Joseph loves me

Just when you thought that 'Smart Island' and 'Flimkien kollox possibli' were the sugary pits, along came Joseph Muscat with an Oscar-acceptance-speech-meets-il-priedka-tat-tifel do. It's not easy to impress with vacant rhetoric in a country where people phone a radio DJ to dedicate 'No more lonely nights' to their 80-year-old granny, but that's exactly what Muscat pulled off.

Given that he had at least three months to prepare his maiden speech, I really can't understand how he managed to get it so wrong.

Having mimed the Labour anthem, Muscat first told us he loves us. Now, what does a rational person do when a politician says "I love you"? Run a mile, of course.

Politicians are expected to represent, not love, and it is normally only despots the likes of Kim Jong Il who have the gall to declare their amorous intent to 'their' people. In any case, if you must say those three words on camera, you'd better be Serge Gainsbourg, drunk, and addressing Jane Birkin - not Joe Grima in wrap-around sunglasses. If you insist on blowing kisses on top of that, there really is no redemption. There was more talk of love and brotherhood - he urged us to 'love each other', and to 'love Michelle (his wife) as she loves us'.

At this point I expected him to go urbi et orbi or speak in tongues, but he went on to tell us a story (how very sweet - and it didn't sound at all rehearsed). It turned out to be about himself and his jaw-dropping achievements, which, he assured us, would not have been possible 50 years ago, or without the Labour Party.

Quite apart from the pathetic and dated socialist triumphalism of that ('if it weren't for the powerless the powerless would still be powerless'), its irony in the circumstances seemed lost on Muscat. After all, nasty people have been saying all along that he owes his success to the party. Ask George Abela, or Michael Falzon.

He also quite forgot a certain Dom Mintoff, also originally very working class, who earned his laurels well over 50 years ago. Muscat did mention Mintoff actually, and told us that 'no one will manage to take him away from our hearts'. (Does that include Alfred Sant?) His 'little story' also told of 'early promise' at school and of his inability to distinguish modern medicine from the Labour Party.

Muscat then proceeded to a series of gaffes which made Sant's 'Gonziii' speech sound like vintage Churchill fare. He said, for example, that he intends to make Malta 'the best in Europe'. Oh dear. The last time I heard someone say that Malta will be 'at the apex' of Europe, his name was Norman Lowell. Muscat also told us that Labour is 'back in business, big time'. I suppose he, like his mentor, thinks that the word 'business' sounds modern, hardnosed, American, and inevitably successful (never mind that most businesses eventually fail).

The surreal moment was reached when he invited lapsed Labourites to 'return to their true home', or else. He will go after them himself. Honest, he said that, which shows how 'fresh' and 'progressive' his political beliefs are. Just imagine, a knock at your door one summer evening and two plain clothes Labourites asking you, on behalf of Muscat, what you think you're doing packing your barbecue rather than folding newsletters at Mile End. But then we've always known that lovers expect, as if by birthright, to be loved back.

At the end of this bizarre performance, Muscat added two riders. The first: 'Call me Joseph' (What else? Caesar?); according to him the form 'Honourable' (as in an MP) is a 'nickname', which speaks volumes about his attitude to our highest institution. The second: 'There's no one behind Joseph' - which must have caused Jason Micallef and the rest of the backdrop some existential pangs.

His body language doesn't help. The man is stiff as a starched collar, walks with a swagger, and really has no idea what to do with his hands. I've spent the last few days wondering what might have inspired his strange and stylised gestures, and I've shortlisted two sources: The first is the Augustus of Prima Porta, the second the vernacular statues in our churches.

Let's be kind and not compare him to the first. The second only get away with it because they don't grin at their own 'wit', as our man does. They're also wisely hidden away in some obscure corner of the church for most of the year, unlike Muscat, whose antics look set to be plastered all over the place for many years to come.

Muscat puts his hand on his heart when the national anthem is played, just like Brazilian footballers. Actually, on Sunday, he put it slightly lower, on his tummy, and closed his eyes. The man either needs an anatomy lesson, or he was upset by his own rhetoric.

Next week: Why bad rhetoric alone does not a man unmake, and why I think Joseph Muscat is a decent proposal for both the Labour Party and the country.

mafalzon@hotmail.com