I wasn't really going to put something up so quickly, because the saddos who seem to follow me with bated breath will think I'm changing the subject. Clearly, they haven't quite got the point of the 'Net – all my pearls of wisdom are still available for perusal and comment, just click around, so I decided to anyway.

I'm told that a bunch of folk had quite a time of it on Monday evening, spewing their venom and vomiting their bile on the "Gang of Four" (the ones that meet in Room 6 in Castille, remember?) making personal attacks on all of us, justifying themselves with the delusional argument that since "they (we) do it, we (they) can".

We don't, but they have for so many years that I've given up even caring and if people like Joe Grima and his bro think that by getting apoplectic and shouting and banging they're doing anything but taking us all back to the inglorious past of which they're such fine examples, they really do need to take stock. They must have looked like Joe Fava, writing in L-Orizzont a few days ago calling Peppi Azzopardi vermin that must be exterminated, must have looked – much of a muchness with him, when you think about it.

What these paragons of broadcasting and journalistic virtue just don't seem to get is that by being so vicious in my regard (the other ¾ of the Gang can speak for themselves) all they're doing is confirming that which I already know: my comments annoy them, which is not a bad thing. And why do they annoy them? Because, kiddies, the truth hurts and that's all there is to it.

To quote the Meerkat, simples.