This was the week that was. I kept thinking of that exercise that we do in news training: if aliens had to come to Malta and read our newspapers what would they think?

The ‘renegade’ MP ever-so-renegadely rested his foot on a wooden chair- Kristina Chetcuti

If they landed this week, I’m sure they would have scampered back on their spaceship, sped off and vouched never to try their hand again at alien invasions.

The bizarre week sparked off with Jason Micallef, head of One TV, who stamped his foot, shook his fist and pointed fingers because the Golden Fleece of Eurovision once more eluded us. Oh, the mirth of it all.

Clearly, next year we have to pack him off dressed up as a (red) carnation blowing in the wind with a song called something like Wardakanta.

For the flower-in-the-breeze swaying effect we’ll make excessive use of the wind machine, then add a touch of on-stage fireworks to mimic a festa Maltija, and circling Jason-the-Flower we’d have Joseph Chetcuti on violin, perhaps sporting a fringe like Loreen’s, nude in the torso bar for a flowing cape. Yes. The performance would certainly tick all the Eurovision boxes; I can already feel my expectations soaring sky high.

Jason’s tantrum was not without basis of course. He was duped by that guy from the University of Michigan. Martin O’Leary popped up – out of nowhere – a couple of hours before the Eurovision final, to tell us that he had done a bit of math and, voilà he predicted that Malta would placed second to Sweden.

Fearing a fatwa, after the result was out, Martin the Michigan math guru quickly apologised to the nation. But we all know that this was nothing but a conspiracy.

Surely, the ‘clique’ who run the Eurovision show had roped him instead of Eileen Montesin, to convince us not to vote for Sweden, so we’d clinch the title?

Moving on. To JPO. During a press conference on lack of IVF laws, he whipped out of his pocket, no not a hanky, but a can of baked beans. For once, douze points for his little stunt to drive the point home that Napro technology was a repackaging of the age-old natural family planning method and not quite a proper alternative to IVF.

Then we had Franco Debono’s trauma of the broken chair at court. The story goes like this: 1. The ‘renegade’ MP ever-so-renegadely rested his foot on a wooden chair; 2. The chair caved in; 3. Debono crashed down with it, falling on one knee; 4. Debono stood up and howled: “I’m in pain”; 5. There is no end to the suffering of this man.

He would perk up, I’m sure if he’s given the chance to be Prime Minister for a day. Which brings us neatly to the next kooky news.

This week we were all encouraged to apply and be in with the chance of living a day in the Prime Minister’s shoes. “Instead of the day in the life of Kim Kardashian, it will be a day in the life of the Prime Minister,” Matthew Calleja, a young PN volunteer helping to coordinate the activity, told us. Indeed. Comparing Gonzi with Kardashian. How very… witty.

This was probably a mere distraction from the pensions blow. I now know for a fact that when I get my KartaAnzjan, I’ll have to live on baked beans. Which of course adds to my stresses: now, not only do I need to find a man who is taller than me, a challenge enough in itself, but also one who is loaded so I can actually retire by a pool in St Tropez.

At this point in the news I was totally disheartened. But things fell into perspective when I read that there are people who are definitely more dispirited than I.

They would be, of course, the “stressed and depressed” hunters. Apparently this affliction – caused by the 2009 hunting ban – may even have led to some suicides, although it’s all very much hypothetical “because dead people cannot be interviewed”. You don’t say.

I don’t blame the aliens for rushing off. Honestly, what next? I am mulling this today over tea at a Diamond Jubilee party, celebrating the Queen’s 60 years on the throne, with my British friends. I am sipping cups of tea, with my little finger pointing out; eating cucumber sandwiches and marmite fingers and Victorian sponge cakes.

And you know what? There’s nothing like the good old Queen to restore a sense of perspective. The world may be going cuckoo but there she is, with her pastel clothes and solid demeanour – always predictable and sane. God save the Queen.

And, God?

Err, spare a thought for Wardakanta next year, won’t you?

krischetcuti@gmail.com