Were it not for the fact that we’re being dragged along in its wake, kicking and screaming, by Premier Joe’s ship of fools, it would be almost comical, the way this country is being run, with an almighty aroma of putrefaction all over the place.
Consider the evidence: corruption appears to be the most pronounced characteristic permeating the physical and psychological make-up of some members of the Cabinet. Please note, for the sake of avoiding useless libel suits, that I have written “appears to be”, not “it is” because, fair’s fair, the shenanigans being reported on might not actually be corruption.
Recall, though, that a country’s rise and fall on the index operated by Transparency International is based on the perception of corruption, not on whether a particular set of facts constitutes corruption. That characterisation is one that is left to the courts, which take their own sweet time to grind the grist into flour.
Meanwhile, though, perceptive perceivers perceive what they perceive because they are given the perception that allows them to perceive what they perceive, namely that there is a tad too much corruption adding its foul stench to the already fetid odours that weigh on our nostrils in this disgusting heat.
Note to my esteemed editor: that cumbersome paragraph is there for your protection because I can’t see any potential plaintiff going to court and having to read that paragraph out under cross-examination.
Meanwhile, shall we have a quick run through some of the elements of the ‘parfum de gangrene’ with which Premier Joe’s government has chosen to douse itself, making it smell like a lady of the night’s boudoir?
Where shall we start? Jobs for the boys and girls, maybe?
Everyone and his brother, and sister, and nephew, and niece, and girlfriend, and boyfriend, and boyfriend’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s driver seem to have snagged themselves a cushy little number, nicely lubricated by our taxes.
The positions range from heading up - even if manifestly unqualified for the job (even when appointed by the previous bunch) - a scientific quango, through having your girlfriend appointed to give service as your personal assistant, through deploying your massive talents to searching high and low for a garage where bands can rehearse to organising bread-and-circus fests for the amusement of the great unwashed.
Eveyone and his brother, and sister, and nephew, and niece, and girlfriend, and boyfriend, and boyfriend’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s driver seem to have snagged themselves a cushy little number, nicely lubricated by our taxes
Those were just four possible instances of Premier Joe’s largesse being distributed with an eye to the main chance; there are many, many others.
For instance, consider the way a “resigned” commissioner of police was given a rather snazzy title, with a pay packet that lives up to it, and put in charge of “security for national events”.
We used to have a head copper and head soldier who took care of security when we had visiting bobs and nabobs who needed protection, now we have to have a dedicated specialist to make sure that nothing goes wrong.
I mean, he ran the police catering division so well, he had little choice but to resign, so that’s the perfect choice to make sure someone doesn’t bump off half the Commonwealth heads of government and Her Majesty.
Do you want a cozy retirement package from a bank appearing to be run on the lines of your neighbourhood Labour Party club? Please form an orderly queue of one, just over there. And if you want to go back home and be paid for doing that, and precious little else, sorry, that spot’s been taken?
Got a business that needs propping up and not inclined to put your hand in your pocket, like that numbnuts down the road who doesn’t have political clout?
No problem, Premier Joe can float your boat, have a cigar and, by the way, which one is Pink?
That’s a nice piece of prime property in Valletta, why don’t you see if the Land Department might be interested in buying it and then stroll over there and tell them it’s suddenly yours? We’re not constrained by silly notions of insider trading, those are for people without friends in high places.
Do you have a gambling empire that doesn’t need too much official scrutiny, being as it performs a vital social function up north? Don’t worry your little head, we have just the ruse for you, leave it to Beaver and his minions.
While on the subject of amusing the great unwashed, which we were a couple of paragraphs above, what’s that Jason Micallef of the V-18 Foundation (Lord luv us) been eating?
I want some.
He seems to have taken it into his head that being chair of the 2018 City of Culture project has transmogrified him into being the boss of Valletta, a Boris Johnson of the Mediterranean, able to determine the price of property in town and to make suggestions about how the elderly should be housed, fed and entertained of a morning.
Someone needs to take him gently aside and explain that, quite apart from the fact that he’s not going to be organising the next rock show to commemorate the 44th anniversary of the second time someone opened a public convenience in Strait Street and that he’s not going to head up PBS, either, his role is to ensure that when 2018 rolls around, we’re not mortally embarrassed as a country and shown up to be a shower of uncultured louts whose idea of a good read is Alex Ferguson’s biography.
I bet you thought that when I started spouting about perceptions being perceived that I would be getting nasty about that poor dear, Joseph “there’s oil in that there sea” Mizzi. Well, I don’t believe in kicking a man when he’s down but, if I were to have been unfettered by such delicate considerations, I’d have pointed out that the man’s sheer incompetence has been brought into such sharp focus over the last couple of weeks that anyone with a shred of dignity would have resigned.
But why should Joe Mizzi resign? Or, rather, why should he resign before taking advice from Ian Borg, Chris Cardona, Helena Dalli, Michael Falzon, Konrad Mizzi and, obviously, Premier Joseph Muscat himself?
It’s not often that I find myself having to be less than full of praise for somewhere I’ve eaten at, generally because I take care to choose places where I already know the experience will be a decent one.
Many friends (yes, I have some) have taken to asking me for advice directly, when in Gozo, as to where they can get some good food, so much so that I’ve got a list that I copy-paste into a text message for them.
I amend the list from time to time, when new places merit inclusion or when old favourites drop too far down the table. Regretfully, I’ve had to remove Tad-Dutch in Qala from the list and not only because it’s not called that any longer. We went there last Saturday, in the hope that we’d be able to get some of the Netherlandish (spelling courtesy of the national language busybodies) specials that made the place, well, special. We were disappointed and won’t return.
Not to put too fine a point on it, the service was really, really slow and the food was pedestrian, in that it was OK for what it was but with absolutely nothing to distinguish it from the umpteen other places that serve pretty much the same thing and more efficiently.
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