What if Franco was a striker?
I was out with friends a few days ago and one of them asked “hey what’s your next blog about?” She got everyone laughing at my expense. So I laughingly suggested “Franco Debono” and a groan went round the whole group.
So please accept my apologies but it does seem as if I can’t/shouldn’t and shan’t mention the dreaded cannonball. Or will I?
It is sad that this guy is not to be written about. I mean he has an ego bigger than Mars and if NASA had any brains—which they don’t as it is made up of Americans—it would have sent a roving prodder to check out our lawyer and his words and actions. And left Mars to be prodded and discovered by some other alien form.
If he didn’t have the fate of Malta safely in his hands he’d surely be a great guy to talk to and discuss things over with. He’s now running a blog and manages to keep up a conversation with a number of his readers. In between coming out with ideas to save our democracy, and the PN, from eternal doom he also manages to write a few lines about anything that comes his way.
One of his most recent blogs was all about Austin Gatt being ugly and about Dr Gatt’s beautiful wife. And he goes on and on about how ugly Austin is and how handsome he—Franco—is. I wish I could believe his blog is a spoof and is meant to make us laugh. But it’s more a crying spectacle.
He even berated Kenneth Zammit Tabona. I’m hardly up to defending the renowned artist and columnist but Franco’s ways sound so bizarre. Franco went bang, pow, sizzle and he metaphorically executed the artist by saying all sorts of incomprehensible stuff about him.
I just wish Franco would turn into a nice good lawyer, vote with the PN forever, ruin Joseph Muscat’s party and keep us entertained. But that could only happen if he wasn’t aware that his vote in parliament is indispensable for Gonzi and Co to remain in government. If he didn’t have that special vote we would all be able to poke fun at him and not worry about him bringing the house down in one fell, silly swoop.
Let me try to close the subject about Franco—how in hell’s name can he even wish to contest under the PN ticket?
Let’s imagine he was a footballer. By some odd, fantastic process imagine Franco is in a winning team playing in the role of striker (for the football unsavvy: that’s the one who usually scores the goals). Now just keep taking these leaps of incredulity, disbelief and imagination. This imaginary team is coached by a certain bungler called Low Gonz.
The team is on its way to play in the Champions league final—how they got there and who scored most goals and own goals must remain a mystery but stick to the disbelief button and you can visualise the scene.
In the final the team—battle-and game-weary—is reduced to just 11 players from which Low has to choose 11. So again Franco is chosen to play in the final and in the last minute, with his team managing to keep the game draw, they are awarded a penalty kick. Gonz, in his infinite goodness (or lack of ball skills sometimes also called idiocy), tells his team to let Franco take the kick. Sort of hey let him get some extra glory so that he can forget his ego and how he hates me and all my clique and maybe, just maybe, he will start loving and supporting me.
Franco graciously moves to take said penalty kick. A hush descends over the stadium. The little team from Malta is playing some mighty team from Madrid, Milan or Manchester and can miraculously win the coveted cup. Franco struts to the spot kick—looks around and waves to all supporters in the stadium and on TV, terrestrial and extra-terrestrial. He sees his old religion master, Carm Mifsud Bonnici and even Richard Cachia Caruana are there on the sidelines, all waiting with bated breath.
Gonz smiles his winning smile. Franco runs up, turns away from the goal he should be shooting the ball into, and slams the ball right back to his own goal and scores the first ever auto-goal direct from a penalty kick. Now that is style. That is finesse. That is a goal for the history and record books.
Game over and Gonz proceeds with a forced smile to say that he has the full backing of his team and will not give up his seat even if the team has lost in the final that could have been won.
During the same press conference Franco grabs the microphone from Gonz’s hands and cries and stamps his feet. In the dressing-room a few other players have sworn allegiance to Gonz and agreed to bar Franco from playing with the team again. Franco is livid. He shouts the last few words dressed in blue: “But why? Why this horrid treatment of a player with my skill, my stamina, my world fame for scoring beautiful and unique goals?”
Apologies to my friends, foes and countrymen for writing yet once more about our man from Għaxaq. But I did place him in a different scenario and forgot all about politics, that silly little game silly men in suits and Polo shirts play.