It’s the time of year when lazy journalists (to be fair, they follow the trend set by politicians and other movers and shakers) put their brains into low gear, falling back onto a review of the year rather than trying to dig up stories and generally doing their job.

Our politicians, bless ‘em, forget all their animosity and general mutual nose-thumbing and trot along to whatever event is being put on to collect money for deserving causes.

Nothing wrong with collecting money for such causes, of course, but sometimes you get the impression that the only celebrities that can be trotted out to help in this are politicians, ‘eaven ‘elp us, as if their collective heads weren’t swollen enough already.

I suppose it’s partly the effect of the highest office in the land having been turned into a gigantic chugging (CHarity mUGGING) machine by the latter two incumbents that might have something to do with this transmogrification of holders of positions of State into willing participants in wet t-shirt competitions and assorted other insults to their dignity for the purpose of self-glorification and enhancing their Kardashian-style celebrity.

Sometimes you get the impression that the only celebrities that can be trotted out to help in raising money are politicians

That being as it may be, there is little grist for my mill at this time of the year, which is why my blog has also been less than enormously varied, though part of the reason is bone-idleness on my part.

I suppose I should, incidentally, exclude Simon Busuttil and Kristina Chetcuti’s appearance on - shudder - Xarabank from the “enhancing Kardashian-style celebrity” because they came across excellently as two decent and balanced human beings, although one is a politician and the other a journalist.

I could write about the chavification of the City Gate area by the way the tat-fest that is Valletta’s street market is being relocated to the vicinity of the new Parliament building, though I’ve been scooped here slightly.

The sight of Minister of Perceptive Trafficking, Joe Mizzi, accompanied by that Zammit Tabona bloke in cool sunnies, gleefully telling us that stalls full of cheap junk are going to be cheek-by-jowl with the “Highest institution in the land” (Mizzi’s own, incorrect, words) was a fitting end to a year characterised by the breach of promise after promise after promise by the Tagħna kollha bunch, with nary a squeak of protest from formerly raucous individuals.

They know who they are, they don’t need me adding to their blushes.

Now all we need is to have yet another jolly musical event commemorating the first three days and four hours or some other equally meaningless mile- (inch-) stone from the opening of the Renzo Piano building, to dazzle the bewildered masses into continuing to believe that Joseph still dons an Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and can do no wrong, especially with “Lookit me I’m Evita Peron” simpering at his side.

Getting back to my seasonal cop-out, however, it’s time for the headmaster’s report and scorecard on the school’s activities over 2014.

Starting from the top, it is my painful duty to report that head boy Joseph Muscat continues to bamboozle the community into thinking that he’s the best thing since sliced bread. How he does this, apart from utilising the cunning ploy of actually doing nothing and therefore doing nothing wrong, is baffling.

He should fit into the category of ‘should do more’ but there isn’t one.

Deputy head boy Louis Grech emulates his elder to a ‘T’, in fact more so, and nothing can be said about him.

Oppo head boy Busuttil, who started from a position of some disadvantage, to put it mildly, with a house in disarray and dissension in the ranks, seems to have got a handle on things of late and can be put down as ‘will do well’, though he does need to start laying about him with a big stick a bit more.

Moving on down the ranks, head prefect Manuel Mallia was deservedly shown the door, kicking and screaming, and while he, no doubt, thinks that he was unfairly dismissed and that he should be returned triumphantly to a position befitting his opinion of himself, it is not clear how head boy Muscat thinks he can achieve this and maintain his golden image.

But this is getting boring and I’d rather not be classed among the lazy members of the media who prefer a good mince pie and a snog under the mistletoe to doing their job.

For instance, one story that can be followed up with profit is the one about the new casino that will soon embellish that never-ending panorama of elegance and gracefulness that is Paceville. I’m referring to the bit of Paceville where the Eden Cinemas, the Eden Parking, the Eden Superbowl, the Eden White Elephant and the Eden (Interconti now closed) Hotel are to be found, the one the smart set call St George’s Bay, because being down with the kids only has just so much cachet.

The government, having been freed of the strictures imposed by a temporary injunction, has signed up with the Decesares, in the form of their Eden conglomerate, so these worthy gents can add a casino to the range of entertainments available in Paceville, and a couple of floors to their hotel, at the same time, and direct some more revenue into the pot they fill from their (refurbished at our expense) cinemas and pricey parking, to say nothing of the other outlets.

From what we’re allowed to see on the mediasphere, when people aren’t busy necking the port and Stilton, the report that would have put the Eden bunch in second place was all done bar the shouting - only one person was left to sign it, though the extent to which this person was in agreement is unclear.

Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the minister responsible for the process, Dr The Hon. Chris Cardona, managed to confect a definition of ‘conflict of interest’ that relied on the people approving the report that would have stymied the Eden boys being so distantly connected to the other bidders that the Hubble telescope would have had difficulty in discerning the link.

Cardona immediately and valiantly stopped the process and the Eden boys were allowed to stage a comeback that matched Burnley’s against Manchester City (thanks guys).

Now, I’m no investigative newshound, and I pass this on for what it’s worth to my more energetic colleagues n the media, for when they recover from their New Year’s Eve excesses.

All they need to do is connect the dots, from the point of the report being all done and almost dusted, through the point of finding out who didn’t sign it and whether he was being given a lift, and/or making calls, at any point in time that was material, and if so from where and to whom, ending up with the classic cui bono and I don’t mean the guy with sunglasses who sings with U2.

And then ask a few pointed questions. It would make an interesting story.

So there you have it; you’re reading this at the beginning of the new year, no doubt filled with energy and looking forward to enterprises new and fresh, the hangover almost fading into the background and the trials and tribulations of the dead year likewise blurring in memory.

Speaking for myself, 2014 has been an interesting year (that’s English understatement, consult Muscat’s lexicon of language if you don’t get it) which has ended way, but way better than it had started - thanks to every single one of you who helped and supported.

imbocca@gmail.com

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