The post-electoral lull has been anything but boring. Consider the daily trash served by local Tiktokers and national broadcaster alike, the gripping drama of this new season of House of Cards: Dar Ċentrali and news of CEOs and civil service brass shuffled to new pastures. There’s always enough entertainment for everyone.
Bread and circuses may come at a higher cost now that the price of wheat has risen. But this doesn’t deter one particularly fearlessly protagonist, the one who “has no idea” of how much dough he holds and whose circus has been in town for too long.
Joseph Portelli’s running it all by himself. He fires cannonballs into the audience as he loudly declares his skill at lobbying for his developments with politicians.
He’s the one who cracks the whip at the Planning Authority, taming the neutered kittens who sit on various boards, some of whom itch to have their tummies tickled. He’s the skilled gymnast who triple vaults from one tightrope to the other, from construction to roadbuilding to football, keeping everyone wondering as to what he’ll do next.
He can juggle scores of planning applications which magically vanish from sight, only to reappear as regular permits reeking of the stench from a hidden, dark tent behind the main stage.
His stunt in the Gozitan First Division was a not too veiled reminder of who’s winning. It was wonderfully choreographed. Donning the 99 shirt after registering himself as a footballer, the Nadur supremo stepped onto the pitch to convert a shot from the 11 yards, saving the day for his title-winning team.
Like much of what he does, Portelli’s penalty was a display of charisma and clumsiness, his ballooning paunch in lilywhite apparel creating a spectacle within the spectacle. He scored – as he always does – leaving the hapless keeper beaten by the familiar coming together of greed and lethargy. He was then paraded on his players’ shoulders, triumphantly, like Maradona in Mexico.
In addition to a long list of sins, Diego had boundless talent and grew up in utter poverty. Portelli, on the other hand, came out of nowhere with the pretension of being the next Hand of God. However, he’s more of a midfield destroyer than a skilful dribbler: his technique is overrated and he gets to play against too many easy defences in competitions refereed by corrupt officials.
He’s surely investing in his charm. After Nadur, he delivered another videoed appeal to the supporters of his other team, Ħamrun Spartans, a town on which he has set his sights with talk of building a new stadium. His pitch obviously comes with an unspecified number of apartment blocks which will gentrify the area and ruin the fibre of the town.
In the same vein, Portelli has also been announced as honorary president of the San Gejtanu band club and is “working on a project” with another band club in Żabbar.
The question many ask is whose money he has, seeing his meteoric rise was accompanied by a capital wealth rarely seen before- Wayne Flask
In Cospicua, his sponsorship of the Regatta Club sets the ground for his lunge at the Rialto theatre, a piece of Labour’s history sited opposite the corpse of the AUM, previous sponsors of the same club.
Smiles from megalomaniacs often come with hidden strings attached; sharing metaphorical beds with them is often a bad idea.
Residents of Sannat can tell the story of how “Joe” obtained his cliffside permit, with a Planning Authority Commission passing the buck to the Executive Council. This has no remit on individual applications, just like the Pentagon’s department responsible for back office stationery has no say on military operations in the Middle East.
True to form, the permit was granted on Martin Saliba’s watch notwithstanding the procedures, regulations and objections.
Buying the loyalty of sports and local associations is a ruse through which Portelli will have less objectors to his monstrosities, a form of moral corruption intended to weaken communities and their resistance.
He could well plan similar sympathy offensives in Marsascala, where he intends to redevelop the Jerma site in complete disharmony with its residential surroundings.
The community’s unified response against the marina has served as a lesson to the vultures, too.
Around Gozo, applications for monstrous buildings are filed in conjunction with more established giants such as Ta’ Dirjanu and other names such as James Fenech, who specialises in the trade of military equipment.
When he’s not showboating on the pitch or on social media, Portelli also tenders for roads. His consortium, Excel Sis Enerji Uretim, excels in its competition with people like V&C and Bonnici Brothers for lucrative road contracts. Excel Sis outdid itself by winning the tender for the construction of the Ras Ħanzir facilities, despite shooting €18m higher than Bonnici, who got the contract cancelled in court.
One can only wonder which deity, or maybe demon, intervened to sway that contract.
But there’s a swagger in Portelli which is unique for his ilk.
Remember Polidano locking out his employees in protest against Fenech Adami and the Planning Authority? Forget all that: Portelli’s Teflon and disco balls. He can score penalties as freely as he avoids them and his smugness has mushroomed into self-reverence.
This sudden eagerness for the limelight – from a developer whose whereabouts prior to 2014 are largely unknown – prompts a discomforting unease. Right after the election, the ground beneath us is fertile for its takeover.
Asked how much money he has, Portelli gave a cocky but unclear answer. But that was a bit like asking a bank how much money it holds; because the question many ask is whose money he has, seeing his meteoric rise was accompanied by a capital wealth rarely seen before.
One thing is certain: whoever backed Portelli has built a monster. He’s got no place among our communities.