I.M. Beck - quote unquote

It is incumbent on all good men to come to the aid of the party. This is not just a typing exercise on the same lines as "the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog", it is a reality that applies to all good men, if the party in whose aid action is required has policies that are worth coming to the aid of, if you will forgive me for ending that sentence with a preposition, which I didn't, quite.

The good man to whom this appeal is being made is the minister of finance, the guy who is charged with trying to keep public spending within the bounds of feasibility and raising the cash to do things, generally by sticking his hands into our pockets. Which makes him less of a good man by most standards, I suppose, but hey, it's a dirty job and someone has to do it.

According to that horrid little rag, KullHadd I have nailed my colours to the mast of the deputy prime minister and raised my sights towards the minister of finance, so probably this little memo will be taken as evidence of my antipathy of Mr Dalli. Needless to say, there is as much truth in KullHadd's latest sally in my regard as there has been in any of the others and I will not give them any more even vestigial credibility except to remark, once again, that they're not even fit to act as a bin-liner.

But let's get back to the memo that this segments purports to be, shall we?

Memo to minister, as I was saying: kindly note that you have, on behalf of the requirements of state, dipped your hands into the pockets of the middle classes with some regularity now. Given that this is where the cash tends to reside, one can hardly blame you for that, but you can hardly blame the middle classes for being mildly resentful of this.

Said middle classes, you will agree, have quite a bit of clout when it comes to doing things with ballot papers and, being human, they tend towards feeling less than enthusiastic about voting for people who take away their cash. Understandable, if not laudable, especially when tacticians extraordinaire like Doctor Alfred Sant and his spin-machine keep making silly promises about doing away with this and that tax.

So we have a situation where the people who vote are the people who pay for the country's requirements. The people who vote are going to be asked two questions pretty soon, namely do you want this country to take its rightful place in the European Union and do you want Doctor Alfred Sant to be prime minister?

On past evidence, it will be a good thing if Doctor Alfred Sant is not allowed to have another bash at playing with our future with his mind-games and theories. On current evidence, it will be a good thing if we join Europe.

Both of the above require a voting population that will vote with its brain rather than its emotions. Feeling deprived of cash is an emotional issue that tends to cloud brainier judgment.

Is my point clear?

Smoke on the water

And fire in the sky, up North a bit, with Etna threatening to blow its top and do all manner of nasty things to our neighbours.

By the time you read this, calm may have returned. On the other hand, chaos may be reigning supreme: since I don't have the skills of Nostradamus, I am unable to predict what will be happening in Sicily but I know that apparently over the last few days we've had quite a bit of black dust raining down about us.

The thing is, my car is usually so filthy that I can't tell the difference.

The black dust inspired Mr Joe Mizzi, Labour spokesman on everything, to remark to some assembled bunch of folk or other that the government was inept and unprepared and should be blamed for the dust.

Seriously, it was reported to me that the dear fellow, without even a hint of tongue in his cheek (I am told he is bereft of a sense of humour or irony, as can be confirmed by anyone who has heard him speak) made it known to one and all that the government has been shown up again as being totally useless at anything, because it failed to take steps to prevent the black dust from raining down on us.

What, precisely, did the gentleman concerned expect the government to do? Cover the country with a flipping great sheet? Set up a battery of fans on the North coast to blow the dust away? Assemble hordes of citizens on the same coast, telling them to blow in unison or flap their hands madly? What?

Does Mr Mizzi have even the smallest grasp of what a volcano does and its effect on the environment? Or is this a case of a Labour spokesman, for the umpteenth time, demonstrating to all and sundry that he considers his audience to be an assembly of morons to whom any manner of rubbish can be fed, safe in the assumption that they will swallow it whole?

All change

According to the Broadcasting Authority, this week's Bondì Minus or Minivan or other current affairs programme is to be presented by a Nationalist supporter. Then next week's programme will be presented by a Labour supporter. And the week after that, back to the Nationalist and so on and so forth.

This is of course said tongue-in-cheek. But if the Broadcasting Authority were to ask the stations to do this, it would be tantamount to expecting that this column be written by me one week and by some scribbler from KullHadd the next!

What would be next? Being told what to write and how to write it? Just because the MLP whiners have decided that the world is against them and everyone keeps being nasty to them?

Just because the MLP keeps whinging and whining that they're not getting a fair deal in the media does not mean that this is the case. Their own media measure things by their own yardstick, but their view of things is hardly one that has ever been borne out by reality.

Diplosantisms

The EU Commissioner for Enlargement comes to Malta, and the main voice against joining, Doctor Alfred Sant, runs away to look at a hole in the ground. A tragic memorial of a hole in the ground to be sure, but a hole in the ground, nonetheless and it is a sad commentary on Doctor Alfred Sant's attitude towards his responsibilities that he thinks he is entitled to run away.

Doctor Alfred Sant also shied away from confronting the outgoing French ambassador, on the pretext that the latter was not diplomatic enough to be granted an audience with the Sublime Being, also known as Doctor Alfred Sant.

The ambassador's sin, of course, was grevious in the extreme. He said that he was "sure that if the government starts opposing EU membership, then Dr Sant will be in favour of joining the EU".

What a vile person he is, to have dared say that. Of course, the fact that he is right makes him no less vile and Doctor Alfred Sant was right to blow his nose all over him.

After all, diplomacy and correct behaviour have been the hallmarks of the MLP's interface with the rest of the world for so long now, haven't they?

Of amusement

On Saturday, we had Dinner with Friends. To be precise, we watched Dinner with Friends and then had dinner with friends, the former at the Manoel and the latter somewhere where we've been before and I've praised before, so you needn't know about it, even if we were lumbered with a table of loud oafs next to us who seemed to think they were amusing.

The play was not one that inspires me to paroxysms of praise, I have to confess. The plot was hackneyed and the general feeling was one of dèjà vu, been there, seen that, sort of thing. That having been said, Kevin Drake was very, very good and with a great sense of timing and generally a load of good acting, lifted the evening from the ho-hum to the enjoyable.

The evening would have been a sight more enjoyable had it not been for the audience. Why is it that certain twerps are unable to switch off their mobile phones, even after a bi-lingual airport announcement to this effect? One such twerp, within my vision, got a call, stood up and walked out to talk. I don't think it was the PM calling her.

Then there are the utter morons who seem to think they have to have a little chat with their neighbour whenever anyone does something on stage. It's not as if the chat is ever about anything insightful either, it's usually the most woolly of inanities that is uttered.

The biscuit is taken by the mass of unwashed making up the audience, however, not just the individual components thereof. Because a play is billed as a comedy, laughs are guaranteed, even when nothing funny happens. A case in point is a passage in last Saturday's play, when the couple concerned have a blazing row, throwing the most vicious lines at each other. In the passion of the moment, they end up doing the two-backed beast and even though there's nothing funny about this, the audience broke into giggles all round.

Well, it's a comedy, isn't it? Educated play-going crowds we do not have, sadly.

On Monday, it was back to the Manoel for Steve Hackett, the old Genesis axe-man who gave us a set of acoustic numbers that were finely executed, even if it reminded me a bit of driving through rolling countryside for hours. After some time, you want some sharp, industrial edges to keep you interested in life.

It would be remiss of me if I failed to jerk Mr Lou Bondì's chain just a little bit, by awarding him the prize for the crassest remark to have been made on stage for some time. He had something of a nerve, standing up in a theatre full of music lovers, many of whom were probably musicians in their own right, to define the music scene in Malta as sewage, but nerve is not enough, you have to be right and he was not.

Sewage is what is churned out by the radio stations who play pap for the masses and even that has its merits, to a greater or lesser degree. What is produced by the many fine musicians who ply their trade here, on the other hand, is not sewage, even if it is locally produced.

Wrist front and centre to be slapped, young Bondì.

And finally

The International Wives Club is having a "swap shop". What of? I have a set of golf clubs if anyone has anything interesting to swap, 18 blonde with curves preferred. Or are they only talking about their husbands?