Computer Game Politics

Some fools – whose ostrich-heads are still firmly buried in the sands of the past - appear to believe that political careers resemble a computer game. They think (unbelievable but true) that one enters the game with three little hearts at the bottom of the screen which represent the player’s three lives. To be fair, our party has been a keen Space Invaders player in the recent past - so I know where these guys are coming from. To be transparently fair, my hero and mentor was addicted to Pac-Man – the guy could play at eating little red apples all night. I was even around when he programmed the ‘cheat function’ into the game.  

But this attitude ain’t kosher following The Great Revolution. I hope that the message is clear.

Don’ts For Husbands

Rebbiegha Gdida opinion poll

Do you find the fact that a debate on divorce has been ‘officially launched’:

a) depressing

b) surreal

c) a victory for democracy

d) proof that evil has taken over the nation or

e) ghaddili r-remote control?

At Rebbiegha Gdida we sense that the debate is going to be pretty painful so we’d rather dabble in preventive mechanisms in the form of tips for husbands to keep their marriages healthy.

Sit back, sip that mojito and listen carefully…

1) Don’t fidget. Some husbands are never still for a moment. They walk in and out of rooms like the wandering Jew; they play with the salt at dinner; they draw lines on the table-cloth with a fork; they tap the table with their fingers and the floor with their feet; they creak their slippers and drop the coal tongs on to the tiled hearth. In fact, they keep their wives in a state of tension, and the poor creatures would need nerves of iron to enable them to stand the strain.

2) Don’t scowl or look severe. Cultivate a pleasant expression if Nature hasn’t blessed you with one.

3) Don’t try to be a Sultan. This is the West; and you can’t shut your wife away from other men. Don’t insult her by trying to.

4) Don’t let your wife become merely a domestic machine. If she doesn’t want to broaden her horizon, see that you do it for her. But probably she only wants a little encouragement to lift herself out of the everlasting groove.

5) Don’t take so little interest in your wife’s dress that she might as well wear a piece of old sacking as far as you are concerned. It is very discouraging to a woman to find that her husband neither knows nor cares how she dresses and

last but not least

6) Don’t insist on wearing your hair or your moustache in a style you know she hates. Just try it another way to please her.

(Source: Don’ts for Husbands by Blanche Ebbutt, London A. & C. Black, Ltd. 1913)

Eye of the Storm

We’re incredibly excited here at Rebbiegha Gdida. We’ve been caught up in the  revolution sweeping through the Maltese islands in the form of the intellectual hurricane known as labourinlabour. You know, the place where articles on local politics are somehow given the Jackson Pollock treatment. Not in the sense that they’re a load of bollocks but simply in the sense that an unconnected painting by Pollock (or a random Rothko print) accompanies a piece on administrative elections (or voting preferences).    

Although this revolutionary approach to local politics (heavy, zealous and a tad evangelical) hasn’t really struck a chord with the moderators of Rebbiegha Gdida, it’s heartening to see so many souls beavering away in the name of The Common Good. A Common Good, which will, no doubt, involve all men and women of good will when the Day of Reckoning comes upon us in 5 years time.

BELOW, A REGULAR LABOURINLABOUR CORRESPONDENT GOES OFF ON A TANGENTIAL RANT, COMPARING THE HONOURABLE SIGMUND BONELLO TO A ROACH BEFORE ELEVATING HIM TO CULT BLOGGER STATUS. WE THANK MS CALLUS FOR HER CAREFUL ANALYSIS OF AND USEFUL INSIGHT INTO THE SAD LIVES OF OUR FAITHFUL FOLLOWERS. WE PLEDGE TO SHOWER THEM WITH PLENTY OF LOVING, HUGS AND KISSES.

 [Dear all,

“Considering how intimate some of the cockroaches are with us , it is disconcerting to find how little we know of the private life of cockroaches”, wrote Robert E. Snodgrass (1875-19862) in his excellent entomological study published in 1930, Insects, their ways and means of living.

When I was where I was (which is none of your ducking business) I did my best, as many of us confess to doing, not to advertise my Maltese identity lest I be approached by the usual crowd of Maltese expats riding on GonziPN’s gratious and grateful munificence. Hucking fell! What a bunch of what Italians call “morti di fame”! When you meet these fellows in Malta you’d think they rub shoulders daily with Barroso and Solana and survive on a diet of gran crus (”Ajma! The Bâtard-Montrachet was a bit dull this time, I think we’ll stick to Griotte-Chambertin from now on”)and tartufo con tutto. When you meet them over there, they’re the epitome of small-headed, provincial, self-effacing, qammilin who’re out to make the most of their gov.mt allowances.

Well although I did my best not be spotted and identified, I failed. They’re bad when observed at a distance, worse at close quarters. The men tend to be terribly frustrated and I don’t think they get laid as often as they wish you to think they do. Probably because available women (not Maltese) tend to take the initiative and that makes our homespun lotharios wilt. Our women there do better, I must say. They are more laid back.

Their politics: well, they are quite relieved that we lost the elections ’cause they all imagined that Alfred Sant was going to recall them on day one. Joseph confuses them and they ask more questions than they pass sentences. Well, that’s progress.

And they are all blog crawlers. Few, if any, post comments but most of them take a keen voyeur’s interest in Maltese blogs. I actually met three (2 ladies, 1 gent) who visit Labour in labour regularly and swear that it must be written by a team of Dutch and British comrades at the PES office in Brussels.

Flavour-of-the-month blogger with this crowd is Sigmund Bonello who has taken over the honour from Jacques of J’accuse. One of the girls who seems to be intimately acquainted with him swears he’s a magician at… (she whispered it in my ear and I won’t tell you). I see that he’s written to us too, see under the editorial Ranier’s Thesis. I am not too impressed…give me Blatta Orientalis anytime.

Anna Maria Callus]

[REBBIEGHA GDIDA CARETAKER QUESTION:  Why do the foremost female thinkers of this land appear to have developed such an obsession with men in the form of poodles, peacocks, elephants, cockroaches and other assorted beasts? The person who comes up with the most original solution to this sociological-cum-anthropoligical conundrum gets a free link to an Oil-on-Canvas by an artist of his/her choice. Don't even think of choosing Constable though! We can't fekkin' stand Constable!]  

Cockroaches and other animals

More on this intellectually riveting topic later.

Gotta go. Entertainment of the Italian and Slovak variety awaits.

In the meantime visit labourinlabour.com.

A dopo

Sigmund

Carla

My spies tell me that Carla might have had something to do with the relegation of the word ‘divorce’ from ‘taboo status’ to ‘up for eventual discussion status’ by the ruling party. Over drinks in Paris the other day, she was heard asking, quite simply, “C’est curieux que vous ne permettez pas a vos citoyens de divorcer en 2008, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur le Premier Ministre?” before slinging her guitar over her perfect shoulders and giving a slightly amended rendition of one of her love songs.

Lawrence

Cinq consonnes et trois voyelles
C’est le prénom de Lawrence
Je le murmure à mon oreille
Et chaque lettre m’émerveille
C’est le double-ve qui m’ensorcelle
Dans le prénom de Lawrence
Comme il se mêle au a au e,
Comme il les entre-mêle au l 
Lawrence  à l’air d’un ange
Mais c’est un diable de l’amour
Du bout des hanches
Et de son regard de velours
Quand il se penche
Quand il se penche mes nuits sont blanches
Et pour toujours
Hmm

Bonjour Paresse

Ah! The sound of crickets in the olive groves! The smell of chlorine on tanned skin! The delicate taste of a 1664 at noon ! The sweet nothings one reads in local rag Var-matin (Headline – Draguignan: la chasse a’ la mouche de l’olivier)! The gurgling of fountains in village squares! The delicious taste of truffles married with melted brie! Alternating between Philippe Val in Charlie-Hebdo and Musumeci in The Times of Malta!  The knowledge that you’re within driving distance of the Chateau d’If! Paradise!

You’ve obvioulsy gathered that Sigmund’s enjoying a well-deserved vacance with his loved ones. There’s nothing like a short break to recharge one’s Duracels. I promise to be back in the cut and thrust of things very soon with catch-phrases, soundbites and publicity stunts galore.

Watch this space!

Reality TV

Surfing around local political blogs often turns out to be a depressing experience. But the potential entertainment value shouldn’t be ignored.

You get the distinct impression that the author of the blog is primarily interested in doing one of two things:

a) annoying as many ’sad’ opponents as possible by passing as many snide remarks as possible about his opponents’ sacred cows.

b) staking out his or her position as culturally and/or socially superior to the angry opponents who invariably fall for the bait. 

My advisors have suggested that as a politician I shouldn’t get too involved with these trivial matters. I disagree. For one, politicians should come to terms with the fact that they are at least partly to blame for the absolute contempt with which groups of people regard each other in this strange country. Second, no politician worth his salt would ignore the fact that real-time internet offers a wonderful insight into the bowels of the nation.

Where do we go from here? I have a few suggestions to make to the people down at Where The Fuck’s Everybody?

1) A discussion programme in the Big Brother vein in which well-known political columnists get to share ‘The House’ with their detractors for a week. Insults fly, people perform moonies, folks only sleep with their ’social equals’ and bitching occurs in front of a nation-wide audience. Every week, the nation votes out the columnist or detractor who made the biggest tit of himself.

2) A version of the ‘Gladiator’ form of entertainment in which, for example a respected author with well-known socialist tendencies voluntarily wades into the arena where a salivating pack of wolves (or a pride of lions) waits in anticipation. The process must invariably leave a veritable bloodbath of humiliation and hatred in its wake. Thumbs up or thumbs down – the audience gets to decide whether the volunteer has put up a respectable fight in the face of considerable adversity.

Sig’s Theories II – Sex and The City

(This post could also be called Why everyone hates Russian women but tal-pepe hate them even more)

They tend to come from the former Eastern European Communist countries, not least from the newer members of European Union…an unidentified number of East Europeans are increasingly catering for sexual appetites. (Lino Spiteri, Changing Face of Malta, The Times, 7 August 2008).

Why does Spiteri limit himself to prostitution? Surely the bigger changes in a society occur when people actually get married to ‘the foreigner’. Millions of Western men and Eastern women (interestingly it’s rarely Eastern man and Western woman) are doing just that. Why would Malta be an exception? After all, Malta qatt ma rruftat qamh, right?

Here’s a little anecdote to prove my point.

The highlight of this week’s constituency meeting Down Under was this conversation with panel beater Alfred Ciantar, 45, from Zabbar.

Alfred: Tirrangali Dott?

Me: Ghidli kif nista’ naqdik, Sur Ciantar?

Alfred: Nixtieq niltaqa’ ma’ wahda Russa. Marija madonna sbieh wisq Dott.

Me: Halli f’idejja, bit-teknologija moderna kollox possibbli. Tiskanta.

And now for Sigmund’s Theory:

Globalisation exists: Working-class Alfred Ciantar, panel beater, 45, from Zabbar, falls in love with Natalija Dementieva, 20, from Novomoskovsk, over the internet

Communism (taken to mean the abolition of social classes) exists: Middle-class John Balzan Demajo, lawyer, 45, from Madliena, follows in Ciantar’s footsteps and hooks up with Lena Sokolova, 20, from Mourmansk.

God exists: Just ask Doris Ciantar and Helen Balzan Demajo when they emerge from their prayer meeting.  

Why I Love Local Journalists

Below I’m reproducing an extract from a transcript of a recent interview which I granted to a top local ‘discussion programme’. The topic was Me but the best bit was the part on my ‘European credentials’ as Abbati Joe from the Malta Konservattiva Party likes to call them.

Journalist on Everything: Sigmund, your position on Europe has changed dramatically over the past four years.

Me: Yes, that’s the beauty of politics. We can adapt to new realities. The world isn’t static you know. Things change and we change with them.

Journalist on Everything: Are you admitting that you were mistaken then?

Me: Yes, I was mistaken. My four year stint in the European Nations Parliament (which gave me the opportunity to leave the confines of Claustrophobia and turned me into Mr Cosmopolitan) showed me that I was wrong to think that small nations would be crushed in Ewropa. I learnt that small countries can have a Big Loud Voice there. It all depends on how brilliant we are at netwoking. And I’m pretty fantastic at the game, you see.

Journalist on Everything (looking at me in real awe and amazement, almost in gratitude): This is historical, Sigmund! A Malta Centrist Party leader who is actually ADMITTING that a mistake was made. Bring on this New Age of Honesty and Transparency…

It was a wonderful interview. Political astuteness, charm and wordliness all rolled into one.

But let’s be honest, there was one further question which that journalist should have asked. Was it: 

a) What’s your favourite watering hole in Brussels? 

b) What programme do you enter into your treadmill. Cross-country? Marathon? Or Brisk Walk? 

c) Ireland, Luxembourg, Denmark: had Been there and done that pre-2004. Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Cyprus, Slovenia: were clamouring to Get there and do that in 2004. All small countries. Your argument doesn’t really hold water does it Dr. Bonello? Admit it – you had a choice of sorts at the time. It was either My Way or The Highway and the Highway looked like a very lonely place.