Have you been following the recent brouhaha in the press concerning opera and the number and intensity of its devotees? Tedious isn't it. I mean, since when has opera become a burning issue in our islands?

And before Messrs KZT, Astrid, old uncle Paul Xuereb and all rush to their word processors, let me say straight off: I know sod-all about grand opera... absolutely zilch. And as for seeing it as a source for mega polemics, well... words fail me.

But I do know a storm in a teacup when I see one, and I have no doubt whatsoever that the chairman of the Manoel Theatre knows what he's talking about when he claims that there are as few as around 700 devotees of grand opera here in Malta.

And conversely I also have no problem with the spokesmen for this tiny minority of opera devotees banging the drum for Messrs Rossini, Puccini, Verdi et al.

Where I differ from the cultural elite is in their definition or perceived definition of the word opera. For instance, my old mum and her sister, my Aunty Rosina, are passionate opera lovers. And this in spite of the fact that neither would know a diva from a deejay. Yet they love operas... weird no?

And far from being dilettante musicologists, they are actually a couple of down-to-earth ladies with no pretensions of intellectualism. In fact, my old Pa had a phrase for the two of them that encapsulated their cerebral capacities perfectly. He called them both: As thick as two short planks.

And yet they are passionate opera devotees, yes soap opera. First it was Die Nasty, Dullarse and Brazilian soaps, these days it's Eastenders and Emmerdale. Well, it's opera isn't it?!

So-called grand opera is one type of opera... soap opera, horse opera (westerns) and even grand ole' opry (country and western music) is another perfectly legitimate form of the genre.

Let's not get all hot under the collar and prissy here, why not be honest - most grand opera stretches audience credibility to extremes. No wonder the annual Manoel Theatre Opera Festival isn't exactly packing them in.

Would you pay an arm and a leg to watch some obscenely obese tenor make sweaty quavery overtures of undying love to some superplus-size soprano, who is allegedly (but rather ludicrously) about to expire from tuberculosis before our very eyes. Frankly, that crosses the plausibility line big time. No, whatever the 'artistic' pretensions, what it all comes down to is little more than the gross groping the grotesque.

And now I see even that self-confessed rock groupie Lou Bondi is joining the fray. And in so doing managing to sound almost as pompous and strident as those he's slagging off. It has all the hallmarks of one of those great debates that we in Malta are so fond of stirring up and which are ultimately about something so trivial... yes trivial, that it acts as an instant moggadon for the rest of us.

But to return to the opera hullabaloo: The whole thing seems to have dichotomised just lately. On one hand: The opera house redevelopment argument rumbles on... and on... and on. And while they are deciding what Piano should do with this prime piece of real estate, the other debate splutters on in tandem.

Well, should the Manoel Theatre be expected to fork out God knows how much to satisfy the elitist whims of around 700 avid opera punters? No, of course it shouldn't. And even when it has done, it gets its backside kicked for being too radical or obscure or for mounting a crap version of The Magic Flute. They can't win can they?

Then if we take Bondi's advice, an excellent compromise would be to get one of our bright young composers to write an opera for Jackson Browne. Now that I would pay good money to see.