Read my lips: No tax cuts

Apparently, the Nationalists had promised tax cuts before the last election. If you were to put a gun to my head and ask me if I knew that, I'd have to risk derision and a bullet to the noggin and say "nope".

There are a number of reasons for this, one of which being that the mere sight of the letters "t", "a" and "x" make me go wall-eyed, except if I'm standing in the rain and there's an "i" attached too. The main reason that I didn't know this, though, was that I have what I think is a healthy disdain for the promises of politicians of any stripe.

It's not that they're all liars or anything like that; it's just that they have this tendency to say things they know we, the great unwashed, want to hear. And, anyway, there are more important things to take into consideration when casting your vote than an electoral manifesto, given that this is as renowned a work of fiction, generally speaking, as the old British Rail Timetable.

But let's say, for the sake of argument, that the Nationalists' promise of a tax cut was one of the main reasons for them being elected, yet again. Leave aside the electorate's rejection of Labour and all its works, yet again, and the reasons why this was the case, yet again. Let's take it as a given that we were promised a tax cut.

Fiscal policy is one of the main tools a government has to massage the economy and to try to keep the books balanced. They can literally print the stuff but it's quite widely accepted, even by people whose grasp of economics is limited to an A-level (E grade), obtained in 1973, that this is not quite the right way to go about things.

Instead of printing the folding notes, governments the world over do the next best thing: they nick it from us, the proletariat, and this method of doing things has the added advantage of massaging the economic body to try to get it to cure itself of the ills and vicissitudes that tend to beset it, often due to extraneous causes.

We're currently being whupped by one of these extraneous causes: no one is in any doubt that the world recession is not the fault of Lawrence Gonzi, or of GonziPN, or of Tonio Fenech.

No one, of course, other than the opposition, who pretend that it is so that they can do their job the way they think it should be done, that is to say by pointing fingers and blaming everything on the government, including the price of oil. That this is the case was illustrated mere days ago when the Labour Party media machine creaked into action and started stamping its little foot on our behalf about the tax cut that hasn't appeared. Now I'd like a tax cut as much as any man or woman, especially since I only filled out my tax-return last month and was told by the number-cruncher that the CIR was making like Oliver Twist.

But even I, with my 1973 A-Level and all, know that what with Lehman Brothers and all those other idiots, largesse and generosity from the government is hardly likely to be on the cards. To be frank, I'm actually almost grateful that we aren't being mugged for more.

Is this relevant to Labour? Of course, not: they've been showing their grasp (apparent grasp, they can't be that dumb) of matters financial for years, with their interminable parliamentary questions about whether the chairman of whatever authority was currently in their sights had been bought a shiny new iPhone or about the cost to the nation, no less, of toilet-paper after it was decided to go for three-ply (I jest, but only slightly).

So there we have it: no tax cuts for now but Labour will, no doubt, promise one just in time for the next election, as will the PN, equally indubitably. For the life of me, I've been trying to work in a reference to astronomy, having bumped into a gaggle of astronomers a couple of days ago who asked why I never write anything about the subject but, short of wondering whether some should be employed in order to predict the world's economic trends, I'm stumped.

And before anyone blows a gasket, I'm only kidding, I know the difference: one is a precise science, the other something akin to Scientology.

To the end bit, which at this time of the year, with increased leisure time and all, is the most important bit.

I tried out two new places over the weekend, one in Malta over which a discreet veil shall be drawn, because they managed to overcome the advantage of a truly sublime location with mediocre service and only average food.

They're not a million miles away from Armier and if they're reading this, they know who they are.

The other was in a pretty nice location too, for all that the gale forced us to eat indoors. Beppe in the Menqa at Marsalforn gave us good food, excellent service and an enjoyable evening.

imbocca@gmail.com
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