It was Billy Bragg, left-inclined warbler, who had said in 1991 that "anyone who has had to support the Labour Party these past five years know what it's like to be a West Ham fan. There is great similarity [for both sets of supporters] in the 'oh, ruddy hell', head-in-hands response [the supporters] have to what they do, [to] the own goals and ridiculous defeats."

I don't think there's an equivalent to West Ham in our soccer scene (no idea if there is, actually, I don't follow it) but there sure is one to the English Labour Party of those far-off days.

A few examples of own-goals, of very recent vintage, will illustrate.

Doctor Alfred Sant of whom I can finally say the erstwhile Leader of the MLP (though he is still Leader of the Opposition, quirkily) just last Monday gave us an insight into what makes him tick. The aliens are taking over, colonising the party structures and driving Malta to the brink of incalculable mayhem.

This doom and gloom scenario was pre-echoed during the MLP's national conference on Friday, with speaker after speaker striking dramatic poses and declaiming how they had stood by the party during the troubled times, the times when there was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For all the world, you'd think they had been at the barricades, with the armed thugs of the regime lobbing Molotov cocktails at them and strafing them from fighter jets.

Come on, people, this is Malta in 2008 not 1980; enough with the "soldiers-of-steel" rhetoric, why don't you?

Even on the small things, slips and own-goals are legion. George Abela and Helena Dalli, two who may not necessarily be kindred spirits within the party but are definitely within the ranks of those who think before opening their mouths, found themselves, on separate occasions over the last couple of days, jerking their knees to the silly refrain that appointing a political activist to a post that needs a political activist is in some way - even remotely - a heinous crime.

Gordon Pisani, for it is to he that they refer, is part of the PM's political office. His position requires someone who understands the PM's message and can be trusted to deliver it. There is nothing morally, legally, politically or any other "-lly" wrong with the appointment, whatever the whiners within the MLP, to whom Dr Abela unfortunately has to pander, may want us to believe.

The list of defeats speaks for itself, of course. The MLP should change its colours to claret and blue.

Bad day at the office

The simple pleasure that lies in a decent meal was denied us last weekend, when we went to Palazzo Antonin in Victoria. We'd just been to a movie, whereat copious tears were shed (mainly by the women) and good, light(ish) spot of nourishment was just what the doctor would have ordered, had he been a medical gentleman of the caring for patients variety, rather than one of those who tells you that anything you fancy is unhealthy, illegal or fattening.

This hostelry is conveniently situated a mere couple of steps down from the cinema and, though the first thing you notice is the incongruity of the décor when juxtaposed with the rock music issuing forth from the speakers, the place isn't repulsive, especially on a windy and miserable night.

We should have gone with what our eyes and ears had told us, though. Being on this flippin' low-carb thing still, 'Er and her dutiful subject chose salads. Mine was the shrimp, chilli and avocado concoction, which sounded unusual enough to be attractive, while 'Er's was the chicken and avocado, generally quite a safe bet. Our companions had a platter of sorts, which was less than spectacular though bordering on acceptable.

My shrimps were obviously just thawed - tasteless and watery, with a mere hint of chilli in the very distant distance and the rest of the greenery unimaginative in the extreme. The missus's chicken was there, somewhere, but it certainly wasn't there in masses. Her greenery was, like mine, pedestrian.

The cherry on both our cakes, however, was the avocado: it was doing its best to imitate a ġidra, both in texture and in taste. Not to put too fine a point on it, it was hard where avocados are supposed to be creamy and it was tasteless where avocados are supposed to be suffused with taste. Confronted with the point that it was debatable whether the chef (a word used loosely, here) had ever handled an avocado before, the waiter was perfectly friendly and thanked me for pointing it out.

This was all the reaction I got, however. The bill, presented with the efficiency with which our meal was served, was there in full, not surprisingly, I suppose, since I had, after all, eaten all my shrimps, in my futile attempt to identify something positive in the dish.

imbocca@gmail.com, www.timesofmalta.com/blogs