I.M. Beck - quote unquote

Saviour Balzan can't leave well enough alone, it seems. Now he's got it into his over-crowded imagination that Ian Spiteri Bailey, whose campaign to be elected as an MEP I supported - openly - is a part of my legal firm. This, sadly for Mr Balzan's credibility, is an outright untruth. Dr Spiteri Bailey and I have collaborated, to the best of my recollection, in one single case, when I assisted him on a consultancy basis in the defence of the UHM against a claim in damages by the Freeport, back when Doctor Alfred Sant's Labour government was in charge.

Just to augment Mr Balzan's sadly deficient grasp of the way the legal profession operates, this does not mean that Dr Spiteri Bailey thus became part of my firm. In fact, Dr Spiteri Bailey and myself seem to be on the opposite side of things most of the time, though that doesn't harm our friendship.

Equally, the fact that Simon Busuttil's firm - or, more precisely, a component thereof - is the legal adviser of a business that is going through something of a battle with the government about soft drinks does not mean that Dr Busuttil has betrayed the European ideal or anything like that, as Mr Balzan's paper last Sunday tried to imply.

Why else would there have been a photo of Dr Busuttil along with an article about those blinking soft drinks?

Just to close the book on Mr Balzan, he challenged me to declare my financial interests.

OK, I will.

I am a lawyer and industrial relations consultant and among my clients are a number of government-owned companies: Am I disqualified from practising my profession and my specialisation because I write a column that has an opinion that irks Mr Balzan, among others? I don't think so.

I am also a representative of the tobacco industry, which presumably is hardly news to anyone. It is a role that does not owe allegiance to anyone except my employers, which I don't think is a particularly heinous crime.

I am a director - publicly listed on the MFSA website - of a number of companies, none of which is government controlled, and I hold shares in some of them. I am a chairman of a statutory appeals tribunal.

That's about it, as far as I remember, and if I missed anything out, I'm sure Mr Balzan will broadcast me to the four winds, as I am hereby authorising him to examine my tax return. Oh, I almost forgot, I teach a semester to the Bachelor of Commerce course, too, though I'm not contemplating resigning all my other occupations in favour of this, as I am unlikely to last a month on the remuneration.

And of course, I write this column. And my wife owns and operates a pharmacy, she being a pharmacist: Do I have to apologise to Mr Balzan for being half-owner of this, as a result of our matrimonial situation?

I don't want Mr Balzan to declare his financial interests, as I'm pretty sure they're as mundane as mine, so let's just shut up about this, shall we?

But, I hear you cry, what about your fetishes, as Mr Balzan suggested we also exchange information, I trust with his tongue in his cheek? Sorry, folks, I don't have any, other than an attraction to stuffing my face. I don't imagine Mr Balzan is much more interesting than me in this regard, either.

Pity.

More snapping little pups

My thanks are due to Mr Jonathon Farrugia, of Attard, who reminded me that the gentleman who (to quote Mr Farrugia) "had the guts to express his revulsion of I.M. Beck's articles" was Mr Franco Farrugia. I seem to irritate the Farrugias of this world more than somewhat.

I have a few bones to pick with the Farrugia cousins (I don't know if they're related, as Farrugia is as common a name as Borg or Cardona, but it's a good line).

In the first place, Mr Farrugia, Franco, didn't actually need any "guts" to express his revulsion with my articles.

The worst that could have happened to him is that I answer him, poking some fun or generally extracting the Michael. I certainly wouldn't commission a few thugs to jump up and down on his bones, or try to deprive him of his job, as used to happen when a party with which Mr Farrugia probably feels some slight sympathy was in government.

Now for Mr Farrugia, Jonathon of that ilk. Please note that you are revolted by and feel revulsion with something but, sadly for you, the diminutive word "of" figures not at all in the equation. If you are going to write English, please do it correctly.

And, just to be going on with Jonathon of the Farrugia clan, you personally might not be interested in where I dine out or in whether I eat pastizzi or ftajjar but please don't have the arrogance (and the linguistic inconsistency) to speak for anyone else, as you did when you adopted the plural after prefacing your remark that you were speaking personally.

Make your mind up, why don't you? Are you speaking personally or are you labouring under the illusion that there are others (apart from Mr Franco Farrugia) who share your views?

All I can say, in the final analysis, to people like Mr Farrugia and Mr Farrugia is, obviously, if you don't like my column, don't read it. I will survive, really, I promise.

While on the subject of answering folk who get at me, I must dedicate a few lines to the Antipodean gentleman who took the trouble to write in to say that I should not be permitted to write that it is possible to drive a car and have a conversation at the same time.

Listen, Ozzie-type person, here in Malta we are allowed to write what we like, the law of libel and sedition permitting. I don't know what it's like down there on the Earth's bottom, but here, no one tells me what or what not to write.

But just to reassure you, as you might have missed it in your spluttering haste to dump opprobrium on me, I was not advocating using mobile phones haphazardly: They should only be used with the appropriate hands-free kits.

If, on the other hand, you believe that this type of use should also be banned, then I'm afraid you'll have to push for banning more than one person (the driver only, that is to say) in a car and for banning car radios, windows that close and engines that make any noise at all.

In other words, get real.

Rice pudding

So, thanks to Mr Joe Busuttil, we learned that according to some section of the media or other, Ross Street in Paceville translates to Triq ir-Ross (Rice Street). In a few short months, we will be seeing Rice Street cited as the English version of the name, thereby bringing the silly story full circle.

This is not the only episode of linguistic stupidity that afflicts our media from time to time, of course. We all (those of us who are older enough) recall the Ten Cent Committee (Kumitat tat-10C) that replaced the International Olympic Committee some years ago.

We also have similar inanities being spouted by Street Naming Committees, who seem to delight in dredging up the most obscure of names of quasi-notables with which to embellish our highways and byways.

The most incomprehensible blooper that crossed my radar recently, however, was not the name of a famous lad or lass. Apparently, for the people who do these things in Attard, San Anton Close translates into Qrib San Anton, which translates back into Close to San Anton, which is probably not what they meant to call the street.

If it was, then we are approaching a new fashion in street naming, where a street is named by what it's close to, rather than giving it a name of its own. Can you imagine the confusion when Maltapost's hapless operatives start trying to figure out which road is the one that the local council has designated "the street close to the one near that one which goes by the church"?

Oh well, at least they'll have an excuse when the mail goes astray.

Swedish thrills

Mr Sven Goran Erikkson (if that is how it's spelt) has been thrilling the media in England with his dalliances among the FA's staff. Is this one of the perks of office at the top levels of soccer and was it why Mr Caruana Curran was so eager to oust Dr Mifsud from the Malta FA?

Before my old friend Joe CC reaches for his lawyer, let me assure him that I am just kidding and that I know that his motives were pure. I'm not au courant with the ins and outs of the local soccer scene but I can recognise a moribund patient when I see one and if is-Sur Joe could have administered some cure, it's a bit of a pity he didn't make it.

But let's get back to Sven and the ins and outs of his fun and games, shall we?

Instead of being fired for failing to win either the World Cup or Euro 2004, after the hype that preceded England's entry into both competitions, he came close to being shown the door because he had done the two backs game with an employee of his employers.

Actually, it was almost three backs, since the FA's chief executive was also having a bit of ladies and gentlemen with the person concerned, but whatever, how low are the tabloids going to go in England?

Their fascination with the mediocre was brought into sharp relief by the acres of coverage given to Big Brother or whatever it is that sad concoction that is reality TV is called.

Quite why a show with tawdry boring people doing tawdry boring things seems to catch the national imagination is beyond me and I fear it might be symptomatic of a general deterioration to the point of utter collapse of the collective IQ of western civilisation.

After all, this rubbish tops the ratings everywhere, which proves, if proof were needed, that the fact that a programme is popular does not mean that it is good.

Which says something for the concept of democracy, when you think about it.

Pizza, ma non basta

In the Three Villages area, probably the most upmarket place for a meal is the Corinthia.

They cater for all tastes, and for some years they've done pizza and pasta in the summer time in the garden, which is a rather nice setting. The staff are willing too, charging around with gusto, serving up pizza which is, when you eventually get it, pretty darn good.

So I offer these words in the spirit of encouragement, rather than condemnation.

When one orders bruschetta, one expects it to be served relatively quickly and before the main course the starter to which is it. Equally, when one orders a pint of something, one expects to be served a pint. And when one orders a second serving of the said something when one gets one's pizza, one expects to be given the second drink within, say, five or 10 minutes.

What one actually gets, in response to all these expectations, is bruschetta not at all, a pint in a normal glass and the second drink never approaching one's table, the pizza to which it was to be an accompaniment having long since disappeared down the Beck gullet.

Of course, ordering a coffee to end it all was not even an option, because no one fetched up on the horizon to take the order.

bocca@waldonet.net.mt