I started writing this column three and a half years ago, in September of 2016, on the invitation of the then incoming Sunday Times editor Mark Wood. We had agreed that my voice would be a bit irreverent and impish, an outsider’s take on the quirks of life.

My first article was a tongue-in-cheek defence of Archbishop Charles Scicluna’s right to comment on the injustices that were peppering public life. I had been pleasantly surprised at the minor uproar it had generated. It had taught me an important lesson: some expect their Sunday reading to state the obvious, to agree with their own pre-held views, and not to rock the boat of clichéd prejudice.

So I of course joyously embarked on a mission to do just the opposite. My original intention had not been to be a political commentator, but to hold up the zany angle of life for general amusement, and perhaps introspection.

All that changed with the brutal political assassination of Daphne Caruana Galizia on October 16, 2017. Like many other writers, the blast of that bomb shook me to my soul, and the fires that consumed her burnt away my frivolous writing intentions. Mine was a small voice and a small pen, but like many others I was impelled to respond to the moral imperative of speaking truth to power. So I would wait every fortnight to see what new outrage Joseph Muscat’s government would come up with, what disgusting chicanery would be unearthed by Malta’s fearless free media and its supporters worldwide.

And, sure enough, each fortnight would belch up a disgusting buffet of arrogance, incompetence, sleaze and corruption, an embarrassment of riches that was not limited to the government’s doings, although it was the major contributor.

My writing was never specifically anti-government or anti any party. It was a howl of rage turned into black comedy at the decimation of the rule of law, the corruption of all aspects of public life, the brutalisation of our nation and its values and norms, the post-truth rape of right and wrong.

I had no power to force anyone to resign, or to be brought to justice. But I could walk out to the middle of the road, point my finger at the naked butts of the emperor and his enablers, and howl with laughter.  Nothing punctures hubris like well-deserved ridicule.

It is with sadness that I have decided to stop – this is my last article. I shall be taking up a senior post in the educational field, and I have always believed that one should only have one public voice, so that the families I will now serve will know that I am now fully dedicated to their welfare.

My heartfelt thanks go to all the self-serving, grasping and corrupt politicos and their acolytes who provided me with so much material for 95-odd articles

My heartfelt thanks go to all the self-serving, grasping and corrupt politicos and their acolytes who generously provided me with so much material for 95-odd articles over these years. Without you, this column would not have been possible. Of course, without you this country would not have been so comprehensively screwed either, but one must be grateful for microscopic mercies.

A small consolation is that of late, there has been less to be outraged about. Perhaps, perhaps, the filth is not only receding, but being replaced by some common decency. For the sake, not of the Venice Commission or Moneyval, but of our self-respect and our children’s future, let’s hope so.

My three women

It would be churlish of me to limit my thanks to the politicos. There are three women who have never appeared in my articles, but whose presence in my life made them possible. 

Now I know that this kind of personal commentary is not typical article fare, but it’s my article, and my last one, so there.

My wife Cristina navigates in a world of four males: one middle-aged circumferentially challenged baldie, three strapping young men, and our new dog Otto.

It is a world that includes festering socks, increasing amounts of dog hair, congealed plates from late-night fry-ups after long study days, and gentle listening to the heartaches of growing up. Not to mention the grumpy harrumphing of the middle-aged baldie. 

Of course we four males all pitch in and help out, and each other, as we can. A dog’s tongue is an excellent dirty plate pre-cleaner, and a dog’s damp nose is an excellent pick-me-up after an uphill day. But we all know that without her we would be bereft, with neither star nor compass. 

You will be glad to know that Cristina, in her capacity as my in-house proofreader, has protected you from some quite awful prose and barmy ideas now and then. When I despaired of this country, her resilience and selfless love bid me not to lose hope.

Cristina is, of course, a chip off the (how shall I put this without losing my portion of delicious lasagna for a whole year?) experienced block. Margaret Cordina could write the book on how to unite three generations of family through loving, unconditional service. Instead, she lives it.

Doris, the third woman, is as sturdy as an oak tree, and as evergreen. If the throws of the dice were kinder and 40 years later, she would now be a senior manager in a government department. She gave me my sense to duty, of justice, of standing up to be counted. She is my model, my lifeblood, my mother.

Thank you.