I.M. Beck - quote unquote

As far as I can remember, it's next weekend. The next spasm of democratic expression, I mean, that time of the year when the opposition, currently the Malta Labour Party, will proudly preen because the government, currently that other lot, will have lost votes. No doubt, the Nationalist Party will whistle bravely in the dark just as every other mid- or late-term governing party does when the electorate tells them that it's a bit, just a bit, annoyed with them.

At the same time, the Labour Party will go about looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream, and the milk, and the canary, trumpeting it abroad that the electorate has inflicted a terminal wound on the government and that they (the MLP) have it all done and dusted and that they are poised to take up the reins (I would have written "reigns" just to see if anyone noticed a) the wrong use of the word and b) the awful pun, but I thought better of it, lest Sir Sammut gives me a copy) of power.

Of course, the truth lies somewhere in between and only a fool believes either of the two contenders that the local council elections give much of an indication about anything.

So, basically, there's not going too much for me to comment about after next Saturday's results are broadcast, mainly because by the time you read this the Saturday after that, everyone and his brother and sister will have had his say (and, yes, I left out the "or her", mainly because I am sick of pandering to the obsessive demands of gender neutrality).

The other reason there won't be much to comment about is because there won't be much to comment about; nothing that is new or original, anyway.

There will be some consolation in the fact that the elections will be over for another year, saving the PM's prerogative to call us all to the polls, of course. We won't be treated to the sight and sound of Doctor Alfred Sant going around grading local councils all over the shop, and we won't have to pretend to be surprised every time a Labour-led council gets ninety nine and half out of a hundred, while the council down the road and round the corner, a PN-led one, of course, just manages to scrape together eighteen and a quarter out of a hundred.

You'd have thought the dear fellow would have had something better to do on his 59th birthday last Wednesday. In fact, it wouldn't have been much of a stretch for him to find something better than traipsing around the 23rd locality, or however many that was, trying to whip up some enthusiasm at being shown yet another newly-surfaced road or painted bench. Still, it's the way of life he's chosen, as do all politicians, so far be it from me to deny them their days of excruciating boredom. Actually, I have a sneaking admiration for people like Doctor Alfred Sant, who manage to control what must be an almost insurmountable urge to yawn mightily every time some local worthy launches into a paean of self-aggrandisement.

There was a slightly amusing aspect to the Wednesday visit. The local council concerned, that of Qormi, was lauded to the heavens by our hero for spending a couple of hundred thousand of your liri on buying the council's offices and having them done up. Now, I am at one with Doctor Alfred Sant on this, I'm all for people having decent places within which to work and for investment in bricks and cement, but what's amusing is that I happen to know that when a different local council had tried to spend some dosh on the same sort of thing, much and vociferous opposition was forthcoming from the - surprise, surprise - Labour minority within that council.

It seems that when a Labour council spends our money, that's OK, but if the other lot try to, then it's not.

Smart move

The necessary moves are being made in the House where the Onorevlijiet ply their trade to enable the SmartCity project to get on the road.

This project is going to create problems for the country, but they're good problems to have, for sure. We're going to need very many less lawyers and accountants and very many more technical people, engineers, software geeks and whatever. Actually, we're going to need plenty of bean-counters and legal beagles too, because whenever there are water-buffalo around, you'll find those cute little birds that feed off their backs.

If Austin Gatt knew how to go about with a beam on his face and a puffed-out chest, he'd be justified in doing that little thing just about now, since he's had quite a hand in getting SmartCity set up here. And any snide remarks about my slightly (slightly?) tongue-in-cheek line just now can be directed elsewhere, too.

In dissent

At risk of sounding like the president of the Giovanni Bonello Fan Club, I have to bring to your notice another literary masterpiece by the judge, though this time one that was published, in a sense, in spite of his efforts rather than through them. Just as an aside, I am something of a fan, and I also owe the gentleman a debt of gratitude. He showed me that real lawyers can wear jeans to work, too.

So impressed are the people who matter, one reads, at the quality, both literary and academic, of Judge Bonello's dissenting opinions at the European Court of Human Rights that they have published a volume of the opinions. This is the first time such a publication has seen the light of day and it behoves the country (this one, I mean) to sit up and take notice and applaud.

Just as a matter of historical record, and for the sake of fairness, it would not go amiss for us to recall that the credit for making the appointment that made this possible goes to Doctor Alfred Sant's Labour government. I am not renowned for the depth of my admiration of that particular government (now there's an understatement and a half) but for that, if for nothing else, I take my hat off to Doctor Alfred Sant.

Not that I've been wearing one, the weather being as mild as it has been.

Paul the man

The country has grown up. I've been seeing signs of this for quite a few years, but last Friday, it was proved to me.

We went to Paul, the play that's on at St James - if you can get your hands on tickets for tonight or tomorrow, you should trot along, it's worth it. If I were in a nit-picking mood, I'd have a bit of a whinge about a couple of peculiar accents that surfaced from the minor players, but, hey, that's just nit-picking.

The production is intelligent, the play itself quite involving and the lead guys do a fine job, flashing the action backwards and forwards through the trials and tribulations of Paul the Apostle, a man sustained up by his convictions at the same time as his cohorts are wracked by the doubts instilled by the fact that they know that the whole Jesus story is something of a mis-interpretation that's run away from their control because of obsessives like Paul.

Only a few years ago, we'd have been assaulted from all sides by fine upstanding citizens bent on defending the Faith from the insidious attacks of the intellectuals. They're the people who bullied the people putting on The Duchess Of Malfi a few years ago into taking out a bit where the crucifix was kicked across the stage, just in case you need reminding what I'm on about.

They're the ones whose own faith must be so fragile they can't even begin to contemplate that, just maybe, the world wasn't created in a flash and a pop and that Adam isn't, actually, missing a rib because Eve was grown out of it.

We still have people like this around, of course, but sometimes they miss out on the chance to demonstrate their fundamentalism on a play like Paul. Perhaps it's because they're busy falling for those e-mail hoaxes about movies that portray Christ as Mary Magdalene's husband (come to think about it, that's a central theme to Paul) or because they're trying to get the Constitution amended to prohibit the killing of the unborn child, blithely ignoring the fact that this is a redundant exercise, as anyone without blinkers knows.

Oh, well, whatever the reason, I suppose we should be thankful that the bigots were distracted, because it meant we got to watch a play that is not a Whitehall farce or a musical, worthy of our attention as these two genres are themselves.

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