is that wasn't a hackneyed phrase à la Mrs Bucket, then she didn't know what was.

Well, dear lady, you see, I was, perhaps employing the bludgeon rather than the rapier, rather making a point using parody and satire, and being pompous and Bucket-like in order to annoy you.

Just thought I'd point that out, don't you see? All in good fun and all that, and the great thing about this job is that you get to have the last word.

With people like Ms Hamilton, the duelling, such as it is, is fun, because you can see that they get the joke and enjoy the cut and thrust of civil debate. A peasant who signs him or herself as "Jesmin Hall", on the other hand, is still sending me mildly insulting e-mails and trying to intimidate me by showing that (s)he knows who I am and where I live.

Considering I've never hid my identity or where I live except with my tongue firmly lodged where it should be, I'm not sure it is what this sad little creature is trying to prove, other than that (s)he is mildly obsessive and unable to summon the vocabulary to write in to the paper to demonstrate his or her grasp (well, sort of) of the English language and the ability to argue with me in public.

Luckily, my spam killer and junk mail functionality is developed to the point where "Hall" is sent straight to the waste bin, sparing me the effort of avoiding the temptation to keep on responding.

Disunion

In the words of Led Zeplin, the song remains the same and rumbles on (is it "rumble on" they use? Honourable mention to the first reader who identifies the song and then gives us the correct lyric) down South Street way.

As you noticed last week, my piece on the General Workers' Union was written before Karmenu Vella resigned his post as section secretary of the media and services section of the GWU, stating publicly that he couldn't carry on working within a structure that, while supposed to be defending workers' rights, itself ignored the most basic right of workers, that of being given at least a hearing before being fired.

In my real life, I've worked with Mr Vella, as I have with the other three union people who are now no longer employed with the GWU, and he was a worthy opponent. I've also worked with many of the ones who are still working for the union, and they too are strong defenders of the worker, who mostly seek to advance their aims without resorting to the strong-arm tactics that are available to them.

The problem is, now that the moderate (more accurately, the reasonable) element of the top echelons has been eroded (let's not forget that Emanuel Micallef has also gone and he was one of those who was counted among the reasonable) the people who are left have to rally round and show themselves to be macho types, which doesn't bode well for the state of industrial relations in the near future.

Oh well, just as long as the GWU stays strong and sticks up for the workers, then everything is A-OK in the state of Switzerland in the Mediterranean, then, I suppose.

Perish the thought, why don't you, that all this muscle-flexing and posturing is serving ends that are anything but ends that the workers' movement demands are served. And no snide remarks about what the phrase "the workers' movement" means in Malta, please.

Soft stuff

First things first: Don't forget that next weekend, the stand-up comedy thing that rolls around every six months or so is coming off at the Dolmen in Bugibba. Laugh Out Loud is the name of the outfit that puts it on and that's what you will do, so be there.

Last Sunday evening, we headed North, as one does every so often (mainly when people on t'other side kindly drive down to the ferry to pick one up) and we rediscovered the balcony of the Gleneagles Bar, where you can hoover down a couple of beers and look at the ferry coming and going.

It's a singularly relaxing experience.

We then headed off in search of something more substantial, hoping to soak up some of the beer and ensure that the inner man and woman do not waste away. The outer man, at least in my case, is not in much danger of wasting away, but that's not to be taken as any indication that I'm not going to have something to eat every so often.

We ended up in a really quiet square behind the church in Nadur, the name of which escapes me, and we found a table at an establishment known as Anthony's, which, I believe, is run by a gentleman of Anglo-Saxon extraction of the Stuart or Stewart clan - I trust he'll let me know which.

We had a very enjoyable meal, with excellent service from the two young ladies who sling the hash and with food to match.

I'd suggest you try it, but since we want to go back there quite a bit, I'd rather you didn't, as then we wouldn't get a table all that easily. So if you see me approaching and there aren't any tables available, it behoves you to stand respectfully and offer me yours. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't be there anyway (how's that for an inflated view of my influence on your life?) and my need is greater than yours.

Breakfast beckons, so I'll leave you to the rest of Saturday.

imbocca@gmail.com