This new fangled Internet thingy has made the columnist’s life interactive to a degree that can be disconcerting. No longer do you turn to the letters page of a morning, wondering whether some outrageous remark printed a week or so ago has raised the hackles of some reader, inspiring him (almost always a ‘him’ for some reason) to blast off a “Dear Sir, your so-called columnist....” to the Editor. The technicalities of publication generally led to this seeing the light of day quite some time later, in its turn this leading to a “oh, shall I bother answering or not” reaction on the part of the columnist. Being a relatively combative type, at least in print, I generally did.

We started of the process of change by putting email addresses at the bottom of the printed column, which meant that responses would come in up close and personal, rather than, at best, in an envelope forwarded on from the Editor’s desk. At least, this type of response tended to remain personal, so the stimulus to answer was always slightly muted, though I have been known to expose some particularly Neanderthalic respondent to the light of publication.

The change in landscape has become even more pronounced now that the papers have caught up with the www revolution big time. Now, responses to the stuff we columnists put out come in almost in real time, the delay between pushing the ‘send’ button and the comment popping up on screen being governed only by the physical needs for sustenance and r&r of the people responsible for the electronic side of the paper, known as the moderators, for good reason. Theirs is the task the Editor used to have to undertake at a more leisurely pace, imposing some moderation on the more radioactive communications that used to trickle, but now tend to flood, in.

It’s not only the comments section and email that lead to reactions heading our way of course. I don’t know about my columnar colleagues, but I’ve even started getting responses through my Facebook Page. One bloke, Godwin Micallef, expressed his displeasure about something I wrote by inviting me to go on being a show-off, vile person that I am, because I would find a cap to fit me eventually. My invitation to him to explain himself went unanswered, though a glance at his own Page gave me an inkling of where he was coming from. Let me put it this way, he’s a member of, amongst others, groups on Facebook that delight in the titles of “We Demand Our Governments Stop Muslim Immigration”, “I Hate Wiggers”, “IMPERIUM EUROPA” (enough said, really) and “Save The White Race”.

In the same way that I – like all columnists – have an opinion to express (why else do we do it, pray?) I also like to carry on the debate and, truth be told, jog it along by adding fuel to the merry flames. My style, if it can be called a ‘style’ with the assumption that it is stylish that the word conjures up, is to try to provoke some self-deprecation by being mildly facetious. Sometimes I try to be more serious than less, but the temptation to indulge in leg-pulling is strong and rarely overcome. This character trait is one that has been remarked on in the past, even by the poor souls who used to try to shove some learnin’ into my head, and it is not one that endears me to a certain type, the type that prefers earnestness and worthy debate over lightness of touch and a bit of judicious poking.

To quote whatever ‘er name was, frankly, m’dear, I don’t give a damn – if you want turgid argument, backed up with solid research and geometric balance between all view points, tune in to some debate programme regulated by that august protector of impartiality, the Broadcasting Authority, where you will get two out of three at least. No prizes for getting which two out of those three, incidentally. I, on the other hand, will continue to remind my targets that they’re human, and that if they’ve chosen to go public, we, the people, will talk about them, sometimes less respectfully than they and (more likely) their admirers would wish. I’ll also continue to seek to drag out from under their clammy stones those who lurk in the shade of “freedom of association” and “freedom of expression”, using these human rights to deny the rights of others to decent treatment.

Responding to comments about my column (and this blog) by comments of my own is all very well, of course, but the telegraphic style that has to be used in order not to make the process boring tends to leave things a bit on the short side. The people who misunderstand, or choose to misunderstand, the original piece can fulminate all they like and your explanation or reaction, especially if it is not posted directly above the relevant comment, sometimes leaves something to be desired. The advantage of being a regular columnist, though, is that you have a few thousand, as opposed to a couple of hundred (at most) words at your disposal to draw together some points.

I kicked off quite an exchange, last week, when I commented on an interview with Ms Michelle Muscat, Dr Joseph’s wife, pointing out, mostly genuinely but with tongue where it should be, that now that Ms Muscat has chosen, as she has every right to, to enter the public arena, it is to be expected that there will be some rough along with the smooth. A perfectly reasonable comment, you might think, but one provoked all manner of lil’elves to charge to her defence, calling me pathetic, accusing me of salivating over the prospect of some more character assassination and, generally, giving the impression that I am out to crucify the young lady.

Nothing could be further from the truth. The interview itself was a perfectly harmless piece, enjoyable enough in its own way, and Ms Muscat came across in a very positive light. I have never, anyway, been one to go for the personal jugular, for all that my (many) detractors choose to give the impression that I do. I am on record years ago, for instance, as objecting to the use of personal information on Dr Alfred Sant, even though this information was (marginally) relevant to comments about his position on a social issue of continuing relevance. This is not to be taken as my bid for sainthood, and I’ve no doubt that I’ve slipped often enough, but there is a difference, to my mind, between a private and public life.

My only point in connection with the Muscat, Michelle of that ilk, interview was that she has now put herself in the same position as, for example, Cherie Blair and I sincerely hope she doesn’t come to regret it, because she doesn’t seem to deserve being treated shabbily.

In a different context, there has been a flurry of comment about the election, if a process involving some forty souls can be called an election, of Paul Borg Olivier to the Secretary-Generalship of the Nationalist Party. I have been cited as a prime example of Nationalistic (as in, being a running dog lackey of the Nationalist Party, not because I resort to wrapping myself in the flag) hypocrisy, because I had, in the very recent past, commented on the manner in which the Labour Party elected its own leadership.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the MLP, the Casino Maltese, Bubaqra FC and the Republican Party are free to elect their leaders in any way their little hearts desire. This does not mean, however, that people like me, if the moment moves them, will not comment, for instance, on the fact that the way the MLP party-machine reacted to a proposal that the internal ‘electorate’ is widened demonstrated an eagerness on the part of the cogs in that machine to preserve themselves and their interests. This does not mean that I think that the MLP is any more, or less, democratic (there are other indicators of that, one way or the other) and it does not mean that I have the right to expect that things change merely because I think they should.

Just to annoy the lil’elves, though, don’t they think, in their hearts of heart, that they should tinker with their machine just a touch? Come on, guys, three thumpings in a row: Mourinho and Grant got the chop and they actually had significant successes, for heaven’s sake.