Election time!

The Bloggies have been launched.

I expect all Maltese nationals living away from home to vote for me in exchange for this information.

And once again, I’ve missed a trick. The number of discussions I’ve had over the years about exporting Kinnie (favourite soft drink of the fattest people in Europe) off the rock to Brussels never came to anything. Now I’ve been beaten to it.

Happy New Year

Back from five days in Malta. Christmas was a quiet family gathering of 25, where everybody was nice to each other. Gayle got a Bulgari watch and I got a pair of socks.

New Year’s Eve was spent in the company of a man with a bad haircut and 29 other pax with rather good haircuts. My haircut was decidedly run-of-the-mill.

New Year’s Day has been spent “getting things in order”, which has mainly entailed lying on the sofa, watching re-runs of Spooks and smoking cigarettes.

Last week. I went to Ikea, had half a lobster for 8 euros, forgot half of what I went in for and realised, after two hours of using a plastic screwdriver as a hammer, that I’d bought the wrong stuff anyway.

So I’d like to wish both of my readers a successful 2007. Happy New Year, Mum and Dad!

Why I love The UK

I love the UK because in the space of 24 hours, I ate turkey and tinsel (which stuck in the throat) with the Eastbourne Gilbert and Sullivan Society, followed by watching little brother (who asked for a mention) set the girls’ skirts on fire with his wheels of steel and Charles Manson (the killer, not the actor) style facial hair. Some slapper from Hastings told me that the label in my jacket said I was “fit” and then I burnt the roof of my mouth on a Ginster’s Chicken and Mushroom pie at 2 o’clock in the morning.

Maltese Morality Confusion

It’s a few days and counting until I’m back in Malta. Normally, any trip to the rock wouldn’t be complete without a trip to watch some near-naked ladies gyrate on stage, whilst I imbibe overpriced beers and make small talk with Lenka or Svetlana from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

The lap-dancing bars in Malta are amongst the most conservative in any country I’ve visiited. Italy has them attached to petrol stations and Thailand, well enough said. But on the Rock, the girls don’t take their clothes off, don’t touch you, and are peopled almost exclusively by young drunk students and the occasional member of the Rafia and their entouraage.

But it looks like this year will be different, following police raids on my favourite establishments.

This article from the Independent gives you the rundown. If you’ve got a couple of minutes I recommend you read it entirely.

Here’s the summary:

  • 35 women have been arrested, charged with performing immoral acts in public and participating in a brothel.
  • Plain clothes police were ordered to arrest “anyone wearing a thong.”
  • One woman was arrested, who “was not dressed inappropriately but who featured on several photographs that [the policeman] found on a computer.” In the photographs the woman was wearing “tight shorts and a short top.”
  • “The shorts were tighter than those of a gymnast.”
  • “The fact that they were dancing means they were participating in immoral acts because of the way they were dressed.”
  • “Wearing a thong on the beach is one thing but wearing a thong in a public place is illegal.”

Now, I don’t want to sound like a loony lefty, and while I applaud the strength of family values in a country I love, this makes me shudder, smacking of a Taliban-esque régime of discriminate, cloudy interpretations of public morality.

So this winter, in Malta, I’ll mainly be wearing a thong.‎

Belgian Drivers And Paul Theroux

I am now married.

I am also still alive, despite the best efforts of a large man in a large car, who cut me up on Montgomery roundabout and sent me flying off my scooter. I have a sore thumb. The scooter is written off.

I was actually quite upset. But now I’m okay. Thanks for asking.

I have just read My Secret History by Paul Theroux and it was loathsome and brilliant.

I will now stop start sentences with “I”. Or shoot me.