Electrifying it is not

Last Saturday, it being May Day and there being little else to watch on the box, I switched over to One TV or Super One or whatever they're called (they're the ones with the sort of Oscar in the top left corner) and was dazzled.

Leaving aside, however, references to Dr Joseph Muscat's rather splendid tie, let's have a bit of a muse on his message. This, predictably enough, was predicated on the idea that the Auditor General, having found no hard evidence of corruption in the power-station contract, had somehow vindicated the Labour Party's position on the whole thing.

This position was, again somewhat predictably, that the Prime Minister should hang his head in shame and slink off into the sunset.

For the record, I'm writing this - deadlines being what they are - on Wednesday evening, just before that other London team played that other Manchester team, so I've no idea whether the government benches suddenly found themselves bereft of backbenchers on Thursday when the debate on the contract was to have taken place.

I doubt that this was the case, though, for all Dr Muscat's shrilling about how a vote in favour of the government would be a vote against families. I know that the last paragraph or two sound a bit like an episode out of Dr Who, incidentally, but such is life.

Now, I'm not sure whether I had been driven into a stupor by Dr Muscat's oration but I'm pretty certain I heard him say that if the government is allowed to get away with the contract, Malta will end up like Greece, billions and billions of euros in debt, having to sell the family silver to the European Union.

Or something.

Exactly where this particular flight of fancy landed from I've no idea, I'm afraid. If my powers of deductive logic have not deserted me, it would appear that Greece, according to Dr Muscat (and I have to emphasise that this is his idea, lest the whole Hellenic nation decides to do my editor for libel) was so beset with corruption that it plummeted into mega-humungous debt.

Now stick with me.

The Auditor General's finding of a dearth of hard evidence of corruption over the power station thing, with faultless Aristotelian logic, equates, in Dr Muscat's mind, with the actual and cogent corruption in Greece (if any - again, his notion, not mine) and, one plus one equalling 55.75, Malta will become Greece in the Mediterranean. See, there's the proof: Greece was rendered bankrupt by corruption, there was no hard evidence of corruption found by the Auditor General, therefore Malta will go down the pan like Greece.

Hey, don't blame me, I wasn't the guy squinting into the sun droning interminably while the well-suited and shod functionaries at my shoulders struggled to stay awake.

I trust I will be forgiven for moving away from this topic now: those of you who by the time they read this will have followed the debate will be as bored to tears with it as I am already, unless they are among those who managed to work themselves into a frenzy during Dr Muscat's speech last week, in which case I doubt whether they're reading these words anyway.

Actually, this week is a bit frustrating when it comes to the scintillating commentary stakes. The UK's Parliament, when this sees the light of the new day, will have been elected, well-hung or otherwise, and any analysis I can deliver, tinged with wonderment that I am tending towards hoping Gordon Brown is re-elected, is older than old hat, so I won't bother.

It wasn't a bad weekend in the nourishment department, though, so I can close off without having to twist myself into knots using the future-past of the predictive-present, trying to remember whether I'm writing this before Gordon Brown leads the Marsaxlokk local council in a rousing chorus of "we shall not be moved" before Liverpool are relegated.

While on a footballing note, just as an aside, let me propose a vote of thanks for Malta's boys in blue who thought that there really wasn't any need to do any traffic control while the Birkirkara boys were gearing up for their celebrations at the Lija end of the bypass last Wednesday.

On behalf of all of us stuck in traffic, thanks, guys.

Back to the nourishment: the edible sort was taken care of by a rather good meal at Maji in Victoria.

When I say "rather good" I mean pretty splendid quality of food and service, even if one of the blonder members of our party thought the nifty wipes were marshmallows.

Intellectual nourishment, on the other hand, consisted of a volume of short stories, A Very Decent Exposure, kindly given to me by the author, Anna-Maria Buhagiar.

The self-imposed 600-word limit led to some of the stories coming to a slightly abrupt ending but the impeccable and evocative writing, coupled with KZT's illustrations, make this a perfect weekend read.

imbocca@gmail.com

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