Doctor Alfred Sant never preten-ded to be a soldier of steel. Quite the contrary, he does his level best to make the electorate forget the horrors of the days of the suldati ta' l-azzar, whose spectre used to be invoked by the MLP whenever its leadership was contradicted by anyone.

Answer the question

These members of the nobility of the worker (pace Dr KMB, in the manner of Dom the Irrelevant) would take to the streets and blow their collective noses on democracy and Doctor Alfred Sant really does try to make us forget this.

His loyal supporter, Alfred Mifsud, also had a bit of a slip, recently, when he was reported as having said that if the Nationalists were elected, blood would run, though precisely whose blood he meant is not absolutely clear.

Whatever, said Doctor Alfred Sant hardly ever tries to come across as Macho Man, ready for anything and game for a fight. Well, hardly ever, only when he's backed into a corner, anyway. Even if his come-lately admirers sometimes remind us all that an iron hand might become necessary when it comes to governing the country.

But this lack of physical fibre seems to have extended itself into his intellectual psyche. Not to put too fine a point on it, he has chickened out of answering question upon question about his policies for the upcoming election and, more importantly, about his more than slightly peculiar behaviour after the referendum thrashing he received.

Whether it's Lou Bondì, Olga's grandson, who's putting the posers or a hack from this very paper, or someone from Net TV or RTK, if Doctor Alfred Sant doesn't feel comfortable with the question, the battle-hymn of the craven is sounded and "Run Away, Run Away" resounds from the general area where Doctor Alfred Sant had been and then was no longer.

If this were a schoolyard, less subtle people than I would be going around chanting "scaredy cat, scaredy cat" but I'll just limit myself to saying that if you act like a coward and refuse to answer the difficult questions, as opposed to the ones put to you by your tame spinners, then you only have yourself to blame if people call you a coward.

So, Doctor Alfred Sant, all you have to do to avoid being called a coward is to answer a few questions.

For a change.

The joker's wild

A simpering smile and a cheap crack has become Doctor Alfred Sant's trademark whenever he's been unable to avoid answering a question put to him by anyone other than his stooges. Asked how long it would take to negotiate his ridiculous PartnerSHIP, in the manner of infuriating teenagers everywhere, he said "three days, six months, 10 years... whatever", with a little smirk to go with it.

It seems that being a wise-guy and thinking on the fly comes naturally to this intellectual colossus. Notwithstanding that his party had been labouring with its electoral manifesto for - they said - months, come the hour came the man and up our hero popped, straight out of left field, to promise a tax holiday for all just as soon as he gets his bottom onto the PM's chair in Castille.

Quite how he intends to do this and precisely how his government will afford to squander a few million more, if and when, was left unsaid, naturally, lest people remember how his ruse to replace VAT with one of the weirdest systems known to man or beast wrought havoc on the economy the last time he was asked to play with our country.

Why the MLP bothered coming out with their electoral pamphlet in the first place is also an interesting question, if their Head Honcho is going to keep on making up (and I mean that in the best possible way) policies as he goes along, but that's their problem, really.

Of course, these boys are nothing if not consistent. Consistent in their lust for power and promising everything to everybody all the time, I mean.

A few days ago, Doctor Alfred Sant went on (and on and on) about how animal rights will be safeguarded and how our furry and feathered friends will be given all the protection they need, all the time. A very noble sentiment, worthy of St Francis of Assisi, but how does this promise, obviously aimed at the chattering classes, sit with the promise, made at virtually the same time, that the hunters and trappers will have their hobby protected?

Are we going to kill birds in order to save them? Is this the sort of double-speak that will characterise Doctor Alfred Sant's government, if he's given a chance to reprise his antics of 1996 - 1998?

What do you mean, yes?

Policies, foreign

Have you noticed how quiet Doctor Alfred Sant has gone over foreign policy? His minions obviously jerk their knees to the usual opportunistic tune of bashing the Nationalists with whatever comes to hand, so in some peculiar sort of way, the Iraq war becomes their fault, but he has put this one far, far back onto the back-burner.

You will recall that oft times he had mumbled something about PartnerSHIP with the United States as being one of the alternatives to membership in the EU.

His sense of timing was as impeccable as ever because no sooner had Doctor Alfred Sant proposed this gem of an idea than George W. Bush started his hegemonistic adventures in the Middle East, threatening to kick world stability into touch and getting most of the EU rather riled at him.

When you think about it, not joining a significantly safe outfit (the EU) just at this juncture of world history, when the opportunity is there for us to seize, would be a nonpareil act of idiocy. What would you prefer, being cast adrift, bobbing on a turbulent sea, your only friend in the world being two oceans away, or linking arms with the big guys on your block, benefiting from their willingness to consider you one of them?

I only ask.

Beggars in the street

I was on holiday last week, just a bit north of here (and that's all about the holiday, I having been threatened with GBH if I write about it) and I noticed that the scaremongers on the anti-EU side are right, there are beggars in the street.

But, do you know, these beggars were not citizens of Italy, a member of the EU and nor were they citizens of any other country of the EU. In fact, they were people who have come from without (without anything, to boot) extra communitaires trying to improve their lives.

My old friend Michael Frendo wrote a few personal words to me in his latest book, reminding me of the days when we, too, were aliens in London, there only at Her Majesty's pleasure, liable to be asked to hop it at any time. He's done his level best to make sure our kids don't have to go through the same sort of experience and, for this, he should be given a pat on the back.

Doctor Alfred Sant, on the other hand, wants us to become beggars, sitting on a doorstep just outside the EU, asking for alms and the favour of being allowed to make some sort of deal with them. I know what I prefer to be: do you?

Not on my patch

I've long suspected, her elegant writing and breadth of knowledge about food notwithstanding, that Mona of The Sunday Times' real raison d'être is just to show us all how really very good she is at the snide remark and the snappy put-down. A bit like this column, you might say.

Her jibes at my local, the Old Smuggler in Balzan, proved my thesis beyond reasonable doubt. To start with, this food-expert (she wants us to think) apparently can't tell real chips from packet chips or frying from micro-waving. She also can't tell the difference between good home-cooking, supplied to friends and neighbours at prices designed to make it worth their while to eat there or take their food away, and the stuff she seems to expect to ingest as a treat.

Why she whined about the steaks is something that she will have to take with her into posterity, because I know quite a few people who eat for fun who make it a point to come here for precisely this dish: Mona has her standards, clearly, but they don't seem to be the same as others'.

Let's be clear: this is not a restaurant to which you go to be able to say later "look at me, I eat out". This is a local pub, where you go to have a beer or four, some wholesome food, a good natter and a rest from the outside world. In this sort of place, weird couples have as much right as Mona to be.

But people like Mona don't, I would make so bold as to say, have the right to lord it over these places, which don't pretend to be anything but what they are, and superimpose the standards she clearly expects from establishments worthy of her custom.

To do so smacks, sadly, of bullying and being too clever by half.

bocca@waldonet.net.mt