The glee with which certain areas of the media fell upon Mr Richard Muscat's resignation was only to be expected, given the tabloid mentality that infects said areas. Sanctimony, holier-than-thouishness (sorry) and butter-not-melting-in-the-mouthity (sorry again) hardly begin to describe the aura given off by the practitioners who ply their trade within the houses that produce the media concerned - they know who they are (and they're not this paper or its main competition) and they can live with their own consciences.
Not to put too fine a point on it - not to put any point on it at all, actually - Mr Muscat made what with twenty-twenty hindsight can only be described as a massive error of judgment in not telling his bosses what was going on. I can only assume that since he was being hounded by the above-mentioned areas of the media because of the way he administered the Voice of the Mediterranean, Mr Muscat felt that if he resigned over his son's problems, it would vindicate the hounding.
What I find almost nauseating, though, is the way Dr Alfred Sant's spin machine has latched onto the resignation to make yet another series of political points. He's convinced there's more to the story and that the "more" is sinister, and he's convinced the PM and the Foreign Minister knew about the story months ago, despite their declaration that the first they knew about it was last Friday (that's Friday week, this being Saturday).
Not for the Malta Labour Party juggernaut any human comprehension of a parent trying to limit damage to his son, no, here's a story, let's use it and let's twist it to fit our ends, hang the truth. Use personal tragedy, call the PM and the minister liars, make it up as you go along, who cares? As long as the chattering classes and the great unwashed are given fodder for their conspiracy theories and their prejudices, that's all right then.
Cheap, that's all you can call it, cheap. Cheap and tawdry.
By the party for the party
Democracy is the governance of the people, by the people, for the people, or something on those lines, anyway. It's not exactly a perfect formula, but faut de mieux (no prizes for correcting my French) it's what we've got.
But hold the presses and stop the show - Mr Jason Micallef has come up with a better way of doing things, always assuming the electorate decides to give his party the thumbs up, come the day.
When (let's leave out the "if" for the sake of the story) Mr Micallef's party of choice is elected to serve the Republic by governing it, it will be a Labour government for Labourites only - anyone else need not apply. What a prospect: Mediocrity rewarded because of party affiliation, shades of the 1970s and early 1980s.
Mr Micallef is not renowned as a political philosopher, or as a philosophical politician, for that matter, but he is the general secretary of the Malta Labour Party, Malta's second largest political party and a political party, to boot, which has pretensions about setting up shop in Castille in not many months and his political vision is as alluring as all get-out, I have to say.
To be fair, one should, I suppose, thank Mr Micallef for giving us fair warning. This way, when we hear nice speeches from his colleagues about how the MLP is ready to take up the reins of power in the interests of the country as a whole and such-like claptrap we will be able to assess the credibility of these statements against the stark truth uttered by one of its top bosses, who apparently thought he was speaking en famille.
While on the subject of political philosophy, while at my new favourite watering-hole in Valletta (Caffe Café) it was mentioned that one of the MLP's formerly lost lambs was shooting his mouth off, as is his wont, about how right Mr Micallef was. I don't have independent confirmation, so I won't tell you who this lamb was, but I'm sure he knows who I mean.
Homer loved it
I hold no brief for the developers and I hold less of one for the tree huggers, though I have to say that I tend to like their subversive ways and admire their enthusiasm for keeping the tycoons as honest as possible. Not an easy task, if you'll permit me an understatement of epic proportions.
The latest in a series of passages of arms between these two factions took place up North, where men are farmers (and civil servants) (and part-time entrepreneurs) and women run all three of the family businesses. There was something of a heated discussion (another of those epic thingies) about what Mr Victor J. Borg and his Real Finanz AG (I'm sure that's an accurate rendition of the name, though I'm sure I'll be forgiven if its not) intend to do with the land round Ta' Cenc.
In the course of these discussions (aka shouting and screaming match) Mr Borg asked what must rank as one of the most "duh"-provoking questions of all time. He asked, apparently expecting a serious answer, why he was being asked what he intended to do with his land.
Figuratively speaking, this is where I take Mr Borg gently aside (assuming I know him well enough to presume to do so, which I don't) and explain to him, in words of one syllable, that this is precisely what one does when one is debating things within the context of the sort of public discussion that was going on.
"Duh."
Reaping the whirlwind
I sometimes despair of this country. After spending years taking every single cent possible away from the young students who troop into the place to learn English (and have a good time while they're about it), now many of the same people who took the money with open arms, having lured these kids into dens of entertainment and inebriation with signs like "Tourists are welcome" (truth in advertising: Tourists' money is welcome), are having a whine and whinge about said kids making pains of themselves.
Apparently, they are rather obnoxious and disrespectful, and they do make a mess, but, hey, that's what you get when you cater for the masses, so stop whining.
Talibans
It keeps slipping my mind, but the mild controversy that's been rumbling along in the background about people using English to communicate has been something about which I've wanted to comment for some time.
What made me remember to do this little thing was an exchange of e-mails I had with a friend, who had sent me a document with Maltese fonts.
Those of you whose computer doesn't read Maltese fonts automatically (it's not rocket science to install them, but tell me how many of you have) will know what a singularly irritating experience it is, especially when, half way through trying to convert, you remember that there's no flipping practical use for the gh, the h (the one with the line through it or the one without it) and the c with a dot (there's no other c in Maltese) or the z (with a dot or without) because anyone with even moderate intelligence can get the context and adjust accordingly.
Therefore, I am proposing that we ban these flipping idiosyncrasies, along with Talibanistic attitudes towards using English.
While we're at it, can we also ban letters to the paper asking for morality police to be deployed to stop people wearing beachwear in the streets? Yes, Mr Adrian Camilleri (The Times, last Wednesday) this means people like you.
In styles
It was a penalty, OK? The referee said it was and the laws of the game provide that his is the final word, however much R. Benitez Esq. might feel hard done by.
Which doesn't mean that we can't be magnanimous in non-victory and admit that Mr Styles is a twit - for heaven's sake, not even Drogba appealed for the penalty, which means it must have been pretty clear that it wasn't one.
Tough game, isn't it, when Man U slip and go seven points behind with only three games played?
An honourable mention to anyone, incidentally, who can tell me what stress-free paper is: A reader mentioned to me that she had seen it advertised for photocopying purposes. Nothing to do with the fact that Man U have already lost the Premiership, of course, but I thought I'd mention it.
As always
Where can you go on a hot Sunday lunchtime, wait for at least 45 minutes, only to get served a mediocre burger (in fact, mediocre is almost too kind a description) and charged a not-inconsiderable amount for the privilege?
Hard Rock Café at the Waterfront, that's where: Serves me right for going there, I suppose. The S&H, who is a connoisseur of cooked flesh (there's something in genetics, I suppose) pronounced the burgers as pretty awful and 'Er Indoors' club sarnie was nondescript to the point of bad.
I won't gainsay either of them, as they were spot-on in their learned judgments.
Last Saturday, though, we had a very decent, albeit served in a leisurely and moderately quirky manner, dinner at Tatita's in San Lawrenz, which for the inconoscenti amongst you makes it probably the Northern-most smart eatery in the country. You can park pretty much next to your table (not that you'd want to but it helps, in this disgusting heat, not to have to schlep too far to get a meal) and the area is congenial, without too many boy-racers revving their Escort Mark IIIs
imbocca@gmail.com