Seasoned in sleaze: number the 36th

Sunday

I take the early morning ferry to Gozo, to address the party’s Gozitan Youth Section. I’m a tad disappointed to note the attendance is somewhat sparse: seven rather sulky looking young men and a stray lurcher.

Despite this apparent indifference to the party’s future, I deliver my speech at the party’s Gozo HQ, then retire to the bar for drinks and recriminations.

I express my disappointment to the chairman, a young, bright-eyed, female lawyer, who responds with: “Yes, well, Onorevoli, we were hoping the party would have sent a rather more high profile personality. If the PM or the President had come over, we would definitely have got a full house.”

The President? For chrissakes, he’s not even a member of our blooming party! I despair.

Monday

Settling in nicely at my reasonably well-appointed office at the Ministry for Lethargy.

As Parliamentary Secretary for Creative Indolence, my principal task is to seek out and find suitably untaxing employment for what I believe the little elves at Mile End Road call the party’s blue-eyed boys and girls.

And I’m rapidly discovering this is not as easy as it sounded at the outset. For a start, the vast majority of them are incapable of even the most mundane and mindless tasks.

Our rank and file apparently don’t do IQ – and there are only so many positions for nightwatchmen and jobsworth clerks in the civil service.

Tuesday

Today, my minister sends me a memo telling me to work untiringly to find untiring work for a very special boy, who also happens to be the son of a “very dear friend” of his.

The “boy” turns out to be 34 years old and from his CV appears not to have been able to hold any job down for more than three days at a stretch.

Also, I note that none of the jobs he’s been assigned to were particularly arduous.

These range from: counting the number of trees growing on the Main Guard (he can’t even spell zero correctly) to shredding duties at the Central Bank (at the last count he’d diced about €120,000).

Truly, the boy is so dim, he makes Wayne Rooney look like Plato. I think I’ll try him as a local warden, it’s about his level.

Wednesday

When I get home – late – after parliament and a late session at the ministry, I find the mother-in-law waiting for me. She says: “I suppose you’re hungry!”

No… I’m starving!

She snorts: “Then you’ll either have to cook something yourself or get a takeaway.”

What? I pay a wife to do that! The kunjata is unmoved: “You can’t expect Angelika to wait on you hand and foot in her condition.

You’ve got a choice… feed yourself or I’ll move in and cook for you.”

It’s a no-brainer really… I’ll just slip out and get a pizza.

Thursday

Feeling rather deflated after a visit to my hairdresser’s.

I know I’m not too well endowed in the thatch department, but I could have done without his thoughts on the subject: “Well, Onorevoli, I could do you a lovely comb over, or you could try a transplant. Trouble is: your bald patch is spreading like the desert, so it’s a bit late for a toupé. If I were you, I’d shave what’s left. It’s regarded as cool to be a slaphead these days.”

Great! Thanks a bunch; there goes what’s left of my ego.

Friday

Glory be! We did it! Now it’s just a matter of time before divorce in Malta becomes the norm and the right of every man, woman and child here.

Bump into Tonio in Cordina’s this morning and try hard not to smirk or gloat. Oh heck, I forgot: as far as my parliamentary colleagues are concerned I’m against it… so I commiserate at length with Tonio. It’s okay, I had my fingers crossed.

Saturday

Although the general election is still some way off, I’m already gearing up to guarantee my re-election.

And to this end I’m stealing a march on the other candidates in my district by getting my own promotional video shot.

So today Angelika and I, as well as our daughter Annabelle and my camera crew, spend the daylight hours filming. Lots of footage of me – the family man – and a heavily pregnant Angelika; or me pushing my daughter in her pushchair.

I just hope our marriage lasts until the next election.