Seasoned in sleaze... number the 44th...

So what happens now? I confess I am totally in the dark. Are we safe or not? Has the bastard been reined in? And am I worried? Ha! Not a bit of it... I’m bloody terrified!

I turn my Facebook page into an unashamed election poster

What about me, Franco? You’ll be OK you’ve got your manky criminal law practice to keep you in sour grapes, but what have I got? An expensive wife, two kids, a mortgage and thwarted political ambitions. A little more care in future please.

Monday

To the House: With the dreaded elections hovering (on the, not too distant, horizon), it’s squeaky bums time in the corridors of power. But when I meet Charlie, an opposition MP and an old friend from my law course in the Gents at the House of Reps today – I realise it’s not only our lot who are quietly panicking.

He tells me: “You think you’ve got problems, huh! If we do get elected can you imagine what will happen when Dracula and Motormouth both get ministries?” Hmm, you know, that was the most encouraging pee I’ve had in ages.

Tuesday

No! I do not want to serve another term as president of my local football club. It’s not the fact that we... ahem – they have been implicated in allegations of bribery. And no, it’s also not the fact that the coach – my first cousin – was fired last month.

Not at all... it’s entirely because the team were relegated last year and it will do absolutely nothing for my political aspirations to be associated with failure.

Wednesday

I am constantly bemused by the way the media operates on this island of ours. Today, for example, I manage to cut my left cheek while shaving. Within minutes... the opposition websites have posted that the “injury” is the result of a domestic dispute and was inflicted by my wife with a “sharp instrument”.

Incredible! And, of course, completely false. In fact – considering the current state of our marriage – it’s also impossible; since there’s no way I’d allow the cow any-where near a so-called sharp instrument.

Thursday

With the PM keeping his cards close to his chest as to whether or not to call an early election, I decide to steal a march on the rest of my parliamentary colleagues and start electioneering in earnest.

So... I turn my Facebook page into an unashamed election poster – and I also invite comments. But naturally I reserve the right to censor any remark that is not unreservedly sycophantic and grovelling.

Friday

At the risk of appearing disloyal to the party, this morning I take a coffee at Cordina’s in the company of my old school friend Smelly Buhagiar Conti – the opposition spokesperson for Bleeding the Country Dry.

As one does these days, the conversation soon turned to the vexatious subject of ‘How do you treat a problem like Franco?’

I tell Smelly that, judging by the way he’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if he crossed the floor and joined the opposition full-time.

Smelly’s reaction is instantaneous: “God no! That’s the last thing we need. He’s far more use to us sniping from within.” Yes, I was afraid he’d say that.

Saturday

My somewhat fraught domestic situation is not getting any better; there’s no doubt... my marriage is most definitely on the rocks. In desperation I consult someone who has the experience to advise me on this one... my father.

He is sanguine when I tell him of my dilemma, but when I suggest that I have no option but to divorce the cow, he shakes his head sagely and replies: “Absolutely not! In our family we make our bed and we lie on it. You married her, so you are stuck with her... till death do you part.

“No son, I’m afraid you have no option but to... stay married and do what I and most of my parliamentary colleagues did... take a mistress.”

Brilliant! I knew I could rely on the old man to come up with the solution.