MIDIocrity

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Yesterday was the last day you could have signed the petition demanding the Government to effectively take back Manoel Island from Midi. Those guys who built that rich-man’s ghetto for their friends on Dragut’s Point. The same guys who gave us that most important shopping complex Tigne Point. The same guys who have been patiently poised to do the same to Manoel Island.

A cursory visit to MidiMalta.com’s, a click on their About Us page and a quick scroll through their Our Team of Chairmen and Directors, you will see it pack with the usual cadre of craggy vanilla pods bearing those ever familiar family names. Their chinless headshots whispering all you need to know about their prospective future for Manoel Island. Isn’t it beyond incredible that a crusty old crotch stain like Joe Gasan still enjoys sitting on so many boards even after being embroiled in the Electrogas scandal?

You can only gawk at the avarice of these individuals. Their avarice and ignorance. You’d be forgiven to think that the money they made from developing Tigne Point would have been enough for them. That after all these years they might say, ‘Maybe we don’t need to do replicate this perfected parasitic model on Manoel Island. Maybe we should be content with what we’ve done and reaped. And maybe we should give Manoel Island back to the public.’ But no, banish the thought, ‘We’ve got the shareholders to think about -and anyway look at all the public gardens we are going to build for you!’

Some of you will be thinking, ‘Don’t be naive. That’s not how it works.’

What about the government then? Surely since Midi has failed to fulfil it’s contractual obligations, they can take back Manoel Island. Surely they recognise the urgent need for a green lung in the Sliema-Msida-Gzira area, already turned into an urban cesspit by developers. Surely with all the money being spent by Project Green, Miriam Dalli would consider Manoel Island worth a euro or two. Maybe it isn’t in her power to do so, or maybe it just isn’t in her constituency.

Some of you will be thinking, ‘Don’t be naive. That’s not how it works.’ 

Midi has said Moviment Graffitti have misled the people with regards to their petition. I would say it was Midi who have repeatedly mislead the public. For years they've promised us Manoel Island’s regeneration. Peddling their rendered fiction of luxury living that is accessible to all. Luxury sea-view apartments, commercial outlets, another casino, another astroturfed pitch, another hotel. Some trees left to wither in the open spaces of their creation, to be enjoyed while you sip your iced frappaccinoraszobbi. It will be great, we pwomise. 

If only there could be an example of the complete negligence and greed such a project delivered by these developers would look like. Just look across the bay and there it is, Tigne Point. These islands are inundated by examples of abhorrent developments. I wonder how many of these developers actually still live in Malta and not in Villas in Sicily, the new Madliena Heights. Commuting to Malta from a Ragusa pontoon on their AssinMoouths.

We haven’t even spoken about the island itself or the Fort Manoel or Lazzaretto Wharf. I could say, how as a kid, I used to enjoyed going to lunch at the Yacht Club (Maaaa), leaving the adults at table to explore the abandoned fort and its environs with friends. Languid summers spent on those splendid steps leading down to the sea. The architecture workshops and parties we held in the fort’s square looking out to Valletta’s Marsamxett side. I had the privilege of enjoying all of this and more on that tiny island. And this was when it was left to rot by the state and businessmen alike. It may have been dilapidated and dodgy at times, but it was our idyll, it had soul. And I can assure you that if Midi were to go ahead with their project, no matter how much open space they promise us, that soul will have been chocked under mountains of their cement and excrement.

And again some of you make be thinking ‘Don’t be naive. That’s not how it works.’ And even more are thinking, ‘Maaa, does he need to use such vulgar words?’ And I’m thinking ‘Yes I do and maybe you’re right, I’ve poured enough bile on them to make my point.’

What can be done? Could a compromise be found? - if Midi are hell bent on retaining Manoel Island, and the government is too bent to bother listening to the plethora of people and NGO’s imploring them to intervene. Then this could be a simple solution. A win-win-win if you will. The Government could mark Manoel Island as a site of natural and cultural importance. Nobody could argue that it isn’t. It’s in spitting distance of a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Not to mention boasting it’s own old fort and quarantine hospital. Midi can become custodians of Manoel Island, on condition that no flatsijiet, no hotels, no starbucks, can be built and the entire island and foreshore will remain public. Maybe allow them to build one lido. I think you’d agree that a restaurant by the sea there would be quite pleasant, but not with a jetty. Otherwise the polo-shirt brigade will spend their days zooming in for a plat vongole on their rubber rhibs (sorry it seems like I had a hack of phlegm left). Midi should be granted a lease to restore and develop the fort, wharf and shipyard into something that would actually benefit Malta. Just to pluck out an example from the ether -a world class concert hall and music conservatory. Fuck looking for a grotty garage complex to give to musicians, give them Lazaretto. And in return for this act of public service possibly allowing the developers leeway to commission some funky new addition to the fort, some opinion splitting Frank Gehryesque tumour on the top. Aim for that Bilbaoification  effect- that should appease them.

As with every compromise a little should be given by each party - even though we seem to have given them far more than they have given us, which mainly amounts to asthma and diabetes. So to recap - The Government gets to look good with a voter base that doesn’t particularly like them and adds another national gem to it’s portfolio. The developers get to retain custodianship of Manoel Island and transform it into a world recognised aforementioned national gem. And the Public gets to keep Manoel Island. Win-win-win.

I mean come on, how much more could they possibly want. They already have Tigne Point and individually god knows what else. Shouldn’t they be satisfied, even grateful with being given a fucking baroque fort to digest and develop? Don’t they even feel a tiny pang of guilt for what they have done and for what they are about to do?

Again - I know - ‘Don’t be naive.’ 

Maybe when those inevitable bull dozers and cranes come, some naive individual will simply blow the only bridge to Manoel Island and cut themselves off from this mainland of Midiocrity.

And before you clutch them pearls and think ‘Maaa, he’s inciting violence…’  Look at what is going on around you, and remember the real local bomb makers are currently on trial in court room no.22.

What a ne-Vile man

Oh well another Eurovision come and gone. Thankfully we were nowhere close to winning. But it is embarrassing to be beaten by Israel. You know that country in the final genocidal throes of the extermination of Gaza. The Four Horsemen are firmly hitched to their Gideon’s Chariot, as they lay waste to humanity.

I don’t know what would happen if Malta were ever to win the Eurovision. Somebody somewhere would probably pour petrol on a library. Hell freezes over. The end of days? Thankfully this personal existential dread of mine has been dispelled for another year.

But here’s what I do know: Neville Gafà, national bell-end and part-time mouth muff, has snuck out under the cover of darkness again and tore down Daphne Caruana Galizia’s memorial. Again. 

And I’ll tell you what also didn’t happen: not a single squeak of condemnation from the Government. Not even a fart from the Opposition. Quelle surprise! They must’ve all been busy touching themselves, praying for a Eurovision victory.

Meanwhile, Minister for Culture, Owen Topoboniccio—who, not long ago, heroically stood up for a censored Maltese word in a Eurovision song (a true patriot!)—has said absolutely nothing on this more pressing cultural issue. Not a word. Maybe because he was the same kant who, back when he was Minister for Justice and Culture (two hats, one dickhead), sanctioned the original blitzkrieg erasure of Daphne’s memorial.

History will note: the Constitutional Court said all this memorial-destroying nonsense was a breach of our fundamental human rights. Big breach. Freedom of expression, if you can believe it. But Owen is still in office. Even though now only wearing the single hat of culture. Antonio Sciortino would be ashamed.

Sciortino’s trinity of Faith, Fortitude, and Civilisation don’t just stand for the heroes of 1565. They stand for anyone who gave their life for this supposed island republic. And today they stand squarely for Daphne Caruana Galizia, whether the state and its sycophants like it or not.

It wasn’t enough to kill her. A journalist. A mother. A human being. They blew her up. They had to silence her forever. And even that wasn’t enough. So now they keep killing her symbol, over and over again. Flowers. Candles. Photos. Gone by morning. Again the next day. And again the next.

We know why they do it. It’s guilt. Or fear. Probably both.

These are men—our leaders, our losers—who are terrified of flowers. Candles. Words. Truth. They’re terrified of women who won’t shut up. Who won’t stay down. Who won’t get bored and go home.

And under a steady spittle of state-sanctioned bile, these women—these miracle women—rebuild the memorial. Every day. With tenderness. With love. With stubbornness. With middle fingers held politely aloft. And every time they do, they uncover something delicate and terrifying: a nerve of hope.

And every time little Neville Gafà and Labour trolls stomp those flowers, and snuff out those candles, they simply make that hope shine a little brighter. They think they’re erasing. They’re revealing. They’re not a censor. They’re a spotlight.

St. Augustine said:

“Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.”

Today on those steps across the nation’s courts, I see is that hope has many more daughters, and they are not afraid of a Neville.

Amen.

Move your body dance with me, come on baby dance with me, move your body…(repeat)

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 Polystyrene Culture

By now much has been written and said about the opening of Valletta 2018. And I am bored of adding to that discourse. It was what it was, a festa on steroids, organised by this government to please its voters. Who cares if the Catalan giant and crane were used before.

“At the end of the day, does anybody recall the opening of any other European Capital of Culture?” The Lawyer said exasperated.

“No.” I replied.

“Exactly!” He downed his drink.

The Gorilla stroked his pug and grinned, the Argentinian sat perplexed on a bar stool, and the Journalist drank more Jager.

The intention to go to Valletta was there, but lunch in St. Julian’s went sideways, and we only managed to get to Lady Di Pub. There were many pitfalls along the route. From the bar’s big screen television we could see that the 110,000 strong crowd across the water were on a different trip to us – attendance may have resulted in severe neurological failure.

There we sat, ordering one black label after another, watching in disbelief, the Malta Philharmonic Orchestra supporting DJ Tenishia.

Move your body dance with me, come on baby dance with me, move your body…(repeat)

Side note: the MPO sounded phenomenal.

Culture or Kulture? We’ve sure been hearing a lot about culture. This culture, that kulture, their culture, high kulture, low culture, local kulture, European culture. A puddle of culture and barely a drop of art.

What did people expect when architect David Felice was replaced (after his team won the bid) with government lackey Jason Micallef. Now affectionately known as Cermen J.

Former Secretary-General of the Labour Party, unwanted Labour Party general election candidate, head of the Labour Party media wing, Eurovision director hopeful. Yet he was given the chairmanship of the Valletta 2018 foundation.

It was doomed to be a government-sponsored affair.

And you wouldn’t expect anything else from a government that has a Ministry for Justice and Culture run by Minister Owen it-Topo Bonnici.

Mario Philip Azzopardi:  Why does the government insist on saving relics like him, and not gems like the Roxy Theatre Hall? I’m sure it would cost less.

It’s all become one tight sweaty fat political circle-jerk, and Valletta, the cum-addled biscuit in the middle, out of which everybody wants a bite. That could explain the unearthly amount of white plastic tents around the city.

But from one cultural crisis to the next. The latest is the vandalism of public polystyrene art after only a day or two in the public forum.

Not to go into the artistic merit of the project, or that of the artist, but why the hell would you put breakable polystyrene statues covered in thin coat of plaster outside? Then cry foul when they inevitably break.

An ice-sculpture melts in the sun, sand-sculptures blow away in the wind, origami dissolve in the rain, and polystyrene-sculptures just break. It is the nature of the material, it breaks.

No matter the amount of signs pleading the public not to touch this, or mount that, they will touch it, and they will mount it. It is the nature of the public, it’s curious.

Don’t step on the grass. Motherfucker, I am gonna step on the grass! The grass feels good between my toes. So when considering placing some form of art in the public realm then make sure it allows for public interaction.

You can’t give the public something and command it – look but don’t touch! ‘Cause Adam touched.

It wasn’t vandalism, or a failure of society; it was a failed attempt at public art.

Prior to the polystyrene predicament, Cermen J had some harsh words for Il-Kenniesa’s projection of a couple of slides against the façade of the Auberge de Castille, the Office of the Prime Minster. Asking “Who killed Daphne?” and naming OPM as the “House of Impunity.”

Chairmen J decried it an abuse of democracy! An attack on public monuments! Calling on the government to be tougher against the rogue public!

Again, Jason, a public space/building/monument is owned by the public. All the public. Hence the word public. Castille is as much mine as it is yours.

For a supposed socialist, Cermen J displays all the flare of a flaming fascist.

He now turned his cultural beak towards Daphne Caruana Galizia’s memorial at the foot of Antonio Sciortino’s monument to the fallen of the Great Siege.

Faith, Fortitude, and Civilisation have never had as much public relevance and attention as they do now.

It is a public monument that lends itself to severity of the current situation. And if you can’t see that, your Charlie Hebdo grandstanding is as cracked as your monuments of jablo.

Daphne’s memorial belongs to us. It belongs to Malta, whether the whole population understands it or not. It is part of a public sentiment; it is asking the judiciary for the truth.

You don’t like it because it reminds you that Daphne, like Sciortino’s Great Siege monument, is a public statement against the corruption you and your pals have unleashed upon a European State.

Go ahead and swindle European cultural funds, put on your lavish government endorsed festas, neglect the country’s actual ailing cultural infrastructure. That’s fine because the artists on the island are doing their thing.

And if you do touch Daphne’s memorial, you should know that unlike your polystyrene statues, it would not break; it will grow. That is the nature of art that you fail to understand.

Faith, Fortitude and Civilisation.

Hey do we know how much this opening spectacle cost? All them tents, lights, projectors, dancers, giants, speakers, go-carts, and all the rest of it…

Published on TheShiftNews.com

Masked, anonymous and

Che Guevara in Acapulco

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Unsavoury characters grab headlines the world over. Duterte, Putin, Trump, Erdogan, Le Pen, Farage, etc. 

But one this week took the cake. A spineless MP, who appears to take advantage of his position in life, was alleged to have illicitly used disabled badges for his high-heeled spouse’s vehicle. 

Anyone caught taking advantage of a vulnerable section of society, especially if they are meant to be servants of that said society, should be dismissed and placed under stockade for all the public to see. If found guilty of abuse of power, P.M. J.M. must expel the swine, but I doubt either will happen.

It is 2025, Luciano Busuttil is appointed Minister for Alternate Facts by Our Dear J.M. Can you begin to imagine the state of the world in 2025? One thing is certain, the transport situation on this island will not have been resolved.

It has barely been two weeks since The Donald got behind the wheel of the “free world”. It feels like he is driving a Dodge Charger at top speed, down the Kappara junction, with no seat belts and a crate of nitro glycerin in the boot, just for kicks. 

Every day, every hour, a Trumped news alert. Dishing out executive orders/actions like hotdogs at American Dream Kiosk at the San Gejtanu festa. 

Cutting business regulations, “One-in, Two-out”, using the growth of small businesses as an excuse, although they are not mentioned in the Order, making it an Order for businesses of all sizes.

Gag orders on the Environmental Protection Agency, declaring that any information and studies be reviewed by political appointees before being communicated to the public.

Pushing forward the Keystone XL and Dakota Access pipelines, the latter of which will cut through Native American sacred land, Standing Rock, into where, once upon a time, we checked in.

The Mexican wall, that according to The Donald will be “big, beautiful and powerful”. Paid for by Mexico through a 20 per cent tax hike on all Mexican imports.

A Muslim and immigrant travel ban, in the name of keeping the country safe from terrorists. A suspension of refugee programmes for 120 days, an indefinite ban on Syrian refugees, and a ban on Muslims coming from seven Muslim majority countries, except for the ones in which The Donald has business interests.

Acting Attorney General Sally Yates challenged this order. The Donald quickly proclaimed “You’re fired!” and replaced her. According to the Office of the White House’s Press Secretary, Yates “betrayed the Justice Department by refusing to enforce a legal order designed to protect the citizens of the United States… Ms Yates is an Obama Administration appointee who is weak on borders and very weak on illegal immigration… It is time to get serious about protecting our country.”

The language used by The Donald administration is straight out of a Nazi-fetish graphic novel. As are the characters in the inner circle, and around. His far-right hand man Stephen Bannon, a man who has previously called for holy war, and ran the cesspit Breitbart, now has a permanent seat on the National Security Council. 

Kellyanne Conway enlightened us to the truth behind post-truth, the alternative-fact. All the while Press Secretary Sean Spicer vomits them daily over the media. And this is only the 10th day in The Donald’s presidency 

“That’s why we slow it down and make sure that if they are a five-year-old that maybe they’re with their parents and they don’t pose a threat… To assume that just because of someone’s age or gender or whatever that they don’t pose a threat would be wrong” - Press Secretary Spicer

Let me not even begin with his cabinet nominations. By the time you read this article on Sunday… I fear the worse.

While all of this is going on in the land of the free, European suits continue scrambling to keep the Union from disbanding. The other Donald (Tusk) released a letter to European leaders before Friday’s informal(?) summit held in Malta saying that Trump’s “worrying declarations” are equal to the geopolitical threats from, in his words, an assertive China, an aggressive Russia and radical Islam. - threats, threats everywhere, and no parking in Valletta.

On the top of the agenda of this informal summit is migration, its mitigation.

 “We are determined to take additional action to stem migratory flows along the central Mediterranean route and break the business model of smugglers… we will step up our work with Libya as the main country of departure as well as with its North African and Sub-Saharan neighbours. Our actions will be carried out in full respect of human rights and international law.”

To translate: the setting up of detention camps or, as they are called, “capacity buildings”, within the near failed state of Libya and other countries Europe can ride roughshod over. It is one (dodgy) thing to get Erdogan’s Turkey to do this, but to coerce a country constantly on the brink of civil war is as stupid as making a blancmange in the desert.

Stemming the migrant flow seems to be the only thing that the 28/27 European leaders seem to agree on, speaking volumes about their attempts to pander to the rise of nationalism within their own countries.

While The Donald loudly proclaims the erection of his “big, beautiful and powerful” Mexican wall, Europe has been quietly constructing dams, outside its borders, in a country were journalists and academics are being silenced and jailed, and is now attempting to do the same in a country rife with warring factions. It does not sound like the best of plans. What could possibly go wrong?

In the background of all this hubbub, one lonely lady was jetting around the world, trying desperately to get to the few Tinder matches. Dressed as a corrupted Dorothy in Oz, she held hands with the jumbo-tanned bigot in the White House - her hands looked freakishly big in the press photos. She sat under white stars with Strongman-Erdogan, displaying her entire arsenal. This weekend she flies to a Mediterranean island ruled by the young and fiery J.M. Talking Commonwealth, Brexit and migration, attempting to unearth their long colonial history. 

Toto, she ain’t in Europe no more.

Chillingly, come March, May will pull that trigger on article 50, 60 years to the month of the signing of the Treaty of Rome, the founding charter upon which the European Union is based.

The French presidential election is still to come. The young rebel socialist Benoît Hamon is facing mutiny within his ranks, the comparisons with Corbyn plentiful. The Republican François Filetmignon's campaign has been marred by scandal, and not of the sexual kind which is acceptable in France. Le Pen is looking to emulate her foreign buddies.

And Italy, well Italy, may be on the brink of resigning and reverting to its City-State form. They are a people waiting for the return of Renzi.

Oh I’ve forgotten to mention that Antonio Tajani, former Berlusconi consigliere, is now the President of the European Parliament. I mean, WTF.  

With all of this going on, not to mention ongoing struggles of global-poverty-famine-inequality-warming-cooling, China, Russia, everywhere else, Nationalist MP Tonio ‘Rajt il-Madonna’ Fenech decided to chime in and compare abortion to the Holocaust. To compare the mass extermination of minorities in the name of a twisted ideology to the extremely personal choice of having an abortion is sickening. 

I couldn’t care less if a minister was spotted having a threesome with Che Guevara, and a stripper, in a sauna, in Acapulco, Germany. But scum mongers like Tonio Fenech and Luciano Busuttil should be inhumanely dismissed, politically dismembered and socially disemboweled.

Incidentally, it is 50 years since the death of Che, and the rumblings are growing.

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta

Round and round the roundabout

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Red to amber to green, I put the car in gear and drive past the Fossos and the MITP car park. Green, amber, red, I stop the car, barely driving 20 metres… another set of traffic lights placed in front of the Il-Mall.

I open the window and tap my fingers on the steering wheel to Paolo Conte singing “Gelato al limon, gelato al limon…”

“Sir, Sir…” a voice shouts. I look through the passenger window: a petite warden, her pretty face jarring with that loathsome green uniform, her hair tucked under an over-sized hat and her hands resting on her side above her utility belt. Confused by the unusual sight of a slender warden, I try to understand why she is gesturing me to move my car forward, light still red.

“Move forward a bit, sir,” she says in a thick Maltese accent. Still confused I comply, inching my car forward towards the crossing pedestrians. Seeing this, the pedestrians quicken their step, thinking I have been instructed to drive through a red light, when the green man is still showing their right of way.

I look back and realise the new set of lights has created a line of cars behind me, ending at the previous lights, blocking off the junction.

That’s Transport Malta for you. Logic is not their strong suit. Countless reports, articles and first-hand experiences can support that statement.

Mobility in Malta is shit. Starting from our road habits to our bus stops. Better words could be used to describe it, stronger ones, but I fear my editor would refuse to send the article to print.

Take the recent resurfacing of Valletta’s ring road. Not executed for the benefit of the local population or the embellishment of Valletta. It has been resurfaced to provide an illusion to visiting dignitaries. The tarmac is already coming off, clumping in random areas and bumping where it meets an older strip.

Driving down any road seems like a bad version of Crash Bandicoot Karting; stripped sections of tarmac suddenly appear, plastic red bollards popping up from nowhere, red and white plastic barriers placed willy-nilly, slipping and sliding with any gust of wind or drop of rain. Missing markings or an exaggerated use of signings. Pot holes, super massive black holes, slippery tarmac, Maltese drivers. It is harder than ever to manoeuvre your vehicle, especially when drunk.

Drink driving – just one of the many colourful prerequisites of living on this island. Like most, by the age of 18 I had to learn to operate a car under the influence. I have been lucky, a lot haven’t, and the older I get I fear my luck will run out.

The government says it wants this to stop, and I agree with them. But merely announcing an in­crease in roadblocks, threat of breathalyser tests and exorbitant fines will not cut it or come close to solving the problem.

Elsewhere in Europe you wouldn’t dream of driving after a night of revelry. You order a taxi, hop onto one of the various public transport systems, or you walk, mount your bicycle or skate. Here, options are limited. Taxis are expensive and the public transport service is incomprehensible during the day and non-existent at night.

Too long have we been complaining about this situation, yet why is nothing done? All we get are resurfaced roads, bypasses bypassing bypasses, and threats of island-connecting bridges.

I am fed up of using a money-guzzling, polluting machine for mobility. Fed up of administrations that shirk their responsibility to provide a healthier and up-to-date, living, national infrastructure. Fed up of having to pen this article after reading so many on the same topic. All of us want a change. Some in their own way are trying to effect it.

More people are using bicycles to commute, even though adequate bicycle lanes are non-existent, risking their lives and lungs to get from A to B.

All we get are resurfaced roads, bypasses bypassing bypasses, and threats of island-connecting bridges

A new bicycle-sharing initiative, Nextbike, has been launched, something akin to Boris-Bikes in London. Yet I fear that although this is a nod in the right direction, the bicycles may be inadequate for the Maltese situation.

Most cities have had bicycle sharing for a while, some more advanced than others, and tailored to the city’s needs. Madrid has pedal-assist bicycles that help with the city’s hills, and in Copenhagen you can rent a Bycyklen, one of the first smart bicycle sharing systems. In Malta, bicycles may need to be equipped with airbags and warning systems, as countless feckless drivers surround riders.

A bicycle courier service has only recently been launched: Fetchit, delivering items and food, servicing (for now) a select number of localities. Divorce, gay marriage and now bicycle couriers… what next? Medical marijuana?

This is good news for young people looking for a flexible job, and for those stuck behind their desks wanting their midday fix without having to get behind the wheel.

So addicted to our cars are we as a nation that anything related to bicycles seems to be a wholly new concept in 21st-century Malta.

These are sparkling, young and private initiatives. While at a government level things seem to be dim. Minister for Transport Joey Mizzi has the lowest public ap­proval rating, nothing surprising there, but within the current corrupt Cabinet that is saying something.

Shadow minister Marthese Portelli would not do any better. She embodies the uselessness of the Nationalist Party.

Having said that, Transport Malta has been busy compiling the National Transport Master Plan 2025 and the National Transport Strategy 2050. We are told that this is the first time a master plan of this nature has been put together. So everything that I am about to write has probably been considered or rejected by people who are far more competent (?) than I. I am only an observer, and what I see is utter chaos.

You could say it’s about time, but the work is there, so thank you Tran­sport Malta for that. We will wait and see when and how our politicians will engage with your work.

If these documents are too much for one to read (which they are), then I suggest looking up the 2016 published study, Sustainable mobi­lity, liveability and public space in historic village cores – a case study of Lija, Malta, by Prof. Maria Attard, Perit Jacques Borg Barthet and Perit Alberto Miceli Farrugia. There are some good pwieret out there.

We need to be innovative and bold. Turn village core streets into bicycle priority lanes. Create pedestrian-friendly routes that connect neighbouring localities. Invest in an innovative transport infrastructure alongside the one we already have. Increase ferry services from harbour towns. Create a new express ferry service from Gozo to Pietà. Connect Pietà to Valletta, St Luke’s Hospital, Mater Dei Hospital, University of Malta, etc., with an independent bicycle-lane infrastructure. Provide the public with bicycle silos. Have a park-and-ride-monorail system, whisking you to Smart Shity and back. Incorporate taxis into a public transport system by partly subsidising them and regulating them.

We need a green, healthy, safe and logical mobility infrastructure. We need to use our size to our advantage and not let it choke us.

More trees less tarmac.

Any cardiologist will tell you that a heart can only undergo so many bypasses, stents and pacemakers before it stops beating. The only way to ensure the continual beating is to change your lifestyle. We are all on the same roads together, even though individually separate in our own car.

P.S. The drawing is obviously not to scale.

Article published in The Sunday Times of Malta (22.01.17)

The parable of the beige shirts

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Published in The Sunday Times of Malta (25.12.16)

It was the week before xmas and nowhere was quiet. The sunny December skies we have become used to, have disappeared behind blankets of dark clouds. Wind lashed xmas carols are repetitively blasted through streets, shops, airports, hospitals. Christmas Fathers hang from balconies, strobing lights of all colours and sizes forcibly illuminate our way. 

Nobody considers the children with epilepsy.

People scrambling, frantically wrapping up their years work. Rushing to to their third xmas party of the day. Shuttling from shop to shop, desperately acquiring gifts. Throughout all of which, we contemplate the unworldly implications of the virgin birth of the Baby Jesus. 

Christopher Hitchens in his 2011 article, The True Spirt of Christmas, describes “the experience as too much like living for four weeks in the atmosphere of a one-party state.” 

“Oh god, what a grinch, let me enjoy my Christmas” you moan.

You are not the first, I’m sure won’t be the last to call me that.

Everyone knows the christmas routine, love it or loath it, there is nothing new (at least to adults). We’ve heard all the stories, we know all the lyrics to George Michaels’ Last Christmas…Hitchens was right, it is Pyongyang.

If you crave that type of article then google Hitchens’, he makes for better reading. 

As it is xmas, I’m going to retell a story I heard a few years ago, about a boy aged 11. Affectionately called Salvino by his Nannu Pino, Salv or Salvu by the rest of the village, and Francis by his mother, Suzanna.

He lived on Nannu Pino’s farm, found outside the village. Big enough to house the young family, Nannu Pino and his artistic proclivities. Salvino’s father Francesco, worked as high ranking naval engineer in the Navy. Suzanna, a biochemist, preferring the outdoors to the sterility of a laboratory, ran the farm alongside Nannu Pino. 

Seventy-eight, silver haired and straight backed, Nannu Pino’s olive skin was weathered from years of life under the sun. His blue eyes looked out with the intensity of his youth. His mouth carried a knowing smile, except on occasions when his gaze would drift into the distance, his smile curl downwards, giving aged sorrow to the man’s face.

A decorated officer, he served in The Great War, as it was called by the old folks. So violent and destructive was this conflict, all who lived through it promised to never let the same mistakes occur. But a tragic truth of war is, the people who fight it suffer it, are never the same people who declare it.

Fifty years passed since Nannu Pino put down his gun, but for those who fought, the smell of war lingered. His generation silently suffered the shared shame of those years of inhumanity.

Salvino spent most of his time with his grandfather. After school and on weekends they walked through the fields, tasting the crops, greeting the animals. Two horses, a donkey, chickens, pigs, goats, and a dog called Bob.

Nannu Pino would tell him stories about the land they lived in. Teaching him traditions to be passed down, respect of the land that provided them with a life and home. 

“We do not own, and are not owed anything.” Nannu Pino told Salvino, “We are only curators.”

Salvino listened to his grandfather’s every word, but wanted to hear about Nannu Pino’s war time adventures. He knew his grandfather didn’t like to talk about the war, but he would succumb to his boyish curiosity and ask anyway.

“Tell me about the war Nannu. Why is it called The Great War?”

“There was nothing great about it Salvino.” He said curtly, “Only great shame.”

“But you won the war!” exclaimed Salvino.

“Nobody won.” replied the suddenly aged man.

He always regretted upsetting him.

Nannu Pino loved his grandson, he called him Salvino, because in his young eyes he saw humanity, the type that one loses with age. A humanity that redeems and cares. The boy’s capacity for kindness was known throughout the village, even the animals knew it. 

The Village constructed atop a plateau, was a few kilometres from the sea. Inhabited mainly by farmers, the roads, winding and narrow, sheltering passers by from the midday sun. Leading to a small paved square, enclosed by a chapel, two bars, a police station, and the Mayor’s home in which lived the uncontested rotund Mayor and his aids. 

In the centre of the square stood a statue of their patron saint, under which a gushed freshwater, sourced from an ancient spring deep inside the plateau. The water source was decreed common heritage, free for all to use.

It was a time of peace and prosperity. The fields yielded more than enough for the village, increase trade with outside markets. 

Salvino’s family wanted for nothing. Under Suzanna the farmland flourish with produce. While Francesco, stationed overseas, sent back an officer’s salary and exotic gifts.

For sometime, news of tensions abroad had been trickling in. Activity at the naval yards were visibly increasing. Although ignored, the tension could be felt throughout the village. 

The elderly, now few in numbers were worried. The youth, who only knew prosperity and wealth, felt strangely animated by the news. Calls for recruitment spread from village to village. More ironed beige shirts were worn. 

It was December, the weather was uncharacteristically dry and hot. The lack of rain put a strain on water supplies. Many having to resort to the fountain to maintain production.  The Mayor said that this was normalcy, nothing to be concerned about. 

One morning a plume of black smoke rose from the coast. Everybody saw it. Hours later a group of twenty men, women and children approached the village. Sun burnt, dehydrated, famished, wearing rags. The villagers simply looked on. 

Entering the square they saw the water beneath the saintly figure. They rushed to it, giving way to the children. They Sipped slowly at the water, as if scared by its abundance. One of the men dipped his head into the water, his confusion transformed to relief.

The villagers not knowing what to do, curiously gathered around them. A murmur rose above the crowd, as The Mayor’s beiged aids barged through followed by the Mayor.

“Who are you?” 

“what are you doing here?” enquired the Mayor.

A white haired woman, the only elder from the travellers, approached and explained that they fled from their home during an attack. Smuggled out by boat, and know not where they landed.

“Do you have identification?”

“Do you have any possessions?”

“They are drinking from our fountain!” cried a young beige recruit. 

The murmur grew louder. 

“Turn off the water, they could infect it.” another shouted

Curiosity was turning into hostility. The white haired woman was shoved back to the centre. The children by the fountain began to cry.

Nannu Pino and Salvino heard the commotion coming from the square. Nannu Pino Made a beeline towards the Mayor, and demanded an explanation. 

“These are dangerous times Pino! We need to care for our own. Close the fountain!” Barked the Mayor.

“That spring is common heritage, it is open for all.” Nannu Pino exclaimed. 

Bang. A shot rang out. Nannu Pino fell to the ground. Still holding his grandfather’s hand, Salvino looked around, eyes wide with shock. The square was stilled.

Salvino let go the lifeless hand, walked towards the fountain. Using his hands as a ladle, gave the white haired woman to drink.   

No snowflakes fell, no yuletide logs burnt, no fat men in red suits. A story about our forgotten humanity. After all isn’t that what christmas is about? 

Stop blaming 2016, it’s been bad for quite sometime now. The beige shirts are coming. It is time to recall the humanity of Salvino.

Enjoy your meal,

S.T.B.

Apathy of the good

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Published in The Sunday Times of Malta (11.12.16)

The streets were heaving that evening with revellers clung to one another in drunken solidarity. The night sky was clear and black, patted by solitary hanging orange clouds. 

Explosions and coloured flashes added to the night’s delirium. A chorus of banging drums came from the direction of the Ramblas.

The entire city was out that night, locals, ex-pats, and tourists. Armed with gunpowder and drink. The street beer-cerveca men doubled up as fireworks sales men, as well as other night-time commodities. 

Nit de Sant Joan (St. John’s Eve), the midsummer celebration, centred around the summer solstice.

Plaças from Gracia down to Barcelonetta were packed. People in the bars and restaurants, grouped on the floors, on church steps, around monuments, drinking, sharing, and setting off fireworks.

The Catalan coastline erupted in bonfires, silhouetted bodies danced and moved by the warmth of the fire. The ever-constant bang-and-whistle of fireworks kept the night’s rhythm going. The 21st Century hedonists were ushering in the start of summer and the eve of Catalunya’s national day (24th of June). 

Elsewhere in Europe a monumental shift was taking place. Britain had just closed the polling booths on the Brexit referendum, and the European Union was soon to receive a terminal diagnosis.

Throughout the festivities of that night, I couldn’t help but be worried.  To allay my concerns I asked various inebriated British ex-pats and tourists that I came across on my night the question -

“What do you think the result is going to be?”

Without fail each one replied with certainty, “Remain!”

I followed up with “Did you vote?” 

Each answered “No.”

*gulp*

If all the Remainers are drunk in Barcelona, who is left to vote? 

We soon learnt the answer.

Six months down the road; Britain is still trying to figure out how to Brexit. U.S. President-Elect Trump(hole) is choosing which desk to sit behind in the Oval Office. And just last Sunday, Italians decided to buttar la pasta on their Premier Renzi’s reform, effectively voting for his resignation.

It has been one big shake-up of Western democracies and they predict more to come. These are strange times – they’ve been for some time now. Or have they always been strange? 

What do I know? I can only write from what I observe.

The 2011 London riots had revealed something, a warning of sorts. The events that followed the fatal police shooting of Mark Duggan, showed that today’s disenfranchised would fight for the ideals of a flat-screened TV and a pair of new limited edition air-max shoes. 

Only a few state building were targeted, the people attacked and looted commercial outlets. It showed us who the people’s perceived their oppressors to be. Not Westminster, but commercial brands.

The government’s reply was hard and swift –  they no longer wanted to “hug a hoodie”. 

An alienated public, apathetic towards the illiberal democracy they found themselves in.  This was five years ago. Fast-forward, a re-elected Tory party sans Lib-Dems, a bundle of austerity measures and national Scottish insurgence later - Nigel Farage and Boris de Pfeffel Johnson unwittingly hoodwinked the British Isles.

Lies, a term now called post-truth politics. From what I’ve seen, it should simply be called politics. This was not the first time the electorate had been lied to during a democratic process. They, we, have become accustomed to it. 

We know it to be the language of the political establishment. And election after election, promise after promise, scandal after scandal, I guess, personal dissatisfaction begot voter disenchantment. 

How long can they continue to feed a people the same baloney; fear through one ear and entitlement through the other? 

How long before we see something snap? Not long - it’s most likely that it’s already snapped, but our heads are to far up our own sand traps to have heard it. 

From everything that is dished out in the media, and consumed on social media, it is easy to believe that our world is not long for this galaxy. A scroll down your screen shows you; wars, climate change, mass migration, religious conflict, cats, and more cats - information mixed with disinformation and cats. Generating a society of apathy and fear, which themselves make for dangerous bedfellows.

Brexit, Trump’s victory, and Italy’s chronic ungovernability, paint a clear picture of today’s western voter; tired, hungry, and helpless.

The political establishment, the architects of this mess, is doddering. The people can smell it, as do some in the establishment itself. 

2008, America and in turn the the western world, were captivated by the notion of change and hope. Enough to overturn the then already rising tide of fascistic nationalism.

The geopolitical landscape quickly brought that hope down to a flicker. Fear has crept in.

*BOOM* *BANG* - *BANG* *BANG* *BOOM*

I jump in my chair. Fireworks are let off in celebration of theImmaculate Conception. I curse.

At the moment the situation does not seem particularly bright. Even though you have may have just eagerly opened your daily advent calendar window, you know that things aren’t quite right.

A strangely haired demagogue is in the White House, the union of nations we form part of is on the verge of collapse. Worst of all we seem to have forgotten what we were meant to lest forget.

Democratic process has been highjacked by popularism. Feed the people the truths they want to hear, no matter how ludicrous, bigoted, unfounded, or divisive.

The narrative we are given is constructed to overwhelm. At least that is how I feel, overwhelmed. To such an extent that the only way to continue is to look away, and say this isn’t my fight. But for how much longer? How much longer can the good give into to apathy?

It’s coming up to the end of year. A time, we are told, for reflection and gathering. A time in which we feel “Ah, thank god 2016 is over with, bring on 2017!” 

I salute your optimism, hold onto it, you are going to need it. 

In a world where the bad in people has been rudely awakened, and the good left in an apathetic slumber, hope and optimism could be the only way to navigate the dark times ahead. 

If you do believe in Baby Jesus, Kris Kringle, and all his elves, etc. then don’t turn your back on what is going on around you. Face it with a brave and informed view.  Wake the good.

So raise a glass of mulled wine, to you and your loved ones, and toast to the good times, but keep an ever watchful eye on the bad.

I still miss Bowie. 

S.T.B.

The white tent in the room

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta

Clutch, break, put into gear, inch forward. Line of red lights stream on, clutch, break, put into gear, inch forward, red lights. Stuck in St. Mark’s Street, why didn’t I catch the bus? You still need to find parking, you fool. Why didn’t I catch the bus? Clutch, break, put into gear.

Is it because I am lazy? Yes, complaining about the traffic, while generating it. It is still better than being stuck inside a Maltese bus. A/Ced and horrid. But mainly it’s because of laziness.

No, public transport is not the topic of this article. Back to St. Mark’s Street, Valletta. Back to the queue of us feckless drivers. 

My turn to enter Old Bakery Street. Left or right…where can I deposit this bloody car? Up, down, left, right, pac-manishly weaving through the grid.

Eyes peeled for parking, no parking, is that parking? Nope, reserved. Now stuck behind a delivery truck. The driver takes his time. Stacks his goods on his trolly and leaves the van door open for none to pass. The road to the left is blocked by a crane, the one to the right by a religious procession. The delivery man walks back, delivery slip in mouth, closes the back door, hops into the drivers seat, and jerks the van off slowly. 

No luck, most parking spaces have been sequestered for a state event. On the ring road, stuck behind a horse carriage outside MCC. It’s hot, I’m stuck to the seat and the city smells of horse shit. Serves you right for not catching the bus.

Finally parked, I leg my way into the city. Admittedly enjoying the walk up the “cursed streets of stairs” towards Republic street. Tourists amble through the back streets, locals perch in balconies hidden amongst their aired washing.

Built in 1566 a few months after the Great Siege…bleh, you know the story. “A city of palaces, built by gentlemen…”Grid pattern, Laparelli, bastions, baroque, cathedrals, churches, churches, churches, grand palaces, auberges for the knights, Manderaggio for the poor, churches. 

Surrendered to the French. Colonised by the British, pummelledby the Axis. Reconstructed by the British. Ultimately abandoned by the Maltese. Now touted to be the Europe’s Capital of Culture in 2018.

We are told that Valletta is passing through a renaissance. The only thing it seems to be passing through is trauma. 

Prior to being awarded the title of Capital of Culture 2018 in late 2012, the city was barely alive. A city with two peoples; a dwindling and ageing residential population and a commuting population of workers and visitors. From eight a.m. to seven p.m. the streets would be busy with shoppers, lawyers, tourists, civil servant, etc. by the end of business hours, poof, deserted. Sunday’s would attract the catholic crowds to the churches.

T’was not a place you went to hang, unless you went to the theatre, or could afford the handful of restaurants that existed. It was definitely not a place you lived. Dilapidated by decades of neglect, intricate limestone facades dirtied by soot and pigeon shit. All types of wires affixed along the walls, zig-zagging from one side of the street to the other. The state of the interior was far worse. 

And cars, cars parked in every cranny and alcove. Valletta boasted one of Europes most opulent car parks, the Royal Opera House.  Harrison and Hubbard (1945) had warned us of the damage modern wants could inflict on the city.

How indeed can one “…modify a City to serve the simple needs of the sixteenth century so that it may satisfactorily serve the complex needs of today?”  

By 2011 Valletta’s population was 5,784 (when in the late 1800s the number stood at 25,000). Comprising of locals inhabiting mainly social housing or dilapidated palazzi under old rent laws, and pockets of young foreign artists and architects, who took advantage of cheap rent and spacious vintage apartments in palazzi - the latter were the first to see Valletta’s true beauty.

Even though dying, the city housed the nations top institutions. Administrative, judicial, and cultural. All of which over the past five years, amid Valletta’s renaissance, have been going through their own changes.

Renaissance…let’s call it for what it truly is, boutification. Renaissance implies the glorious rebirth of one of the first truly European cities. This is a hostile real-estate take over, run by the Maltese.

Each building, and every space in the city, is marred by a green leafed PA notice, nailed into the facade…

I could go on complaining and bitching about the current state of affairs. Yes there are many issues with the way Valletta is being gentrified, you probably have complained about them yourselves and rightly so. But not all is shitty.

The alcohol and food variety and quality has improved. Wood’s 100 Navy Rum is now automatically served with a wedge of lime. Restaurants, cafes, and bars, mainly run and staffed by foreigners. Some are raising the bar, some cruise, and others have white tents.

Where there is good food and alcohol, the arts are not far behind. Independent Galleries Blitz and AP Lounge put up a variety of contemporary exhibitions, promoting collaborations between local and foreign artists.

Although politically highjacked, Valletta 2018 has been organising, collaborating, and coordinating, great cultural initiatives and activities. The third in the successful series of Cities as Community Spaces conference has just come to an end. The fourth edition of Żigu Żajg, a colourful festival for children and youth has also just passed. Ignoring the politics of Valletta 2018 and Mario-Philip, the V18 staffers are doing a good job.

Musicians can be heard blowing trumpets, banging skins, strumming cords. Maltese roots band Etnika are to launch their new album, Maddalena's Marvellous Tripfolk Klabb, on the 3rd and 4th December with gigs at the Sala San Duminku. Go, Etnika is a band we can collectively be proud of. 

Theatre has been a constant in Valletta, bar again Mario-Philip, the scene is on the up and up. The Manoel recently restored with French finesse. It-Teatru Reali, M.I.T.P., St. James Cavalier, are all putting on a show.

Locals and foreigners buying up old dilapidated flats and palazzos, restoring and converting them with care, bringing them into the 21st century. Architects who treat each project with the care and attention the buildings deserve. 

Obviously for every good architect, there’s the armada of pwieret (broken plural of perit) splaying the Maltese mediocrity all over the place.

This level of splaying is closely linked to the increase real-estate business. And brother Business has been a boomin’! Using Valletta 2018 to line their pockets and splay their bad taste.  

St. Georges Square, Castille Square, the two most important open spaces in the city and recently reworked are boring. Fort St. Elmo’s restoration looks like a Hollywood botox job. MUZA? I hear MCC is currently getting splayed.

I’m waiting to see what will become of Is-Suq. From viewing the renders, nothing good I suspect…did you see that strange light fixture? It won’t be long before they convert it into a wedding hall. But what the heck, the trade off is Waitrose, winning.

Gentrification is temporary. Once completed, if the roots planted are too shallow, then city will wilt again.

If we want to be able to truly call Valletta, a city built by the foreign nobility, a Maltese Capital City. We must celebrate and promote the good, of which there is an abundance, and take a hard informed look at the bad, of which there is more.

S.T.B.

Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink

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The albatross around our necks 

Passed Dar tal- Providenza, a sun-bleached landscape is muted by layers of dust pluming out of a Polidano quarry. The signature blue and white trucks barge up and down the road, in and out from the quarry. Kicking up a permanent fog of dust.

It’s late October, two o’clock in the afternoon, I’m scrambling down the hill to get to the sea. The sky is a blue-grey and the sun is hot. Cleared the dust, down the winding potholed road.

To your left fertile terraced fields, patches of browns, dry, dark, sandy, umber. Weathered grey stone outcrops, Curving lines of rubble walls and the sun-beaten limestone yellow, broken by sparse covering greens. Bushes of Carob trees, spades of the bajtar, dot the fields. 

Farmer’s rooms and hunter’s outposts. Lone erect electricity poles, wires slackly follow atop their path. A neoish-gothic tower stands (thankfully?) abandoned. 

By the side of the road tall fennels sway in the wind. The Garrigue terrain dips down towards the sea, stopped by the cliff edge. 

Prevailing winds load the air with salt. The sound of the sea banging against the cliffs is drowned out by a mechanical hum from the reverse osmosis plant.

Quarries to the left, desalination plants to the right. In the middle, our paradise lost.

Malta built its economy on the back of its natural resources; Sun, sea and stone. Converting them into human sources; congestion, construction and corruption. But something worse is going...

“Will there be enough water?” Jack and Alison sing.

“I doubt it.”

“Because as you know, without it we won’t even be able to enjoy the memories of this paradise lost.”

According to local organisation, Malta Water Association (MWA), Malta is one of the ten poorest countries globally in terms of water resources per inhabitants. Other water strapped countries include Bahrain, Jordon, Libya, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia.

“The water is salty and putrid but there are good springs which are probably due to rain fallen in winter time. The origin of these springs in not very deep, they often disappear in summer but they always diminish in volume. One generally drinks rainwater collected in tanks or in ditches.”

Knight Quintinus Haedus, 1536.

Then water was sourced from springs and precipitation, back then it was valued. Today four 1980s built RO plants and a pandemonium of unregulated drilled boreholes quench our development's thirst.  

Water Production in Malta (2003 FAO data): 

• WSC desalinisation production - 32%
• Private groundwater abstraction - 30%
• WSC groundwater abstraction - 26%
• Rainwater harvesting - 7%
• Treated sewage effluent - 3%
• Private desalinization production - 2%

In 2006 the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) published the Malta Water Resources Review…Not much has changed since Quintinus’ report, except that the FAO report has be largely ignored by successive administrations.

With an yearly average precipitation of 400-500mm, and an evapotranspiration rate of approximately 390mm, you would think this “natural resource, which falls from heaven,” (1886 Civil Code) would be considered gold. Yet within urban zones 80% of this precipitation is lost to runoff. 

Declining levels of precipitation and our lackadaisical attitude towards water runoff, has resulted in a greater borehole dependency.  

We suck through unregulated boreholes. To water our ailing crops, and top our bloated pools, we suck. We’ve unwittedly sucked so hard, it’s now beginning to taste a little salty.

Pumping water at a rate 50% higher than its sustainably replenish isn’t the only problems aquifers face. Over extraction is causing salinisation of the water table. We are poisoning it with chemicals dumped on the surface, pesticides, fertilizers, lead, etc. They seep through our thin layer of soil, down our porous stone, into the water table. Extracted to irrigate the crops that end up on your table, and in your mouth. 

Mmmmm

The situation isn’t good, we've known this for a while. All the reports concur. The farmers are worried, the priests are a-praying and the Fatheads swim in their pools.

Every year MWA raises the need for a national water management plan. Every year the government lightly brushes off.

We need a national water management plan, we need good water governance, and we need water education, before we end up needing Water Marshall Law.

This isn’t fiction, we need to act. We are seeing water shortages all over the world in the US (California and Texas), Australia, Spain. Water wars are erupting in Mexico and fuelling the Middle East’s. 

Is it comforting knowing that we are not alone?

Once the last drop has been spilt, no matter how many priests pray, or boreholes dug, we shall be alone in our paradise lost.

S.T.B.

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta (13.11.16)

The little bag

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“And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall”

Friday April 12th 1963, Town Hall, New York City. Where were you? I wasn’t yet born, but since you are reading this newspaper then I can safely assume that you were probably born, if not already in your thirties.

So where have you been my darling old one? Look where we are now. Tuesday 18th October 2016, Malta. Living an economic wonder of congestion, construction and corruption. Getting fat, sitting, waiting for the hard rain to fall.

I watched the budget speech…tried to… quickly bored I began zapping through the local channels; TVM, NET and ONE and again TVM, Net, and ONE, and again, and again, the voice of Minister Scicluna in time gaps, the all suited male panel on Net, quick angles of MPs just pee-eye-Emm-Peein’, it was a vicious cycle, one quite hard to break.

I settled on TVM. Within 5 minutes, probably less, I zoned out. It happened a number of times until I was about to sleep…I would be damned if I slept to the voice of Edward Scicluna, quick switch off the TV! 

At that moment I understood Minister Scicluna’s rare political talent; he is boring. He may be intelligent, but his political strength is his ability to bore the masses.

Lauded lies and whispered truths may be a politician’s M.O. But the opening of the government’s yearly budget is something unique; a closely followed parliamentary speech that is not delivered by the Prime Minister or the leader of the opposition. It is the Minister of Finance who hands out the yearly fiscal forecasts from his little bag (bougette).

Your personal finance and stuff is hard enough to digest, let alone that of a nation. Yet it is important and should be easily understood by people, but do they understand it? Cause I don’t, especially when the information is being read by Minister Scicluna’s hypnotising voice.

There lies his political talent, he takes information of national importance, which in itself is already boring and he turns up the boring. And we the people don’t do boring, not when there is the next episode of Narcos you want to watch.

“Te lo prometo Tata…”

Whether or not he wields the Sith-Power of boredom willingly, it works; I was disinterested. The boringness of it all. The bored faces of other MPs, phubbing, picking, jeering, pounding, in their limestone cavern, it appealed to my apathy. This stuff doesn’t change either way, we’re all on the gravy train, and they‘re laying the tracks, whichever way they see fit.

To say that the budget was a bit, bleh, is an understatement. 

The media reported that the Budget was bleh. 

They noted the Minister said “Bleh!” and this other Minister said “Bleh?”

The opposition leader said “BLEH!!!!!”

Both the GWU and GRTU said “Bleh…” in different tones.

Franco Debono wrote,

“Bleh bleh bleh bleh BLEH,

Bleh bleh bleh bleh bleh Bleh BLEH,

Bleh Bleh Bleh bleh Unz.”

Bigger cruise liners, more tourists, what’s best for Air Malta, upped prices on detergents, toiletries, tobacco, alcohol, soft drinks, concrete, steal. Road works, more road works, car-pooling, random bike racks, quick fix public transport gimmick, a laughable fuel decrease, underwater tunnels, underwater connectors, property incentives in Gozo, another Mattia Preti…Bleh!

More of the same; the same taste of dust in the air, the same taste of exhaust through the window, and the same taste of fish farms in the sea. 

“Maaaa how negative ta, on a Sunday” you say.

Don’t forget I’m writing on a Tuesday.

It is useless for me to cry out, we need something better, something more. What’s the point of me writing about a bespoke infrastructure, a master plan tailored for the needs of the Islands of Malta, these gems we call home. It feels useless.

Can’t we have a uniquely Maltese public transport system?  More ferry connections, smaller busses, bus shelters, bicycle priority in village cores, suspended gardened bike highways, government or private owned electric bicycle silos, a mono-rail or an underground, which ever suits our needs best, cheaper taxi services, Uber, and no horse-cabbies.

A mix and match solution, where you catch a bus from Mgarr to University, hop on a peddle assist bicycle, cycle to Valletta, or Sliema, board an express ferry from Pieta to Gozo.

To be fair we currently have a uniquely Maltese energy situation. Involving China, Gasan, Panama, a Minister without a portfolio, fossil fuels, and a frightfully large LNG tanker called the Armada, which as I type is attempting to dock at our shores. As national situations go, this is as Maltese as it gets. What could go wrong? Another Preti?

As I said, what’s the point indeed? This gravy train will keep on a-chuggin’. Till we run out of track or space, which ever comes first… 

Hold on tight “my darling young one”, il- Gid se jasal.

S.T.B.

Published in The Sunday Times of Malta 23.10.16

The Maltese crane

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Mein Schiff sounds its horn, three long blasts, shattering the peace in the Grand Harbour and dropping me from my hammock. The last of the Harvest Moon lights up a derelict Fort Ricasoli, her orange beams dance across the black harbour water. 80s music blares as the behemoth liner leaves the port for some other touristic destination, its occupants gorging themselves into a giddy, floating all-you-can-eat orgy of consumption.

A storm is rolling in. A black patch in the night sky flashes and rumbles over the tanker lit horizon. The wind picked up and within minutes the storm reached the tip of Valletta. I climbed to the roof, stood there and watched the city-scape light up; flat roofs, church domes, satellite dishes, TV aerials, solar panels, water tanks. And tower-cranes.

As my eyes settle on a yellow tower-crane rising out of Barbara Bastions my mind drifted to the Dinner in the Sky (The out of this world dining experience). Are they open tonight? I hope so. Is that crane-raised platform a faraday cage? I hope not. Lightening charred Sausage will stink (but I hear it’s a delicacy in remote parts of Spain…)

You’ve probably heard of, perhaps even tried this “extraordinary aerial culinary experience in the heart of Malta’s capital”. A crane, perched in Herbert Ganado Gardens, lifts a trough of strapped-in diners, dangles them 40 meters up and feeds them a five course meal with wine pairing. How exciting. Just the touch of class Valletta’s skyline needed in the run up to its assuming the mantle of Europe’s Capital of Culture. From Senglea it looks like a disco-ball, casting rays of cheese all over the dance floor. How exciting.

Dinner in the Sky is a gimmick born of boredom. I get it, but I don’t, then again I haven’t tried it, and I most likely won’t. I am sure the food is good, but Herbert Ganado Gardens is nice enough from the ground, and that crane… I suspect there exists some sordid national fetish: crane objectophilia.

Cranes as far as the eye can see: evidence of a nation’s development. I wonder how many cranes actually exist on these islands? Where are they all kept? Can I get one from Lidl? Are we to be hoisted by our own crane?

For years we heard Fat-Heads bellow at mass meetings: Malta should become more European, Malta should become more like Dubai, Malta should be become more Singapore. Why? Can’t Malta become more like… Malta? Maybe this is Malta: appropriating things in a (uniquely mediocre) Maltese manner.

Always looking elsewhere to cure a decades old identity crisis, in June 2014 Prime Minister Joseph Muscat announced his government would make Malta “the next Singapore or Dubai”. Dubaification. As role models go these are curious.

Dubai is built on lashings to the backs of migrant labourers. Singapore was formed by 50 years of “benevolent” dictatorship. Might it be that all our benevolent leaders see, in these models of progress and development, are tall, shiny buildings and cranes the means to this end?

If as Noel Coward said “the higher the building the lower the morals”, then don’t we need higher buildings? I guess we are witnessing the answer to that question, via the approval of both the Town Square Project and the four towering stacks of dirty dishes in Mriehel.

”How many cranes, oh lord? How many more?” 

“A lot.”  a voice declares. 

“True.” I thought.

We all know what happened when, under the Gonzi administration the construction industry was (ever so slightly) reigned in. Industry players kicked up a fuss - where were they going to keep all those flaccid cranes? They tend to get in the way, especially if you live in a post-nineties flat.

In solidarity with their plight the Labour Party allowed the erection of all and any Maltese cranes. What a sight! A colourful flock of cranes, towering over our island, craning their necks into every corner: progress, development.

You can’t hit the brakes on an important economic driver without a seatbelt: inertia is a bitch. Too many people make their living from construction, stalling it without a concrete alternative is plain silly. But hitching our cart only to this horse is also folly. 

Does anybody know how many cranes there are?

The competent authority maintains a database of tower-cranes currently erected at places of work, examined and certified safe as required by law. Currently there are 132 tower-cranes listed in their database. The Authority has a record of 132 examination certificates: there is no legal obligation for deployers of cranes to forward these certificates to the authority. This makes determining exactly how many cranes are flying at any given moment impossible.

The Planning Authority, who one would assume, might have some interest in knowing the number of operational cranes, has no idea, Or perhaps it doesn’t give a damn. You might have better luck asking each and every local council, as they approve individual crane usage.

So if you have a crane then foist it. Foist it long and foist it hard. Construct, or don’t construct, but at least join in on this mass development. In today’s economic landscape cranes are currency. Crane Currency, a Boston based mint will begin to operate in this most crane friendly ecosystem. You can’t make this shit up. 

It is amply clear that we are creaming for cranes. Let us be happy that our cranes are up. We even get to eat while hanging off one, for €135 per person or €95 if you are under 18 but over 145cm.

Hoisted by our own cranes, until dropped.

S.T.B.