Apologies for the span of time between this blog and its predecessor. The thing about this sort of publication is that it's not deadline-driven, so you can let the days slip by with nothing serious happening, other than one's fans getting withdrawal symptoms.
Actually, the fact that comments keep coming in sort-of justifies leaving the thing in place. You can't really deprive people like Said or Buttigieg an outlet for their frustration at Labour's third (or is it fourth? I lose count) electoral defeat in a row.
I mean, if they kept it all bottled up, the consequences are unthinkable. Still, here you are, some more idle rambling for your delectation.
Alfred Sant is the Leader of the Opposition, and as such, he made a speech in the House responding to the President's summation of the Government's agenda. It was almost breathtaking.
Sant's speech, I mean - the President's was quite a standard piece of work.
According to the Leader of the Opposition Not Any Longer the Leader of the MLP, aliens are inflitrating, incumbents are usurping, foreigners are voting and, for all I know (I didn't manage to get through the whole thing, there are limits to my powers of concentration) Robert Mugabe was the Chairman of the Electoral Commission, all of which led to the PN filching the elections from the hands of the deserving MLP.
No mention was made by Sant of his contribution to Labour's amazing feat. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, if you'll forgive my descent into hoary old ones, is putting it mildly. All they had to do was turn up, if the pre-campaign polls are to be believed but they managed to pull off something of a miracle and the man at the helm when all this went down just stood there, pointing fingers at everyone else.
Far be it for a gentleman to kick a man when he's down, but he has to be down for a gentleman to behave like one and Sant thought it would be a good idea not to adopt the position.
What is it with this guy? Did the standing ovation orchestrated at the MLP National Conference last Friday, presumably to put the fear of God into George Abela, convince him that, hey, he's not to blame after all. If this goes on much longer, we're going to start thinking his middle name is Frank.
WARBLES
On Wednesday eveing, as far as I know, the Eurovision Song Contest Semi-final was about to get underway. I might, of course, be completely wrong, for all that the recent ads for this blog in the print edition of this news portal portray me as an expert.
The ad, as all clever ads are, is designed to pique your interest - the slight snag is that bloggering being the dynamic exercise that is, by the time you see the ad, the blog has gone the way of all things virtual. So if you want to read what I really wrote about the Eurovision thingy, you'll have to look at the archive, conveniently sited below the comments that are below the blog.
What is it about this particular song contest that so excites the populace at large? It's a pop-song contest, for Heaven's sake, about as important in the greater scheme of things as the consistency of pop-corn or the temperature of Dr Pepper.
Actually, the temperature of a can of that specific nectar is something of great pith and moment: too tepid and it's not quite the thing. Incidentally, might I impose on the vast knowledge of the people who comment whenever I write something and ask who imports Dr Pepper?
I merely seek enlightenment out of idle curiosity. Back to the warble-fest, why is it that it is taken so seriously? When Malta's entry, irrespective of its merits, gets ploughed, as generally happens, interminable inquests are undertaken, and in particularly bad years, we even get a Xarabank or a Bondi+, if not both, dedicated to establishing the cause of the national shame that has befallen us.
A more significant indicator of the portentiousness of the situation would be hard to find. It's as if Larry King had taken his braces back from Bondi, teamed up with Adam Boulton and summoned Paxman front and central to investigate the downfall of the Roman Empire. Read my lips, people: this is frippery. It is so unimportant that only people without a life take it seriously.
Talons are bared and careers blighted only because worlds are so devoid of substance that the Eurovision Song Contest becomes the be-all and end-all of life, the universe and everything.
Let me be clear, I'm not denying the young Morena her time in the spotlight. I hope she has the time of her life and, only becuase it's nice to see people happy, I hope she gets on fine. In fact, I hope she wins, though the extent to which this will do any good to PBS's finances is debatable at best.
But please, and I ask in the full knowledge that it will not happen, can we please just give her a pat on the back when she gets back, with perhaps a "better luck next time, hon"?
Fat chance.
DEPRESSING COMEDY
While working on this, I was watching an hour of so-called comedy on the BBC and, verily, it was a depressing experience. The shows that were on were "Ever Decreasing Circles" and "Keeping up Appearances". The former is premised on an anally-retentive suburbanite who abhors change and seems to have taken control-freakery to depths previously undreamt of in human endeavour.
As if that isn't enough, following on is the Bucket woman, another suburbanite with aspirations and moral standards lower than the lowest of grasping hookers. The only thing that could make the evening worse would be a double bill of "Some Mother do 'Ave 'Em" to follow.
MAN, YOU ARE
OK, so Man U got the better of Wigan and Chelsea failed to put 20 past Bolton, meaning that the lads in red bucked the trend set here last March, denying the valiant boys in blue a last-ditch victory and an upset of the first water. Man U's shame is the same as the MLP's, with the rather important distinction that the latter didn't make it, while the former, for all their efforts to try and kick what seemed to be a racing cert in the teeth, actually made it.
It wasn't Bill Shankly, apparently, who said that football isn't life and death, it's way more important, but he was wrong. Man U winning the Premiership last Saturday was such a non-event that I was almost not going to mention it.
My tune will, of course, be ever so slightly different when Chelsea win the European Champions League next Wednesday.
(Editorial Note: given the seriousness with which things are taken in this country, it might be a good idea to point out that tongues are securely lodged in cheeks on occasion)