I.M. Beck quote unquote

What is it about Doctor Alfred Sant, for Heaven's sake? No sooner did it become clearer than crystal washed in the coolest of cool mountain streams that the less-than-moderate wing of the General Workers' Union was going to sweep the board than he jumped in with both feet to position the Malta Labour Party four square with the union, giving the public at large to understand that when (when?) the MLP is in government, the GWU will enjoy most-favoured-union status.

Of course, as soon as the dear fellow let this magnificent piece of political bridge-building slip, everyone and his MLP brother started scrambling to pick up the pieces, while smirks swathed the faces of more than a few strategists at PNHQ.

One must wonder why Doctor Alfred Sant fauxed this pas so mightily. Does he think the MLP is so weak it needs the support of the GWU's membership, decreasing as it is? Or is it that he wants to carry on using the GWU, weakening as some see that it is (not that I think it's that weak, mark you) as a stick with which to beat the government about the head, albeit once removed?

The bottom line is that while the other unions go from strength to strength, mainly because most of them have cottoned on to the fact that the social scene has moved on from the confrontational to the consensual, the GWU has been shackled to the MLP yet again in the public's psyche, positioned only to say "No, that's enough" or words to that effect.

Was Doctor Alfred Sant doing anyone but the PN a favour by taking careful aim at his foot and pulling the trigger? No favours were done to the GWU, that's for sure, which had already done itself quite a mischief in showing the moderates the way out. The country's largest and most powerful union has problems, not least of which are its financial problems, if Mr Manwel Micallef is to be believed (and I have never had any reason not to believe him) and being kicked into linking itself to the political party that is headed by the person the least trusted by the electorate (it wasn't my poll, either) sure ain't going to solve them.

Oh well, as long as we can have rabble-rousing speeches by the union president (and I do mean rabble, this time) and as long as we can pose as eternal saviours of the working man, that's all right, I suppose.

Four why?

The hype that preceded the adult panto that was put on (is still being put on, to be precise) at the Manoel promised great mirth and jollity, with much rolling in the aisles to be had by all.

Well, I'll have to nix that notion, for a start - some jollity was provided, as was a modicum of mirth, but the aisles were spared the stress of having this porky columnist rolling in them, by quite a long shot.

Go on, call me a grouchy sour puss who doesn't know what good comedy is, why don't you?

I do know what good comedy is, let me assure you. I know, for instance, that when Alan Montanaro donned a couple of red horns and snatched up a clip-board, he was following in the footsteps of the master and I don't mean Beelzebub, either. It was Rowan Atkinson who was being flattered with the greatest form of imitation or however it is that the phrase goes (and it doesn't go that way, I know) though perhaps his writers, had they been au courant with the large-scale borrowing that was going on might have been slightly less flattered. I have since heard that at one stage or other in the run-up to the proceedings, notice had been given that some of Atkinson's material was going to be used but this wasn't known to me at the time (if it was in the programme, I've given up reading these generally uninformative tomes) and it doesn't seem to have been known to many people in the audience with whom I had polite discourse in the interval.

When Philip Stilon took to the cloth to be a minister (of Church not state) he also did so with more than a passing nod towards that self-same Mr Atkinson - I wouldn't care to bet the farm on the sketch that posited the existence of a less solemn version of the Bible being one of Rowan's but I have this sneakily sneaking suspicion that there's something of the man there too and in this case the comment above applies, to which must be added the thought that I like to have some respect shown towards my ear: a Maltese yob does not use the phrasing and timing Mr Stilon used in the early sketch, which sadly for me set the tone for the evening, an evening which went on just a bit too much.

There was quite a bit to enjoy, I will say, if only to be fair. Louiselle Vassallo shone in everything she did - maybe she was lucky to have the original stuff to perform, while the others had to make do with stuff that was too much like the curate's egg. The whole company were very good, if a bit prone to overstay their welcome (not their fault unless they wrote the piece) in the spoof on the Eurovision, too.

Luckily for my mood, Trattoria Palazz stayed open for us way past the call of duty and served up a pasta mix that was sublime. While on the subject of food, I'll bow to the wishes of my readers (both of them) and chuck in a recommendation or two: down South, there's the slightly pricey but Italian (that is, good) Trattoria i Taliana (and that's not a misprint) while for a good burger or other snack, trot off to the Valletta Waterfront and drop in to Heat - though I'm not 100 per cent sure that that's its name and the internet seems to give up when Malta is concerned.

It's a small, small world

Probably the most nauseating experience in the Disney panoply is the It's A Small, Small World ride. Anyone who has been on it knows full well what I mean.

Living in Malta sometimes makes me feel I'm one of the dolls in the ride (now there's an image to take to bed with you). For instance, everyone and one's neighbour seems to think one can take advantage of public amenities for one's own advantage or use publicly funded regulators as one's own private enforcement arm.

Mepa, also known as the Not In My Back Yardies' Paradise, is a favourite hatchet to bury between the shoulder blades of your neighbour, as anyone who has had to play around with third party objections knows. When the third party has access to the media because of some political connection or other, then Heaven help you.

The problem is that even the holier than thou are sometimes human. We had a bit of an example of this recently - with what should be a simple spat between neighbours becomes a right royal punch up with Mepa being involved - the Mepa we all know and love. OK, the Mepa we all pay for, anyway and why we should pay to participate in this sort of unseemly thing.

Meanwhile, here in the little valley of the Po, things carry on as normal.

On the horns

I find myself impaled on the horns of something of a dilemma: I am torn between what I see is my duty to expose the viciousness of the racist bigots that infest the country with their mealy-mouthed vomiting of inane platitudes about love of country and patriotism, while calling anyone who doesn't agree with them vulgar names, and my other duty to amuse and entertain you without boring you. In truth, the revolting racists are boring, because they have only one message: if you're not white, 'op it.

To season their nausea-inducing messages, they sometimes don a smart suit and become all lawyerly about provocative gatherings of more than 10 to justify the violence by some of their supporters, but basically, they're sad, boring losers.

I also have another motivation, I'll have to confess: I don't want to stop turning over the stone, because if I do, the people who write Malcolm Seychell's letters to The Times for him will think they've beaten me, that I'm running scared of the Mercieqas and the Attards of this world.

So let me make it clear: this is all I'm going to write about the bigots this week. If this is a climb-down, then so be it, it's a climb down, though only bears with a particularly small brain will believe that, anyway.

Kafka lives

Don't, whatever you do, sell a car before dying and then fail to fill out the necessary forms to transfer the darn thing to the person you sold it to, after dying.

If you do, the car will probably have to sit in the street for all time, because you (well, you know what I mean, your heirs) will not be able to complete the paper-work because you're dead and in the meantime, parking tickets will mount up and up and up and up, till the amount you (now you're the heir) owe exceeds the value of the car.

And then you'll go to the local council which rules with a rod of iron over the street where the car is lying, to be told that you have to contest the tickets at the Local Tribunal, whereupon you will find out that it's too late to do that little thing, because the tickets were deemed to have been delivered to the person you had inherited the problem from, sorry.

And don't think that if you report the car as stolen it's going to help you, either, because the crime-watch computers don't talk to the local council computers and while it would be nice to have the thing found (if it had been stolen in the first place) you won't be able to get away with saying you didn't park it there in the first place.

Confused? Tough, so was Mr Kafka.

Great place, pity about

Last weekend was the Birgufest Weekend, when that neglected jewel of a city hosts the hordes. The whole idea is a great one, matching the splendour of the city, but as so often happens, it doesn't get to be alright on the night. For instance, the streets have their clocks turned back and lighting is reduced to mediaeval levels, making the place magical. Until you turn a corner to walk slap into a blazing spotlight, powered by its very own generator, that is.

Birgu at night (any night, frankly) is a truly interesting place and the idea of being taken for a walk around with a knowledgeable guide, being told ghost stories, lured us there with great expectations. The thing is, it also lured a few hundred other like-minded souls and what with the difficulty of getting the Maltese to form an orderly queue (a bit like getting cats to walk in a parade) and the lack of organisational skills on the part of the people who should have managed the event (you try to be a guide competing with thumping generators, bands in the square and a crowd of about 50 souls straining to hear you) the evening, from our point of view, didn't fly.

Luckily, the people of Birgu opened their doors and their hearts, allowing a glimpse into a great town and a couple of bottles of wine and some excellent eats at Cantina Sant'Angelo didn't harm the evening, either.

bocca@waldonet.net.mt