I.M. Beck - quote unquote

I rather enjoy driving. Let me be more precise: I enjoy driving in countries where it is civilised to do so, Malta not being among these. It used to be fun to drive here, when there weren't that many idiots hogging the road and using me as a target. In those days, you used to be able to take a car along the Coast Road at a decent rate of miles per hour, enjoying the sensation of driving on what was a good road, both from the aesthetic and from the technical points of view.

Now, the Coast Road is nothing more or less than a narrow, bland stretch of tarmac infested by coaches, garbage trucks and fools who think that 20 klicks per hour is a safe speed.

It used to be fun to drive here when the roads were not a series of pot-holes (and that's pot-hole spelt C-R-A-T-E-R) and you didn't endanger your tyre rims and general vehicular wellbeing if you took your eyes off the road surface for more than a couple of seconds.

Just to add to the total tedium of motoring around this fair land, we now have multifarious twerps doing weird and wonderful things with the roads. Consider, for example, the totally screwed up junction just up the road from Spinola Palace, where you turn into the Portomaso Complex. The traffic lights switch from green to amber to red just like any other set but there any semblance of normality ends, hopefully without a bang. It seems as if you're being told you can turn right, but more careful attention to the realities of the circumstances leads you to the conclusion that you should wait for the right pointing arrow to go green, even though you appear to have a green light. This confusion leads sometimes to people finding themselves stuck with their rear ends poking into traffic, if not worse.

While on the subject of junctions that lead to mayhem, you must consider the junction which we used to call the Gas Tank Roundabout on the Regional Road. It is the only place where I sometimes deliberately shoot a red light, knowing full well that if I obey the stupid signal that interrupts orderly progress on the Valletta towards St Julians carriageway, there's a fair to middling chance that some other road user will plough into my backside, which is an event much to be avoided.

But the prize for sheer idiocy comes just a few more metres up the same road, in the same direction. Bear in mind that this, the Regional Road, is just about one of the very few roads that bear any resemblance to a dual carriageway. In fact, if some tender loving care were to be lavished on the poor thing, it might almost grow up to be a motorway.

So what has some genius done on this road? Nothing more or less than post a 30 kph speed limit on the stretch leading into and through the tunnel, that's what. Now I know that right minded people will ignore this piece of lunacy and traffic will proceed as it always has, but there's a twist to this little tale, because a little graphic of a camera has been added to the mix, which will lead, sooner rather than later, to some hapless tourist jamming on the brakes to bring his speed down to 30 kph, which will lead to his rear end being rammed by a fuel tanker, leading to a fireball erupting from both ends of the tunnel, resulting in the death of more people than is strictly necessary.

Just where does the officious twit who thought up this little scheme get off, I ask with all due respect? 30 kph is a ludicrous speed. It is not a hell of a lot more than walking speed and it is nothing more or less than unsafe to drive so slowly on a dual carriageway and that's all there is to it.

And just to really tee me off, on Thursday after this thing had gone to press, a lad from the Transport Authority (quite a good chap, actually) informed the world that this was a temporary measure, while checks are done on the bridges. Great, I suggested this some time ago, but temporary safety measures are clearly indicated as such and usually have people or flashing lights or something stationed to emphasise the measure, rather than just having a sign stuck up without a why or wherefore or anything.

For heaven's sake...

Through the medium of this column, I would like to bring to the attention of the Commissioner that one of his men deserves commendation for dedication well above and beyond the call of duty.

As many people know, I live in the confluence of Lija, Balzan and Attard. Parking in this particularly picturesque part of the land has become pretty much impossible, especially after the Balzan local council, bless its collective little cotton socks, re-jigged the pavements to reduce the available parking by some two or three car spaces.

In fact, I thought it might be a good wheeze to draw the esteemed council's attention to the fact that one space that their architect had provided for was, to put it bluntly, one wheel short of a saloon car. This was after I got a ticket for parking with one wheel (the rear passenger side) on the pavement, which is the only way to make use of the space without obstructing a neighbour's driveway. I thought I was only mildly sarcastic in my epistle to the council covering my cheque for the parking fine but the council's response was in kind, if not kind enough to forgive me my sin.

But let's get back to the heroic constable, shall we?

This jobsworth saw fit, at 0340 (that's twenty to four in the morning, when men of good conscience are asleep) on the night between Good Friday and Holy Saturday, to affix a parking ticket to my windscreen. I was not obstructing any traffic (there is no traffic at that time of the morning) and I was parked in a designated parking space. Admittedly, the parking space is one that is reserved only for some functionary or other of the state and this only for a couple of hours a week, with "No Parking" at any other time, but is it really a function of an officer of the law to issue parking tickets at that ungodly hour?

Don't the police have anything better to do with their time, for heaven's sake?

Back at the nosh

You will be overjoyed (unless you are a certain doctor from Ta' Xbiex) to know that I am back in the rudest of rude health, albeit with something of a sore side, said side having been well and truly reamed by a gentleman of the medical persuasion.

Being back on form, and without dietary restrictions other than those mandated by a modicum of good sense in that I should try to keep off the kilos I lost as a result of my trials and tribulations, I am able to start eating out again, and reporting on the results of this exercise for your delectation.

Having heard a number of people rave about the place, I greeted the news that our face-stuffing companions had booked a table at Sapori di Calabria in Msida, with some eagerness. Some good Italian cooking, simple and wholesome, was just what the doctor ordered, I thought.

It turned out to be something of a pity, then, that we went to this place, as I was to be disappointed.

Getting a drink (even a non-alcoholic one - the only restriction I have on ingestion) was to prove to be quite a chore, as the young ladies who hover about the place serving you don't actually do that little thing with the greatest of efficiency. Thus far, no matter, really, because in a trattoria sort of place you don't expect snooty service, after all.

The lack of oomph continued when it came to taking the food order. To be fair, when the starters did turn up, they were on the not too bad at all side of the equation. Sadly, this was not to be the case with the mains, which were humdrum. Not positively bad but nothing to rave about is the fairest description I can apply, though by the time I got to the sweet, the rating dropped to "no, I think I'll leave this" levels.

When our bill was eventually delivered to our table (which also required a bit of asking for) one did what one usually does and we deposited our credit cards on top of the bill, only to be met with "No cards" being thrown in our general direction over the shoulder of the departing waitress.

This meant that I had to go out in search of an ATM, which meant a drive as far as Sa Maison and back, being as the only PIN number I can remember works only on BoV machines and the nearest branch was across the bay. It is true that the doors of this culinary establishment are unblemished by any stickers announcing that VISA, Mastercard and suchlike debt-creators are accepted but I believe it is fair to assume, in the Year of Our Lord 2004, that unless you are given fair warning, normal modes of payment are accepted.

Having had a not particularly inspiring dinner and having been made to traipse out to get folding money, I was not exactly in the mood to leave a large tip (in fact, for practically the first time in my life, I didn't actually leave one) and my outlook on matters financial was not improved by the fact that the waitress forgot to give us a fiscal receipt, which omission she rectified on being reminded, I hasten to add.

Oh well, maybe this weekend I'll have somewhere good to report on.

Bloop boop a doop

Even the mighty sometimes slip, especially when the bees in their Easter Bonnet buzz so loud that reason is obscured. So eager was my columnar colleague, Daphne Caruana Galizia, to pour a modicum of scorn over anyone who doesn't immediately subscribe to the theory of the inherent evil of tobacco and anything connected with it, that she leapt to an assumption of moderately breathtaking proportions.

According to Ms Caruana Galizia, the BJs Marathon over the last few days was boycotted by Mr Alex Manchè, a medical gentleman of musical bent, because he was all het up about the stand the owner of BJs, one Philip Fenech, had taken over those ludicrous smoking in public places regulations.

The only problem was, Mr Manchè, along with quite a number of other medical gents, did not, actually, boycott the event. In fact, said Mr Manchè was snapped and filmed bopping away with gusto, not to mention vim and vigour. Not quite a boycott, more an enthusiastic endorsement of the Marathon (which had nothing to do with smoking, of course).

bocca@waldonet.net.mt