This is the year of anniversaries, so our dear government announced when it took over from the PN. Great stuff has been promised us for the 35th commemoration of Freedom Day, the tenth of EU accession and the 50th since we attained Independence.

The perfidy of it all is in the detail one demented demon once said.

Think about it—we are going to have truly grand and regal celebrations for all sorts of dates, all cunningly arranged so that the importance of Independence is lost, or rather superbly diluted.

Our dearest Prime Minister has gone beyond just changing his spots and embracing the EU to give us our daily future bread from selling EU passports. He has also studied all Mintoff ever did and made it a point to turn his own actions into more palatable, slightly sugared actions.

The Labour PM of today has realised that the best way forward is to sound, seem and smell sweet. His first and foremost rule is never do things rashly or angrily.

The old Dom and his team did all they could to make us forget we had achieved Independence. They removed the day from our calendar of holidays, pronounced it a sham and did their utmost to stop the PN from organising commemorative mass meetings on the day. They even had thugs—and some policemen—pelt PN followers with rocks and tear gas.

Those days are gone, long gone.

Now we dilute the golden anniversary of a grand day by introducing other celebrations. I hear some diehard Labour men and women saying it is just as important to celebrate Freedom Day.  That is just a trumped-up celebration which has never meant much to anyone but hard-core Labourites.

Without Independence there would have been no Freedom Day so it’s ridiculous to celebrate both. And if celebrate you must the March 31st travesty should be a minor celebration.

Imagine your birthday—Independence is a country’s birthday. 14 and a half years later you go out alone for the first time without your dreaded parents, and you decide that is your Freedom Day. Childish thought but then that’s the way with children.

Then you grow up—and mature. And on your 50th birthday you won’t even remember you did anything grand when you were 14 and a half, let alone have a huge bash to celebrate that day.

It’s subtle, it’s hardly in your face but the effect is even more frightening.