Laboured Interpretations

I continue from my earlier post today. While we continue to dispute the significance of the Local Council results it is interesting to go through the dailies and examine what others are saying in the dead tree media.

Take Leo Brincat. He thrills in the fact that Gonzi is now the greatest loser in Maltese politics. The boxing round analogy is applied as Gonzi is seen to have lost four elections (from the contested EP result to the various Local Council rounds). I am still baffled whenever a party, be it PN or MLP, that has just won an election on a wave of dissatisfaction can slap the back of its secretary general and claim he is doing good work. Good work is winning against all odds. The only thing Jason Micallef could have done is lose this election. Otherwise it was just a matter of automatic pilot and bob's your uncle.

Then take Toni Abela on the red paper. The colourful hunter metaphors of RTO etc are understandable given the audience (yes Twan, I am patronising). The crooning and crowing of the statistical victor is also something I am prepared to concede. But then there is something infinitesimally dangerous in the tack Toni Abela takes. In his description of the dark ages that Malta has slipped into - I agree for example on the travel tax etc - there is a huge underlying implication. Essentially Toni is telling you that if you vote Labour trips abroad will be cheaper, aggressive Labour media (Manwel Cuschieri style) will continue to work, and Melita Cable will give you free football. The free market will be abolished and policemen will do their job. In essence the implication is just that under Labour all these ills will be righted. But he does not sya that outright. Which is sad. It is the typical paint it all ugly picture but not programme for change.

And then there is Lucky Luciano Busuttil preparing the way for his council's siege next year. The Hamrun boy is a former course colleague of mine and is the kind of Labourite I would trust. Unfortunately Luciano is one of the Labourites advocating for the LCA revolution (see previous post) and gives real signs of being one of the ears of wheat that has been inextricably linked to the chaff of the party. Arcibald is right... unfortunately when you vote you vote for it all wheat, chaff and fertiliser.

Then there's this bloke who chose the unhappy metaphor of penetration to describe Labour's gain in the last elections. It is difficult for someone like me to resist reminding readers what penetrates what the pentration that first comes to mind. That it reflects the two big parties in our country can only mean that Mr Chetcuti deserves a big bravo for a metaphor that hits the nail on the head.

Finally PN gurus are relatively silent. Joe Saliba had a moment of karma and pronounced that "The wealth of the country must begin to reach the people" (MaltaRightNow). Well, it is never too late is it. Talk about tautology. One wonders where the wealth (gid) was going before today. Did we get the slogan "Gid. Fiducja. Direzzjoni" completely wrong? And spare a thought for Jeffrey Pullicino Orlando, who seems to have a point when attacking Harry on his policies but doesn't this picking on AD in times of dire need by a PN politician smack so strangely of deja vu?

Labour's Undelectable Unelectability

When the Malta Labour Party comes up with proposals like this one I confirm my suspicion that in the long run they are unable to sustain the implications of a place in power. Before too long they will be "revolutionising" democratic institutions with a donkey headed idea that they are doing the "right thing" and will drive Malta straight into another Banana Republic era.

They want the members of the Local Council Association to be reelected on the basis that the percentage of mayories in Labour's hands is now a majority and this is not reflected in the current LCA composition. The members of the LCA are elected by proportional representation every two years. There is definitely a rule book or law that states this. Labour now have a whiff of majority (which may be false, Mark take note) and are already barking like there is no tomorrow. This imbalance happens in many countries - governments end up sharing with a representative organ that does not reflect the change in public opinion - all because of scaled elections. Nothing abnormal there.

In all probability the Labour representation in the LCA will change when the time is up because I cannot see Labour losing its Council majority in the near future. But some cowboy in Hamrun decided it is time to put on the boots, the stirrups and the double barrel gun and start yelling that the Labour martyr is being crucified again and is being unjustly underrepresented.

Don't know about you guys but to me this kind of politics is as undelectable and unelectable as that of the cowboy arrogance which has been the label of the PN for so long. Then Fausto wonders whether people really put up a sign for "Wanted: New Politicians" in the last election.

Just in case the message did not come through Labour are virtually saying that Parliament should be dissolved - and elections - called every time there is a huge swing in public opinion and that our constitutional principle of Universal Suffrage every five years is not worth the Republican paper it is written on. And this from the same party who governed for five years after 1981 with a minority of popular votes.

Don't you just love them Arcibald?

The Laboured Fortress

Today's papers in Malta are all about Labour's newfound dominance. By the standards of the various statistical gurus who join Lorna Vassallo's orgy of numerical assessments Labour is the winner. Alfred's minions have captured various "strongholds" and toppled over a number "fortresses" which apparently had been flying the blue flag until now. As Arcibald/Antonio had pointed out at Ajjut , the slogan "Ic-Cittadin L-Ewwel" has long vanished from the manifestos of both parties and any occasion to slog out the bipartisan battle is good.

The 'local' nature of the council elections has all but vanished as first PN then MLP carried the banner of local council votes up high among the honourable company of "relevant national statistics". Every locality has its day of glory every election day then is left to the internecine rivalry within the four walls of the meetings between the various minions of the two big armies who are left to fend for themselves until the next big round. If they have been good enough Uncle Fred will come round and shoot percentages of achievement that only he can fathom to the general public. And once the hullaballoo is over it is back to bickering over parking places, street lights and urban unplanning of the saddest kind.

But what if there were really a message on a national level? What if the local council results could really tell us something? Well in that case I think Alfred Sant is right. "People want change in leadership". Too true. Couldn't be truer my old perruqued man. Only I think that you have read half the message. That people want a change of leadership (and of most of their minions) has long been an undisputable fact. What Freddie fails to note is that in the localities where a serious alteranative to the juggernauts was posed the people chose that alternative. Do you not read anything in that Fred?

Give the people a Mike Briguglio waving a sunny smile over Qui Si Sana or a Dr Josie raging about the big two's inability to care about Marsascala and they will quickly show you what kind of change they mean Fred. You can send all the Omar Caruana's that you want to the statistical battlefield... but they will not send any new message back. They will just show you that the country is still full of sheep (Arcibald's kind not Dolly's) and we have a long long way to go.

We do not really have a right to talk. Us emigrées de l'outre mér. To us now the local questions are the coommune de Luxembourg or Bereldange and no longer St Julian's and Marsalforn. IF the j'accuse's, xifer's and lanzarote's (to name but a controversial few) want to put their money where their mouth is they should have formed Il-Partit Progressiv Wankellettwali ages ago and be among those providing the valid alternatives. Otherwise we should just sit back and watch Freddie have a field day over this most Phyrric and tragic of victories ever to be proclaimed since the dead voted against European membership.

La Cucaracha

La cucaracha, la cucaracha,
Ya no puede caminar;
Porque no tiene,
porque le falta
Marijuana que fumar.

Ya murio la cucaracha,
Ya la llevan a enterrar,
Entre cuatro zopilotes
Y un raton de sacristan.

Con las barbas de Carranza,
Voy a hacer una toquilla,
Pa' ponersela al sombrero
De su padre Pancho Villa.

Un panadero fue a misa,
No encontrando que rezar,
Le pidio a la Virgen pura,
Marijuana pa' fumar.

Una cosa me da risa:
Pancho Villa sin camisa;
Ya se van los carrancistas
Porque vienen los villistas.

Para sarapes, Saltillo;
Chihuahua para soldados;
Para mujeres, Jalisco;
Para amar, toditos lados.

The Feel Good Factor

Some Sundays it's just about feeling good. You know, you wake up and the temperature gauge shows minus nine but you do not care... because you are curled up near Miss Magnificent and downstairs a lovely French breakfast is ready and waiting. Brioches (sans gluten) couvertes de nutella et the' a l'anglaise.... phenomenale. Then it's TV all day and absorbing the news in the meantime as the sun plays games with the icicles outside.

Then you hear that the invincibles crash three nil to Del Duca Ascoli (later discovered that they pulled two back) who last made history when they signed on Maradona's half brother for a trial and you understand that today it has to be good. You come across someone trying his attempt at humour on the net (raus! raus!) and it brings a smile to your face... progress made in that quarter too! Meanwhile back home you read that the reds have it and a beaming Mr Muscat is glad that Bubaqra now lies in the hands of the Ghaqda Nisa Socjalisti. And you smile because you notice that for the first time you just can't push yourself to care.

You are busy immersed in the wonderful roti d' epaule d'agneau en gingembre et miel, accompanied with heavenly oven potatoes and a salad of black tomatoes and strawberries in balsamic vinegar. A quick visit to the Miss Magnificent's sis at St Julien des Metz and a game of Need for Speed on Christoph's Xbox... morale still flying high. Don't know what it is about this feel good factor on a lazy Sunday afternoon but it's wonderful. I fall asleep on the drive home and the lull of the drive and coocooning feeling of the car is incredible.

Xitan's welcoming leap into my arms or the warm PG tip tea I am drinking that tastes like a drink for the gods... and as the Proclaimers ring out "500 miles" on my iTune player I really begin to believe that life is what you make of it... keep smiling guys... we only live once (and Juve can even lose to Berluskas boys - because THEY are Berluskas we are Agnelli's you see Twan? - I don't give a damn... coz life is beautiful!)

Proclaimers - 500 Miles

When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.
When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you.

If I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you.
And if I haver, yeah I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you.

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles
To fall down at your door

When I'm walkin, yes I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who's walkin hard for you.
And when the money, comes in for the work I do,
I'll pass almost every penny on to you.

When I come home, (when i come home) oh I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home to you.
And if I grow old, well I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who's growing old with you.

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walkes 1,000 miles
To fall down at your door

na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la
na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la

When I'm lonely, well I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man whose lonely without you.
And when I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream,
I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you.

When I go out, (when i go out) well I know I'm gonna be,
I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you.
and when I come home, (when i come home) yes I know I'm gonna
be,
I'm gonna be the man who comes back home with you,
I'm gonna be the man whose comin' home with you.

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles
To fall down at your door

na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la
na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la
na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la
na na na, na na na
na na na, na na na
lika lika lika lika lika la, la, la

But I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles
To fall down at your do-o-or

Thank You

My mum thought me how to say thank you. So thank you to all those who wished j'accuse a Happy Bloggiversary. Particular thanks go to gybexi (the plot thickener), twanny (the nookier), kenneth (the illami how young you are), andre (still getting to know this one), maltagirl (the k&t photographer), coemgen (the medicinal advisor), and fausto (yeah he does turn up every now and then).

No time to link them since I am off to Metz but all bloggers mentioned are linked in the pull-down Boulevard menu.

Meanwhile a reminder that Kinnie & Twistees, The Laughing Fit and il Bollettino are up and running.

Finally a word to Bocca who sill cannot swallow the fact that money cannot buy you glory...
Juventus march on (l*ck and all) while the Pensioners are back home probably taking lessons in humility. Old women indeed!

How bout getting off of these antibiotics
How bout stopping eating when I'm full up
How bout them transparent dangling carrots
How bout that ever elusive kudo

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

How bout me not blaming you for everything
How bout me enjoying the moment for once
How bout how good it feels to finally forgive you
How bout grieving it all one at a time

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

The moment I let go of it was
The moment I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it was
The moment I touched down

How bout no longer being masochistic
How bout remembering your divinity
How bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out
How bout not equating death with stopping

Thank you India
Thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you thank you silence

yeah yeah
ahh ohhh
ahhh ho oh
ahhh ho ohhhhhh
yeaahhhh yeahh

Look who's going to Highbury now...

Champion's League Quarter Final Draws

Arsenal - Juventus

Olympique Lyonnais - AC Milan

FC Internazionale / AFC Ajax - Villareal CF

SL Benfica - FC Barcelona

... and we're not going as tourists either!

Photo: Gerrard (Liverpool) gazes at the new Champion's League trophy. (uefa.com)

L'Anniversaire - the kinnie generation

On the 10th March 2005 I had decided to kickstart j'accuse after I had been blogging on Bollettino for some time. Actually since it was (and still is Gakbu Sfigho) who blogs on the bollettino this was my first real venture into the blogging world. I shall be celebrating this first anniversary with a trip to a Portuguese dentist who thinks I am an Arab named Mohammed. Twisted identities don't only occur on the web but still, thankfully, occur in real life (that's irl twanny!).

This is the 440th time I will press the button Publish Post to put up something new on j'accuse. Denying the addiction would be lilke denying the existence of the sun. This morning, France Info announced the discovery of geysers on Calliope, one of the moons of Saturn (they call them "jay-sirs" but after a quick explanation from Mel I got the idea). J'accuse might also be seen as a constant flow of hot air at least once a day. I still hold my theory that the barrage of ideas out of which at least one can be valid or even revolutionary is better than the silent philosopher stance. It's true, it is a bit more noisy, a bit more controversial, probably a bit more irritating but from this point of view it is that lot more fun. And blogging is also about having fun.

While we have been enjoying the ride there have been 49 Non Sequiturs... I hesitate to post the 50th since it is meant to be a chronicle of the previous 49. We been mentioned, in good or in bad, here and there. The base of pageloaders remains predominantly Malta - Luxembourg - Brussels - UK axis. Thank you to those few persistent readers in the US and Denmark (!!! - yeah maybe I was forced into bias in the cartoon issue!) as well as that one reader in Moscow or Libya respectively. There may be other constant readers from other nationalities but these are the ones that stuck to my mind. It is true that I do not write to be read but it is another undeniable fact that being read is gratifying and to a certain extent encouraging.

Unlike others I do not log on to the net to see what is NOT happening. I find even the most disagreeable of bloggers encouraging. As I said in the midst of the controversy that should not be named, the blogging community is one of the things that makes me proud to be Maltese. To pick one rather marginal example, I find Ajjut's cynical comments on Maltese life very encouraging and worth the read. The blogger's mad mad world let's me think that I am not alone... there are many other mad mad ones out there. Our different eccentricities might lead us to disagree, huff and puff and even expose the same defects that Maltese upbringing has given us but we are there and we are there to change.

And to "celebrate" one year of blogging I have decided to simpy reproduce the very first post on j'accuse some 49,000 pageloads ago (I like to imagine that the first month without a counter had at least 800 loads!). Meanwhile, the set of blogs under my control (uahahaha) has spread and today is the day two others will launch officially while Bollettino will get a rebirth following hibernation (though Gakbu's been at it for the past two days). I'd like to thank Melanie for withstanding my blogging mode whenever muses hit me throughout this first year.

Time is what you make of it.... I chose to blog in the hope that there is something in it. if not... The ride has been and will be fun all the same! Thank you to all out there who find this read worth spending a few minutes. Thank you to all you critics who spice up these pages. And apologies to all those who do not like my style and content... I promise to continue doing just what I have been doing for the next year - and if you still do not get it I suggest you reread the first post in j'accuse that is reproduced here... (and don't tell me I have not been consistent in my approach ever since)

******

The Kinnie Generation
10th march 2005

taste first
An invitation to try before rejecting, or an indication of priorities? I was never sure whether the Kinnie slogan was the former or the latter. Will we ever find out? More importantly nowadays, do we care? This is my first venture in the world of Blogs. Actually this is really my 14th. After a very successful start with "il Bollettino" I have tried to start my own, personal, blog. 12 tries later and it finally seems to be working.

about time
Thus, Mark Vella greeted my decision to join this Kinnie generation in its quest for eternal fame and blogging. It is all about time isn't it? Find time to write and you can do it. Thus the Kinnie generation - the bitter-sweet oxymorons in personam - who slowly realised that Malta under the socialists was bad because it was violent and Malta under the nationalists is bad because it is one big lie. The Kinnie generation who are slowly becoming nostalgic for the eighties, saw the nineties fly by them and still cannot understand whatthefuck they are meant to be doing in the '00s. By the way Mark is a wankellectual who has his own blog called xifer - take a peek and you will see what i mean. There are many more ... wwitchie , stagno and pierre and wiredtemples too - all struggling for space. More Kinnie generation products. They can see the other people. They can see dead people. All the rest are busy standing by their pre-written scripts preparing for the next carcade to victory.

about me & this blog

Yep. My blog. Called J'accuse. Playing with words a bit... thanks to my forename. The idea is there too.... Zola and all. The truth if I lie (A lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on. - Terry Pratchett, The Truth). That's another theme. Mark asked me... "What theme will it have?" then he said something in German meaning purpose (Oh!German... thought there was something wrong with you - Basil Fawlty). Themes many, themes none. Don't know and couldn't be bothered. Just wanted to hook and not miss the bus of the Kinnie Generation. Because we are out there.

Just a word of warning. Satyre, irony, black humour will be at home in this page. No rules. No holds barred. So people of a weak and gullible disposition should just f-off and vote labour. People of a pompous I know it all and saved the world yesterday disposition should also f-off and vote nationalist. Mark Vella should f-off anyway. I thank the readership of one who will read on... at its own risk of course.

This blog didn't half come out as good as any of the 12 first attempts. But then it may be destiny. It is much more sombre. I hate sombre. I like anything that makes you laugh.

'nuff said. now let's begin.

****

il Bollettino della Sfi*a
Kinnie & Twistees
The Laughing Fit
Postform

Numbers

364 D: 439P : 48118L


"time is what you make of it"

The Family Hearth

For the first time in recorded surveys, Internet use has outstripped TV viewing. This historic result was recorded in a survey of UK consumers that was commissioned by Google. The mediatic earthquake continues and it would seem that the latest displacement since "video killed the radio star" is happening before our very eyes. This is the first snowball that is destined to create an avalanche that will revolutionise the life for the next few generations.

TV had invaded family homes by the early 50s and by the 60s had replaced the radio as the family hearth. The family would centre its activity around the TV and be formed by it. The consumer society would develop around the flashing images from the tiny set and by the nineties the way the human race waged wars would be affected by TV coverage. Terrorism also gradually caught up with this new medium and staged its horrificent theatrical dramas purposely for the little screen.

The new medium elbowing its way gradually since the early nineties is still uncovering its full potential. The net still has a long way to go before it establishes itself as the medium of a definite era as the TV has been for so long. It is already on its way though. Urban planning is being affected by the internet. Access to the medium is becoming of paramount importance - entire cities are planned to become Wi-Fi spots (see Toronto). Your local burger branch will soon not be worth its salt if it did not have a wi-fi zone (see Quick in Luxembourg). As though surfing the net was always the natural complement to biting into your favourite bacon burger and fries.

What are we doing on the net? For now we are exchanging funny files, reading the news (displacing tree media in the process), exchanging letters (displacing the purpose of the post in the process), downloading media (read music and films), expressing ourselves (read blogs), and apparently - the most time spent on the net has to do with shopping (read ebay). It is not all happening on the net yet. The Prodi vs Berlusconi battle will be fought out on RAIUNO in prime time and not on www.fastweb.it in some prolonged online debate which could easily include the citizens. The European Commission is a bit advanced on that matter... it has hooked onto the idea of using the net as the main medium of getting closer to the citizen and in my view it is making the best bet.

The battle lines have been drawn. The titanic battle of TV vs NET has begun. In Italy there was a recent case allowing two websites to continue to stream Chinese TV that allowed people to watch football matches for free. The TV lost the battle there. In other areas the NET is trying to invade and take over. Information, privacy, real time broadcasting. Even the Cinema and the age of Blockbusters seems to have found its end at the doorsteps of the ether. More and more distribution companies are toying with releasing films on the net at the same time as they are released in theatres in order to circumvent pirates.

And finally... pirates. The net has resurfaced this term that had been lost to the romance of swashbuckling one-legged seafarers. Pirates are normally a crucial element in the build up of Empires. From Ancient Phoenicia to the British Empire, the involvement and tacit acceptance of the existence of pirates has pushed the development of an Empire forward (if only to avoid losing ground to the mercenaries). The net seems to be headed in that direction.

Television is dead. Long live television.

Fuoco (Celentano)

Siamo sempre lì, intorno a lei

a farci riscaldar dai suoi guai

e dai suoi "consigli per gli acquisti" di illusioni

che ci rendono belli fuori

e ci fan marcire dentro,

mentre l'ignoranza arriva in casa vestita in frack,

e tu sei sempre lì

sempre

sempre di fronte a lei

e non ti accorgi che

non parliamo più

e speri che prima o poi ti dia

il consiglio giusto per farmi innamorar di te

davanti a noi non brucia più

quel fuoco antico che ci unì...

ti stendevi nuda e nel dolce crepitio della fiamma

che ardeva in quel camino

si confondevano i tuoi sussurri mentre io

bruciavo con te.

Fuoco

da quando ti sei spento

l'amore di tutto il mondo

si è spento insieme a te

e ora al tuo posto

troneggia una sputabugie

dove trionfa l'ignoranza colta

di questa gioventù

coro:

Fuoco

da quando ti sei spento

l'amore ch'era in noi

si è spento insieme a te.

Brit Beef is Back

Look who's back. Ten years ago British beef was banned from world wide export amidst fears of spreading of the spread of Mad Cow Disease. In March 1996 I was still half way through my law degree, the world had no idea what 9/11 meant, there was no Mad Cow at the head of the US of A, you could probably have as many cartoons in the Jylland Posten without much more than a few angry letters to the editor, feta cheese could still be made in Denmark, the European Union was still feeling its latest enlargement, the euro was still an idea and George Bush meant George Bush senior, we were still gearing up for the next European Cup finals as football was going home and malta was to start a two-year trial of Labour non-governance.

Then they banned the beef to prevent the spread of mad cow disease. Now the beef is back. But it is still a mad mad world.

cuban countdown : 33
world cup countdown : 92
days to j'accuse blogday : 1
days to official launch of kinnie & twistees : 1
days to official launch of the laughing fit : 1
days to official end of hibernation for il bollettino : 1

the ides of march are nigh

j'accuse 365

j'accuse will have spent 365 days on the net in two days time.
here are a few scrolling images from the past posts.

images will change over the next few hours.

Juve Pitch (I)

I have decided to write this post in order to try to explain fanaticism and football to others who might think that this writer loses it every time the Beautiful Game is mentioned. The descension to infantile diatribes with other equally fanatic supporters might ring as puerile behaviour to those others that either (a) don't geddit or (b) geddit but love the holier-than thou posturing that it allows them to take.

So Football Fanaticism. What is it all about? Where does it all start? We must perforce start with a warning. You might get to the end of this article and still not understand. Just like there are probably many who read Nick Hornby's book and still did not get the ticket. So there you have it. I warn you. Any comments about "eleven grown up men running after a ball" will force me to violate my tolerance principle and to delete them outright. Especially if they are coming from people who can sit through the whole series of Desperate Housewives without a yawn.

Secondly, it is not about sex. The only time sex is involved in football is when trying to compare the satisfaction of a last minute bungled goal when the goalkeeper slips and your team make it through to the next round and that of a contemporaneous orgasm when you just KNOW that everybody concerned has enjoyed the fun. And, yes, many people will be disappointed to know that it takes more than five minutes of reflection before calling that a draw. Neither is it about gender. The fan is unisex as far as I am concerned. Only the male fan has a anthropological tendency to sway into the genre of "fanatic" more often than others (as in bi or female or gay or what the heck should I know). It must have something to do with the hunter gatherer thing but I am not too bothered to find out.

Now to fanaticism. There is the team you choose. No matter how the choice happens, the real fan will stick to the team through thick and thin. It will "never walk alone" as the Liverpool anthem goes. I chose Juventus because of their initial and Brasil because of a colourful description of their 1970 team in a book published for Spain '82. The real supporter can never switch team. You do not have to be raised within the team's borough or quartiere to feel an integral part of it. Neither does attending any live matches of the team have anything to do with it. It's an invisible umbilical cord that ties you to their fate once you have studied all their statistics, learnt all their nuances and begun to wear their colours every Sunday while listening to Tutto Il Calcio Minuto Per Minuto.

You will flirt with other teams. In my case I flirt with Valletta regularly, I had a long-standing flirt of sympathy with the Manchester United that still could not win a league throughout the eighties, I still flirt regularly with Barcelona although I can never forgive them for that Archibald goal. But flirts seldom last. Real passion is reserved for one club (and in the case of most Maltese) one other nation.

With passion comes rivalry. Without rivalry and the other there is no youl. Football is not all about entertainment. It is also about watching others slip by. It is about being able to sing about their losses as well as your gains. It would not be complete without that. I am talking about the non-violent, witty rivalry. The one that is best encapsulated with the long-running Inter jokes. And where does rivalry start? Every team has different rivals at different times. When I started following Juve with a passion, when the first black and white spirits began to inhabit the sporting mind, Juventus were battling the giallozozzi for the Championship. It was Platini vs Falcao. And my childhood friends enabled this rivalry to burn.

First there was Helmut. A german name but a Romano de Roma. Every summer he would head down to Marsalforn full of the lore of the tifosi. We would scour the Gazzetta or his prefered Corriere to learn about transfers. He would tell me of stadium chants that were the current trend (and I could only listen jealously since he would never tell me what the Juventini were singing). When it was not Helmut in summer it was Chris Soler. Now a criminal lawyer but then a criminal Roman. He was too passionate about Rome. He did not have a subbuteo pitch, he had an Olimpico miniature.

We played one-a-side football in the Qui-Si-Sana "gardens" but in our mind it was 11 a-side and we were all the players of our beloved clubs. Soler had the habit of extensive celebrations after scoring... shouting the name of some Roman attacker... Falcao Falcao! I dropped the habit some time around Prep I at Saint Aloysius' College... Soler, it seems, still shouts Totti with every goal.

Well... you begin to learn to despise your rivals from when you are young. Especially after the first "disfatta" of your team. The first loss. The taunting and jibes get to you. And you will carry it to every next match transforming it into an additional reason for your team to win, win, win. I never had a malicious hatred for any team. Irritating yes but malicious never. To me it is part of the game. You learn to live by it. My generation of Juventini cannot stand the gomblottisti giallozozzi. Later generations remember Parma, Dortmund and Milan in the same light.

The thing is that you begin to live, breathe and think football on match days. There is everything at stake. It is ironic. The choice you made as a toddler sticks with you in good and in bad. It makes you bite through your fingers, risk cardiac arrest and scream "Goal" out loud in a restaurant full of quiet diners. It is incurable... and I add thankfully. It is part of the lust for life.

I will stop here for now. There is still too much to say for one post. And I am still oozing out the genuine contentment after yesterdays rocambolesque ending to the match. We are through to the next round, luck or no luck. Next time I intend to talk about the extent of fidelity and about how I cannot understand those who extend their fanaticism to "all Italian clubs when they play in the cup". I will also try to explain how you can side with Valletta even if you never turned up at Ta Qali stadium except for that occasional Belt-Rahal duel - just as much as you can be a Floriana diehard if you live in the middle of Sliema close to the lazy corner ;)

To the next one.... and I hope Arsenal - Real is truly interesting and that the spectators will be able to enjoy the magic of Roma-reject Cassano :)

Blogcomber

Deep among the original posts of j'accuse we find attempts at coining new words and phrases, or adapting existing ones to the blogosphere. From the ever-so-controversial "wankellectual" to "writer's blog" to "insanabile cacoethes scribendi". We have come up with a new term for all to digest (and probably criticise). At its source is the old concept of the "beachcomber" a scavenger of beaches on the lookout for precious flotsam and jetsam. Nowadays we have the scavenger of blogs. The word I am about to present was inspired by peklectrick's poem here (which also reminded me of this post of mine). So here it is:

Blogcomber: a scavenger of blogs. One who scavenges through blogs on the lookout for interesting reads. Usually adopts a tool like bloglines to facilitate his job of scouring for new, readable material.
also:
blogcombing : the act of scavenging through blogs

There you are. And remember you read it here first after your blogcombing led you to j'accuse!

cuban countdown : 34
world cup countdown : 93

Che Culo!

... is what Italian's say when there is a stroke of luck. And that is just what was needed this time round. For a moment I felt like the giallorossi might feel most of the time.... winning with a botta di culo. Only then I remembered that they rarely get to taste the quarter finals of the Champions League. The fate of a supporter is dramatically intertwined with the fate of his team. the real supporter will hang on to the team no matter how desperate it is looking. Seeing Werder play the offside trap to perfection, watching their counter-attack look as deadly as only Micoud could have done that evening, the real supporter prepares to bite the bullet. When every shot by your team is saved by a super goalie you begin to give up and transfer the reserves of hope to that whore of passion better known as lady luck. I sent the doom laden sms to Pierre at half-time:"Notte Kerha" in allusion to the writer's nick of Notte Brava. Pierre replied full of hope. So did Nathaniel that fellow Juve fanatic from Malta. For that half Brussels, Luxembourg and San Gwann were united in hope (I know peckelectrick must have been hoping somewhere else too). Then hope came in the form of a bungling save by Werder's seemingly ubermensch goalkeeper. A stroke of luck finished off by El Puma Emerson. The Brazilian genius, who left life in the provinces to play for class, delivered the killer punch with one of the easiest goals he will score in his life. We were graced, where all valiant efforts and build-ups had failed the blind lady had helped. We needed a bit of the "culo" and we got it. And as a blind , faithful supporter I will repeat what I said when we still needed the goal: "I do not care how it goes in... so long as it goes in and we are through to the next round!"

Dedicated to all the Vecchia Signora supporters out there.

Jerdghuh Brema?

cuban countdown : 35

world cup countdown : 94

Ordonnance Medicale

BRUFEN 600 1 cpn 3x/jour pendant 5 jours

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ULTRALEVURE 3-4 par jours

THIS BLOGGER IS NOT A HAPPY BLOGGER.

Inadequate Cover

9 of the thirteen independent candidates in the forthcoming local elections have complained of "discriminatory behaviour of certain sections of the media". The TOM is in all probability not the medium in question since it gave full coverage to the independent's propaganda and grieviances in full in this article. Some things will never change. There will always be a smattering of alternatives to the two bigheads in local politics. Their initial wave of enthusiasm will wane suddenly when they notice that superwann and nettivi fail to give them much prominence in their broadcasts. (Surprise! Surprise!).

Ironically, I always thought that local councils was the main field where the duopoly could be broken first. You do not need national tv to get your message across your village. A well structured campaign over the last few weeks before the crucial vote can do the trick. If nobody believes me I am willing to manage a campaign in any village for a serious independent (at a price of course).

On the other hand the complaint (or complain as we would have it in Malta - should I spell it komplejn?) continues to underline yet another sector of our society that betrays our shaky standards of living. We have a rotten media, a shaky road transport system (public or private), an insular mentality manages the airlines, and a kill-the-golden-egg-latying-goose mentality when it comes to touristic investment. Throw in a language that is no longer here nor there ever since everybody seems to know what is best for it, two political parties that still invest in Punch & Judy politics, a pension bomb, a stipends dynamite, a drydock impasse, a health trap and rising departure tax and what have you got left?

Thank god for ftajjar, hobz biz-zejt, the Blue Lagoon and Kinnie & Twistees.

*yes the last bit is a plug for the Maltese version of j'accuse. Thanks Bobby for the plug in WT.

Countdown to Cuba: 36 days

Countdown to World Cup : 95 days

Toothache

Saturday has passed slowly, very slowly. When you have a tootache you start to see a lot of things in perspective. The pain is excruciating and you enjoy the moments of relative calm like some oasis in the desert. In the morning I watched "The Game" a film with Michael Douglas that was relatively pleasant considering how much I do not like the actor. As the pain led me in and out of trances and paracetamol gorging seances I tried my luck at fifa 2006, MIB and tekken... all playstation stuff. That's grown up stuff you see.

I nibbled through a galette breton with chicken and cheddar and contemplated liquidising the second half to minimise the pain. By the evening I would do anything to forget the horrible earthquake in my jaw and I was glad for that deviation all men love during the weekend. Footie. Juve, that classy queen, won (again). It is wonderful to follow a team full of class that breaks records without much ruckus and fanfare. With today's goal Juve became the team in Italy which has scored in most away games in succession. With today's match Juventus have achieved a run of 18 positive results...15 won and 3 drawn. All these records (like most other useless stastics - lesser squads please note) will be useless unless the tricolor is sewn onto their chests again.

Anyway this evening I continued to work on my homepage that will be the seamless link between all four blogs and photos and photogalleries (later to include flickr). Check it out here. I am off to sleep off the pain... see y'all on Sunday.

Baby It's Cold Outside

The weather ain't bein' clement that's what it is. Today's weather report for France made the hexagon sound as huge as China. In the North (and that includes the Duchy) we have snow warnings. No need to warn this Gozitan. I can bloody well see the greyness and whiteness out there. The curtain of falling snow is thick, the roads inpracticable and the serenity muffling. but it's cool... or rather cold. Further down, in Lyon to be exact, they are lucky to register 8 on the celsius scale. That is point five less than Malta's coldest day since 1962. Who's complaining now. You only need to drive four more hours away from Lyon and get to Provence and the bastards down there are getting a magnificent 15 degrees (l'odeur de Printemps according to the met reader).

Across La Manche I was amused to see that parliamentary questions have been tabled questioning (that's what PQ's do I am afraid) the HM's Met Office practice of speaking of the start of Spring on March 1st. It goes against all historical calculations which put Spring's Starter firmly around the 20th/21st mark. "But we've been doing it like that (starting on the 1st) for ages" protested the Met man. Meanwhile the Whisky Pygmy in Aberdeen is waxing lyrical about Spring's games at neebother. Which makes me wonder whether the Scot's know something that the Brits don't.

I look out and I see snow (and hesitate to say blizzard). So tonight it's din dins inside and then we will trek to the cinema in parka, snow shoes and preferably a snow plough! But baby, it's cold outside!

The neighbors might think - Baby, it's bad out there

Say, what's in this drink - No cabs to be had out there

I wish I knew how - Your eyes are like starlight now

To break this spell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell

I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move a little closer

At least I'm gonna say that I tried - What's the sense in hurting my pride

I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out

Ahh, but it's cold outside

* More musical suggestions at The Laughing Fit while Kinnie & Twistees has gone academic *

Bush's Cassandra

One of the protagonists of the Tale of Troy is Cassandra, the Cursed Prophetess. She had been a favourite of the god Apollo who had given her the gift of prophecy. Unfortunately after a little tiff with the aforementioned deity her gift was slightly amended to the extent that although she would tell the truth, nobody would believe her. Quite a burden actually. It must be extremely depressing to be able to forewarn of impending doom and to find out that the powers that be do not believe you and prefer to wage a never-ending war that will cost many, many lives before something resembling a solution will come about.

Which brings me to Bush. After the raage of New Orleans by Katrina, Bush went on record stating that he did not think that anybody could have anticipated the breach of the levees. It now transpires (on videotape if you please) that Bush was given the full doom and gloom scenario of the potential impact of what was then still an imminent hurricane. Michael Brown (then chief of the Federal Emergency Management Agency) then played the role of Cassandra and warned of the impending doom. He warned of the immensity of the impact and of the fact that there might not be sufficient forces to deal with safety, security and disaster management. This is what Bush had to say then:

"I want to assure the folks at the state level that we are fully prepared to not only help you during the storm but . . . after the storm. And we pray for no loss of life.”

Yeah folks. No worries. Bush is allways right. There are Cassandras everywhere. There were those who warned Bush that his quest for WMD would bring out nothing but blood and civil war. We had Cassandras warning the FBI of imminent terrorist attacks on the fateful 9/11. But Cassandra's are doomed. They are doomed to being ignored by everyone. And that includes being doomed to be ignored by Bush.

A bit like the needs of the rest of the world that is.

I hope his next curry is very very spicy (five chili peppers on the menu) and that he does not believe the waiter who points out "Mister Prezeedent, the curree iz veree hottee."

Cuban Countdown 39 days
World Cup Countdown 98 days