As a flyer of the flag of liberalism and tolerance, I can’t but open with a few words to mark the sense of loss and deprivation that engulfs all of the unrepentant following the news that the BBC have succumbed to the screeches of the harridans of political correctness and canned Jeremy Clarkson.

Clearly, not even late middle-aged heroes like the orangutan can be allowed to get away with thumping someone over the absence of a hot meal but I can’t help wondering whether the glee that met the news from some quarters isn’t evidence that the BBC overreacted in their slavering eagerness to appease the PC bullies.

Somehow, I suspect that if it wasn’t for the overbearing existence of the dour and the humourless, the thing would have been handed differently.

But life will go on, even without Top Gear.

An interesting nugget filtered down from Gozo, by means of an answer to a PQ that, for a change, didn’t involve the minister concerned saying that the information was still being complied or that the information requested was commercially sensitive.

Apparently, the minister, under whose remit and, by all accounts, under whose control, Gozo Channel lies, has appointed individuals that he trusts to sit on the internal audit committee of the company.

Logical, that: in order to scrutinise the running of a company that I run, I appoint people in whom my trust reposes in order to blow the whistle if they find that the manner of running the company that I run is not as it should be.

And these intrepid souls have to report to me, the person who appointed them, to tell me that the company that I run is not being run correctly.

Oh well, that’s one way of doing things, I suppose, though that hoary old chestnut about pipers, tunes and the calling of the latter keeps running through my mind, like an irritating jingle.

And, if I might respectfully suggest a follow-up PQ, could someone ask what in Neptune’s name can occupy these good folks’ time that they need to be paid (at a pretty decent rate) for between 15 and 30 hours per week, each? This is Gozo Channel, not HSBC worldwide, for Heaven’s sake.

Not content with giving the bird-killers a fillip by not wasting a second before trying to politicise the referendum to abolish the legal loophole that allows spring hunting, Premier Joseph Muscat carried on paying his party’s debt to the hunters.

This time, it was by implying that Simon Busuttil was secretly working for an abolitionist ‘No’ vote, which was a gambit clearly meant to strong-arm anti-hunting Labour voters back into the party line. Premier Muscat didn’t trouble us with any evidence of the veracity of his claim, it need hardly be added.

All Premier Muscat has to do is say something and, for the terminally enthralled, it becomes an eternal truth, such is the gullibility of the masses. It really is time for the media, and not just a couple of ‘voice in the wilderness’ bloggers and columnists, to start joining up the dots, to see if a clearer picture of to whom Premier Muscat feels himself in thrall will emerge.

I mean, if he wasn’t in a position where he feels he has an overriding obligation, what would possess Premier Muscat to engage, at a princely salary, a convicted individual to represent him, personally, in Brussels? It’s not as if Cyrus Engerer deserves a well-iced bun for his work in promoting gay rights, given that he’s been convicted of what in most countries would be seen a crime with distinct homophobic overtones.

It’s not only individuals who seem to be able to expect goodies from Premier Joseph Muscat

So why, pray tell us, Premier Muscat, does the former Nationalist deserve such weighty consideration? Surely not every turncoat gets this sort of pat on the back, placing him head and shoulders above your own people, for whom loyalty is a byword.

Or are the wages of the political ‘sin’ of desertion really plum government jobs, in Malta post-2013?

The alternative is that people like Engerer and, see him there, lurking in the wings, Manwel Mallia, know where the bodies are buried and are known to know this.

Before Labour’s lil’elves get all hot and bothered about my saying that Premier Muscat has killed someone with his bare hands and buried the body in some unmarked grave in Buskett, allow me to emphasise that what I’m musing about are figurative corpses, political ones, and not actual formerly warm bodies.

After some 20 plus years of having fun with this column, it’s dawned on me that there is a significant bunch of people who don’t quite get it, so, sometimes, it becomes necessary to point out that some of this stuff shouldn’t be taken literally. Chalk it up to my watching too many political thrillers, if you like.

So, getting ‘beck’ to the question: while certain appointments are pretty obviously a way of saying thanks for services rendered, which, in a way, isn’t surprising, what is Engerer’s ‘grace and favour’ gig all about? Surely it isn’t only a way of recompensing him for the hagiography of Premier Muscat that he penned?

It’s not only individuals who seem to be able to expect goodies from Premier Muscat, confident that their earnest desires will be satisfied. The transaction which makes me call Premier Muscat Premier Muscat still needs a ruddy great big spotlight shone on it so that we, the people, can get a handle on the truth and it could hardly be clearer that the dear chap feels that he has some good mates within the construct and build community, along with the ones to whom he keeps giving a hand in their endeavours to kill birds in spring.

It just occurred to me, incidentally, that the acronym for Prime Minister is the same as the one you could use for ‘Premier Muscat’. Am I slow or what?

The thing is, calling Muscat ‘PM’ doesn’t really evoke the same sense of sarcastic irony, or ironic sarcasm, as calling him Premier Muscat, so you’ll forgive me for going on with it, until I get bored.

Will we ever find out why Cyrus ‘naughty pictures’ Engerer is held in such high esteem by Premier Muscat, to the extent that he appoints him as his Sherpa in Brussels, which is not as demeaning as it sounds?

Quite the contrary, apparently.

And I’m morally convinced that, unless it comes to pass that Engerer himself spills the political beans, we’re not going to know.

An occasional gossip and grouch session that I have with a trio of like-minded blokes was held last Wednesday at Zero Sei, in front of the Manoel Theatre.

Unlike a number of places, this one is run by an Italian gent who has made an effort to become part of the community. For all that their fare is generally quite good, many folk who come from points North tend to give the impression that they’ve parachuted in to make a quick buck and hang the bothersome technicalities of being a good corporate citizen.

And that tiresome thing called VAT, what is it for?

This is not the case at Zero Sei: the food is excellent, the service equal to the food, value for money is fine and generally it’s a damn good evening out, as evidenced by the fact that the place was packed.

Where else would the boss go to the trouble of replacing a portrait in front of which I preferred not to spend my evening?

That’s a mark of class, with a good dose of humour, two qualities that go miles to enhance one’s experience.

imbocca@gmail.com

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