They call it ennui. We call it politics.
The French—those silly sods whose greatest gift to us were the fries—call it, I think, ennui.
The silly season approaches in vehement mood and our silliness and crass stupidity makes us all crave for better times and less egocentric politicos. Yes and if we dream of having less selfish, more altruistic politicians we might as well hope for those big pink things we roast on spits to fly.
How terrible and boring of the politicians to go on and on in their petty wars and verbose fights with half-, quarter or no-truths flung around aplenty. Accusations, hacking, counter-accusations, politicians feeling faint, expulsions, cohabitation, back-stabbing—all have become our daily, boring bread. And we, the known and lesser-known commentators, the ones in the clique and the ones, alas, outside, all go on and on till we bore ourselves to self-immolation. We, the commentators of the land, all gabble on trying to give new insights and ending up slighting all or at least half the populace.
Some of us lace our copy with expletives and vim, others with fawning vigour. Some surprise us with unexpected gems or unintended asides. Some rise to the occasion and say things which are indeed insightful and help us, the completely fuddled, fathom a bit more of what is really going on in this, the most tragic of comedies called Malta’s politics.
We are, as usual in our ideas, a crazed, contradictory race: we hate talking about it yet love doing it and saying, ad blooming infinitum, that we are bored of discussing the state of affairs of our country. And yet on we go doing it.
I wish I could scream out, till I’m blue in the face—a curse on all politicians’ head and let’s be done with them all, whatever their hide’s hue. But if we fire all the politicians we will still need to put in other citizens to get the ship of state moving. All we can do is hope our ship, even if it sounds and acts most buoyant at the moment, will not end up in the hands of a useless captain, like the one who rammed his ship and caused it to sink off the coast of Italy a few sad months ago. It was a lovely ship but all it took was one slight wrong turn and down it went.
The good nature of most of us Maltese people—and our editors—does not allow us to curse or damn even despicable beings like self-aggrandising politicians with a horrid agenda. So instead of cursing our politicians to hell we have to pray to the ever-loving, ever-forgiving gods to enlighten them with better actions. And in so doing free us from suffering them besides the abject heat we have had. All we should be doing is enjoying our lovely sea and the accompanying welcome breezes.
Damn politics, damn their horrors which they shove on to us and damn their actions which all seem intent on dragging us into more and everlasting squabbles and quibbles.
Now the mantra is let’s have an election and let’s have it fast.
Let’s, in other words, let the people decide if they want Gonzi and his troubled deputies and jaded team sent to different benches from the ones they occupy now. Benches which are closer to the seaside or some retirement home where they can live in harmony with themselves doing nothing but staring out into the heavens. And let’s—the mantra of the election seems to imply—send the PL movement moving post-haste to take over the mantle of Government. And then all will be—so the mantra seems to add— hunky dory with not a spot of trouble in our land of fabled and famed honey.
All will be sweet and no politico will be selfish or have a strange affair with his own ego. May we live in hope of this earthly paradise reigning supreme.
And next time you see any pigs in the air don’t ask the hunters to shoot them down because the shot pigs might come down to earth with a fat thud on us all.