I was minded, this week, to have another tilt at the magnificent windmill that is our esteemed and glorious The Honourable Dr Manwel Mallia, Minister for Home Cooking and Public Amusement or Home Affairs and Security including Public Broadcasting or whatever title is borne by his expansive portfolio.
After all, what with the Ombudsman ticking him off in public for the millionth time (I exaggerate for dramatic effect) and the Malta Police Association being very critical, and with much more than good reason, of his messing around with the independence, not to mention the conditions of employment, of the senior men of the police, he’s ripe for a couple of over-ripe tomatoes to be shied at him, in the hope that he might see the error of his ways and change tack.
Fat chance of that happening, though, about as much of a chance as his chief of staff doing the decent thing and stepping aside while allegations about him are being investigated. Or were investigated, because it remains unclear to a degree, whether there is any material investigation still in train.
Let me be clear, which ever tense applies, because I bow to no man in my belief that innocence is to be presumed until such time as guilt is proved, I’m not saying that Silvio Scerri is guilty of anything. That said, a man in his position, especially within a ministry that seems to have as its corporate philosophy the notion that senior cops should be kept on a tight leash, ‘at the minister’s pleasure’ as it were, should not give tongues the opportunity to wag.
When guns are jumped, people start speculating
And wagging they surely are, as anyone who reads the papers knows. We have enough ministerial and associated shenanigans to keep three News of the Worlds busy decimating the rain forests for a couple of years.
Talking about tongues wagging and all that, what about the priest’s case? If you don’t know the one I’m talking about, then you’ve been living in a different time-space continuum and should enlist the doctor to find you a berth in the Tardis.
We’ve now got ourselves a soap opera of Bafta-winning quality.
Not only did we start out with a handbags-at-dawn debate between assorted editors about whether the priest’s name should have been tabloided (invented word, but it works) about (it shouldn’t, I maintain), we’ve now got people wondering aloud precisely what he did wrong and whether other Dominicans have been involved in covering things up and, or even or, bribing witnesses or attempting to do that little thing.
Insofar as concerns what crime the clerical chap is alleged to have committed, about the only one I can think of would have to relate to the abuse of a person, whether adult or not, in a vulnerable position by another person with a hold over that first person but this is a matter of evidence and anything else would simply be mere idle speculation.
Of course, one would get an idea on the basis of the charges brought but when guns are jumped this is what happens, people start speculating.
What is certain, though, is that the cops probably haven’t charged the priest with immorality or breach of clerical (a bit like marital) promises, because those, for all that many fundamentalists would love it to be the case, are not actually crimes in Malta in 2014. If they were, where would that leave many of us, pray tell?
And then we have yet another side-show to contend with, the one where two apparently colourful characters are making charge and countercharge about who offered shut-up money and what was behind all this, as if the story wasn’t messy enough already. But all of this goes by the by this week because racism has raised its revolting head, this time not a million miles from San Anton Palace.
The President was forced to condemn racism in all its forms but not only in general terms but in response to the disgusting sentiments expressed by the happily-unelected Labour candidate last week. Even more happily, he no longer forms part of the Labour Party.
Her Excellency was very clear: racism has no place in society.
I would have liked her advisers to have given her better advice as to how the response should have been framed because condemning Robert Henry Bugeja’s slurs by emphasising that L-Istrina funds do not go to giving assistance to immigrants wasn’t exactly the perfect way to go about making it clear that the presidency does not condone racism, but the message was clear enough.
Clear as it was, though, it did not seem to impress everyone. Consider this, which is just one example of the vileness that infests some minds.
On another news portal, one that does not endorse racism either, of course, a Holocaust-denier signing “Anthony Falzon” wrote “I thought it was the NHS that offered chemotherapy and it’s free. As for your comment on Hitler I suggest that it was not called for as I am sure that the only thing you know about Hitler and Germany at the time is what the victorious Jews told the world.”
The snide crack about Hitler is in response to the President’s point about what she thinks about the support for anti-L-Istrina social media trends that is being perceived. The purposely-misleading remark by “Anthony Falzon” is typical of the depths to which insular bigots of the worst kind will descend to give spluttering vent to their hatred of anyone who is not ‘one of them’, though why anyone would even consider wanting to be such a sad and vicious human being is lost on me.
I was chided, politely, by a reader a couple of days ago for failing to do my duty by recommending somewhere to eat.
I shall remedy that lapse, thereby opening myself up to the usual jibes about my waistline becoming something on a par with the breadth of Mallia’s. His portfolio, I mean, though we do share other attributes, anyone with eyes in their head would have to admit.
On Monday night, we celebrated the closing of Her Indoors’ exhibition en famille, with a meal at Sciacca’s in South Street (which is in Valletta, for those of you who don’t know that). This is the sister establishment to the one situated in Paceville and in town they specialise in the meatier side of things.
Summary report, as follows.
Service: very good, bordering on excellent. Food: likewise. Decor: likewise. Value for money: cheap it ain’t, but worth it, especially if you like a choice of whiskies. Downside: being in Valletta, there’s a good chance you’ll come across some nefarious types, like politicians on the run from the House or such.
For those of you with a sense of humour bypass, the last line was, of course, meant without malice.
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