Season in sleaze... number the 43rd

After considerable persuasion – and dare I say – intimidation by EGC and the Castille cabal, I submit to the gross indignity of an appearance on L-Istrina.

While dribbling down the left touchline – the lacquer holding my comb-over in place comes unstuck

My total humiliation is compounded when – dressed in Pampers and riding in a pram – I clamber out of said vehicle, at which point my Pampers fall... revealing my manhood to the viewing multitudes, thus, in that split second, rendering a TV programme classified as ‘family viewing’ into hardcore porn.

Goodbye to my political career?

Monday

Saved by the bell... literally. Apparently, at the precise moment of my disrobing, some guy in the audience, dressed as Santa, rang a handbell, so the cameraman panned away from me and onto him.

My relief is compounded upon arriving home and asking Angelika if she was watching. Her reply (“Do you think I’ve got time for TV, now I’ve got two children to look after?”) buoyed me even further. If I ever do get to be PM, remind me to buy that Santa a drink.

Tuesday

The day of the annual-politicians-versus-the-press football match.

As usual, I start for the politicians on the left side of midfield. We are doing OK and my contribution is not too inept until – midway through the second half – I have to leave the field with a major problem. While dribbling down the left touchline the lacquer holding my comb-over in place comes unstuck and my hair becomes detached from my pate... and in front of all those people! Naturally I demand to be substituted immediately. Oh, the shame!

Wednesday

With the House in Christmas recess I decide to do a little light electioneering, seeing how my position in parliament – let alone government – is far from assured. So, with my chief canvasser in tow, I tour a relatively new and politically ambiguous part of my district to distribute my flyers door to door.

The distribution bit goes well... it’s only when we retrace our steps later that we notice the streets strewn with these same flyers, many torn to shreds.

I never did have much faith in flyers anyway.

Thursday

I am shocked and appalled!

This morning I am summoned to a meeting with Malta’s biggest property developer at his offices in Msida. The great man receives me amicably enough, then – after coffee and small talk – he broaches the real reason he “invited” me along.

He shows me plans and a model of a hotel and several apartment blocks in a hitherto unspoilt beauty spot. He wants me to vote in favour of the development in parliament – and promises me a great deal of money to do so. He winks: “You MPs do your bit and leave Mepa to me.”

Wow! But if he thinks I can be bought, he’s right. Well hey... with an expensive wife, two kids and a mortgage, what would you have done?

Friday

Receive a memo from ‘head office’. It sets out a code of behaviour for all government MPs in the run-up to the election.

So far so good. But then, at the bottom is a personal note to me, which reads: “Please note: You are not to give interviews or appear in the media without a thorough briefing from HQ. We see you as a maverick, so this is an order, not a request.”

The very idea! Who do they think I am... Franco?

Saturday

In direct contravention of yesterday’s memo, I attend a ‘Youth political forum’ at City Gate.

It’s organised by the underground group ‘Sewer Rats’ and I am pitted against the opposition spokesperson for muddying the waters – a bright, attractive, young female lawyer.

The chairman, a malodorous, bearded and grunge-clad undergraduate, does his best to start an argument but, as always, I counter his attempts superbly and reduce my opponent to baffled silence.

Afterwards my opponent and I shake hands and I tell her: “You’ll have to get up very early in the morning to out-argue me.”

She replies: “Not at all; you were doing a brilliant job of hoisting yourself on your own petard. I just let you get on with it.”

Rubbish, what does she know. I won hands down, I think.