Working up a war

Sometimes I wonder why the nation gets itself into such a tizzy about everything all the time. I can understand when it’s something important, like whether England are ever going to win the World Cup (excuses himself and rolls on the floor cackling wildly) but everything exercises us to the brink of war all the time, and it’s getting a bit tedious.

In this context, the debate kick-started by the Hon. Pullicino Orlando has taken on surreal proportions. Instead of being about how to regulate the logical, and way overdue, conclusion of allowing civil marriage and the registration of foreign divorces, the debate has become Gonzi vs progress (well, not yet, but you wanna bet Labour will turn it into this soon?) with shock, horror headlines in the less salubrious end of the media landscape about how a “yes” vote will cost the PM his job.

What twaddle.

Even assuming, for the sake of argument, that the PM would be silly enough to nail his colours ineluctably (is that the right word?) to the mast of DIVORCE NEVER (to quote that Zammit fellow who seems to have his CAPS LOCK stuck), why would a vote in favour mean he’s got to hand over the keys to Castille?

Is this a money bill? Is it a vote of confidence (you know, like when it’s about a yacht marina)? No, it’s simply a vote about whether to allow persons who wish to dissolve the civil contract of marriage to do so.

Frankly, I don’t see the point of a vote, it’s so darned obvious, but the usual knee-jerk reactions of mom, apple-pie and the family have kicked in, along with silly ideas that this is the subject of a referendum, for the sake of all that’s beautiful.

I will, if asked, and I hope I’m not, vote in favour of divorce even if the PM and the Archbishop and the Bishop of Gozo and the parish priest of Żebbuġ tell me not to. I will campaign in favour of its introduction sooner rather than later and I will do my damndest, through these modest words, to persuade you to do the same, but when common sense prevails, I won’t be expecting Dr Gonzi to give way to Dr Muscat.

There are too many reasons why not, to be honest.

Not only do we get ourselves all worked up, we even seem to have this penchant for believing that the world rotates around each and everyone of us, a feat that would give Einstein a migraine.

For instance, on Tuesday I and quite a few thousand others went along to the Rod Stewart concert and I, along with most people I spoke to, enjoyed it tremendously.

Not so a number of commenters that I came across, apparently, one of who drew himself up to his full height and declared “I am proud to be a heavy metal fan and I’m proud I refused to go to the Rod Stewart concert”.

To which I was tempted, but didn’t bother, to answer “but who, for Heaven’s sake, asked you to go, my friend?” In order to refuse to do something, you have to be invited to do it, not simply be given the opportunity, along with every other member of the great unwashed, to choose or not to choose to go.

Silly boy. And it was a great concert, for all that Mr Stewart ain’t no spring chicken anymore – and the back-story that came out later might have explained his less than ebullient mood, as might the sight of the great and good just in front of him, clapping politely.

He still rocks with soul, though.

I chose, to my eventual regret, to go to the Joseph Calleja thing, too.

It was great in that I renewed my acquaintance with the superb voice and presence that Mr Calleja commands, and for this alone it was almost worth going, and also because I got to enjoy Ms Warwick and to discover Mr Cocciante.

But it was not great for a number of reasons, not least of which was the poorness of the sound and of the concert as a whole, taken as a performance. You got a song (out of the Classics for the Masses canon, generally) and everyone walked off the stage to be replaced by another group (for a jazz standards or Italo-croon selection) and so on and so forth, for the first 45 minutes.

Then you got a 30-odd minute break (like anyone had exerted him or herself that much) and back to more of the same, though thankfully the sound improved slightly.

It’s about time, truth be told, that we got a full helping of Calleja’s enormous talent and that he eschews once and for all the quick-fix of a dash of mobile ladies mixed with some insomnia. He’s way better than this, though to be fair, I doubt he’d get that many ladies who lunch to drag themselves to a real opera, and market forces are what they are.

Nowhere much to report on this week in the nourishment stakes, unless you count the hot-dog I wolfed down, courtesy of a mate with spare tokens, after the Stewart concert. I suspect it was the pangs of hunger that made it taste good, though.

We tried the newly-managed Latini in the Menqa on Saturday and it wasn’t bad: not spectacular but very acceptable and in the middle of summer, you can’t really ask for more.

imbocca@gmail.com

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