If Premier Joseph Muscat would be so kind, might I be permitted to pose a stupid question? I do this in the full knowledge that he might have to pull himself up to an imperious height and pronounce himself on its stupidity and, by necessary implication, characterise me as stupid, but this is something with which I will have to live.

In fact, I have a number of stupid questions, which probably makes me stupid many times over.

My detractors, the ones who pop up with such almost-nauseatingly predictable regularity on the online versions of this column and its associated blog, will, no doubt, gleefully agree and bask in the warmth of Premier Muscat’s approval of their trolling. Again, this is something with which I will have to live, comforted in the knowledge that, while people like Premier Joe and his minions might think me stupid - or worse - I have at least retained sufficient grey cells to be able to frame a coherent thought or two.

So, for my first stupid question: how in the name of everything beautiful does Minister Chris Cardona expect anyone to think that he hasn’t been living for free in a rather swish Portomaso pad for quite a few months now when, in fact, he has been doing just that little thing, despite his protestations to the contrary?

Premier Joe Muscat has a problem and a half, no mistake, and its name is Chris Cardona

Consider the evidence: in gainsaying Daphne Caruana Galizia’s statement that he has been living rent-free, Cardona produced a document that establishes a rent but establishes also that said rent is not to be paid other than five days before the end of the lease, which has not yet come about and nor is it about to in five days’ time.

Consequently, in contradicting Caruana Galizia, Cardona actually confirmed what she wrote, namely that, as we speak, he hasn’t paid a €uro’s worth of rent to his landlord. Is that not what living in a flat for free is?

The contract, which to my untrained eye has something of a look of hastiness about it (how would you explain that the line that weirdly fixes the rent to be paid in the future is not perfectly aligned with the rest of the text?) does not even contemplate the payment of a deposit to secure the landlord from the vicissitudes of having to chase his tenant for any damages caused or, for that matter, from having to drag the tenant through the courts if, perish the thought, said tenant doesn’t put his hands in his pocket five days before he’s due to vacate the apartment and pay his accumulated thousands upon thousands of rental.

Now bear in mind that these thousands upon thousands have to be paid by someone whose salary makes him weep like a little girl and not because of the thickness of his wallet pressing on his tender behind when he cashes his pay cheque, either.

Premier Joe now has a problem and a half, no mistake, and its name is Chris Cardona.

Onwards and upwards to my second question, then. If a €500 imitation clock given as a present to a minister caused not-yet-Premier Joseph Muscat and assorted minions, including many who operate in the media, to have conniptions and screech “corruption” at the top of their shrill voices, what should a €1,000 plus per month freebie cause them?

A massive coronary at the very least or a hernia brought on by the effort of chucking his errant minister out of the boat, right pronto, that’s what.

The snag with the second option is that if he had to sling Cardona out, he’d have to sling quite a few others out with him, which is hardly a viable option for a government which is seen by more than 75 per cent of respondents to a poll running on The Malta Independent’s portal as being riddled by corruption.

And so to stupid question number three, one which doesn’t concern Cardona directly, so he can carry on organising his Festa Familja (oh supreme irony, Chris Cardona having a festa for families) next Friday without having to worry his little head.

My question is, and Edward “Peanuts” Scicluna can have a stab at answering it, if simply telling us, the people who elected him and pay his admittedly miserable salary, all about that handy little loan guarantee, granted to the people who are doing their level best to make sure that Premier Joe and Sai “She's Gone Again” Mizzi-Liang's husband don't have to resign because the new power station hasn't yet been built, will send the economy into an unmanageable flat spin, just how frail is our economy, for Heaven's sake? Oh, he didn't say that, he says. OK, then he should explain why he was understood to have done that little thin, why don't he?

Leaving aside the appropriateness of the guarantee (that is, nil appropriateness) and leaving aside also the stark fact that we do not need this new power station, is he seriously telling us, or making us think he told us, that the economy will become unmanageable if we are given the details about his government's shameless up-propping of the entrepreneurs who don't seem to be able to get their financial act together without it?

It strikes me that Etienne Grech was being really cruel to the Greeks, therefore, when he suggested that we despatch Premier Joe on a white charger to rescue them from their economic Hades: he's presiding over an economy here that, according to Ole'Peanuts or not, depending how you understand things, will crash and burn if we're told about what at the bottom line is a simple mechanism, namely that if the private sector entity fails, you and me have to stump up.

Or maybe it won't, who's to know given the way Labour communicates with its subjects: when the main communications director seems to be intent on playing with his Twitter, this is what passes for being 'on message'.

Question the fourth goes to Minister “There’s Oil, Somewhere” Joe Mizzi.

Can you put your hand on where your heart should be and say that your bosom buddies, the lads from the Iberian Peninsula, have got their act together to the extent that no-one should even think of imitating the renowned thespian, that Abela Garrett girl, in calling you an adherent of Onan’s relief system?

Seriously, back in the day everyone and his brother used to stop the presses every time a route bus was a few minutes late in arriving; today nothing has changed except for the fact that the presses don’t grind to a stop when a bus does and it’s as if nothing has happened.

Enough of the stupid questions, anyway, it’s summer and the living is... revoltingly hot and sticky and I’m sick of it already, that’s what it is.

The only consolation lies in repairing to a darkened room with air-con blasting away, with something cold in a glass perched precariously close to hand and the telly lulling one off to the land of Nod.

Eating out isn’t half as much fun, being as if you try to do that little thing outside, aforementioned revolting heat gets you and inside, many places’ air-con, despite valiant attempts, doesn’t quite seem to cut it.

We went to Wiġi’s in St Julian’s and had an excellent meal, helped not a little by the equally excellent service and the fact that the system was coping, just, or maybe it was the draft created by Tara and her mates charging around trying to keep up with the demand.

It must have been hell in the kitchen, though, but the stuff they produced was from more elevated portions of the Bible.

Not having been for yonks, lunch on Wednesday at Da Pippo, in town, was a pleasant reminder of why it remains one of the go-to places. Packed as always, it is fertile ground for trying to put names to faces and wonder whether there isn’t a story there for your keen columnist types and the food is dependable and good.

They do stuff that caters for vegetarians, too, though going there certainly wouldn’t be conducive to a calm and relaxing meal, being as you’re sitting cheek by jowl with the Valletta on a work-day crowd. Those of you who are a bit confused as to why I’m mentioning this needn’t be, it’s not meant for you.

imbocca@gmail.com

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