Seasoned in sleaze: number 30

With Christmas almost upon us, today I’m asked to draw the Yuletide raffle at my local każin. I limit my speech beforehand to a nifty 45 minutes, not enough for eyelids to droop, but just long enough to impress my audience.

However, when I actually do come to make the draw, the winner doesn’t seem to go down too well with those present. Apparently he is a known supporter of the opposition.

Well, how was I to know? If I’d been told right away I could have done something about it.

Monday

Evening: Drinks at my ministry for the staff; sweet fizzy wine and things on sticks. Drink loosens tongues, never more so than when one of our senior clerks informs my minister that, sorry, but at the next election he’ll be voting for the other lot.

My minister is not fazed and replies: “Then you’d better get to bed, you’ll have to be up early tomorrow to catch the Gozo ferry. You were just transferred there.”

Tuesday

Wow! The PM has appointed me (yes me) as chairman of the all-party committee on waste recycling. He tells me it’s a vitally important position – and I’m sure he’s right.

Although I would personally have preferred a position on the all-party committees for tourism, hotels or restaurants, but hey! These opportunities seem to have gone to rather more senior politicians.

So while they get to enjoy freebie ‘fact-finding’ missions to Samoa, Thailand and Goa, the best I can hope for is a day trip to the sewage separation centre at Xewkija.

Wednesday

This evening, while dining at home, for a change, the doorbell rings. From the street we hear the merry sound of carol singers, so Angelika and I go to the front door to applaud and hand out some cash.

But when I proffer a €5 note, their spokesperson – a large girl in a Manchester United beanie – shakes her head and says: “No way. We represent COCS.”

I beg your pardon!?

She elucidates: “Confederation Of Carol Singers – and it has been decided that the minimum charge per gig is €15, but if it’s any help, the people next door gave €20.”

Whatever happened to the simple joys of Christmas?

Thursday

After the recent resignation of the mayor of my village for, ahem, corrupt practices, we have a new, squeaky-clean incumbent… or so I thought.

This evening when I switch on the Christmas lights in a ceremony in the civic centre, he sidles up to me and hisses, “Onorevoli, in your speech I wonder if you could mention that – in my capacity as the village’s only electrical goods wholesaler – I am responsible for all the Christmas lighting effects.”

I agree wholeheartedly… but hang on – I’m just wondering if there could possibly be any connection between this and the fact that this year the illuminations are costing three times more than usual.

Friday

Today, with Angelika along for the ride, I volunteer to drive the mother-in-law to the hospital, where she is to undergo an operation.

In the car, she hands a large envelope to Angelika and says: “It’s all in there. In the event of something going wrong, you are to contact Mgr Spiteri Moore to perform the last rites – and only Mgr Spiteri Moore. I don’t want just any old priest to see me dead. Oh, and he’s also to say the funeral Mass, of course.”

Reasonable precautions you may think, until you hear the old bag is being operated on to have a benign cyst removed from her left big toe.

Saturday

This evening, with our baby daughter being babysat by Angelika’s sister Cheryl, Angelika and I arrive at the Dyspepsia Palace Hotel in St George’s for a dinner dance organised by the President.

Before leaving home we have a minor altercation because I insist on wearing my admittedly elderly maroon velvet DJ. Angelika is incensed and says she doesn’t want to be seen with me at a major event in… that!

However, as we enter the hotel, running the gauntlet of media and paparazzi, one female journalist stops me and says: “Very cool minister, very retro – and who is dressing you this evening?” I reply: Galleone.

True, it’s Ċensu Galleone, a tailor in Qormi. Angelika is livid! Especially as she’s wearing her brand new Valentino number and not one of the paps asks her to pose.