Author: Jacques René Zammit

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Mediawatch

Through the Eyes of Fanatics (Limp Biscuit)

I have been trying to get hold of the opinion columns on MaltaToday since David Friggieri told me that he made a fleeting mention to the J’accuse column on The Malta Independent on Sunday in his own MaltaToday column last Sunday. Thanks to Online Editor Matthew Vella I finally got to read through the article entitled “What makes a fanatic?”. Since, in editor Vella’s own words, the newspaper version of  MT is still on bunsen burner mode (back burner – but somehow bunsen is more appropriate) I have taken the liberty of creating a public link to the opinion column in question in order that my apologia for a “limp, imported ‘son-et-lumière’ spectacle’ is all the clearer. So before reading on click here to read David’s contribution to the MaltaToday opinion pages.

Ready? Now that you have become experts on ski-jumping allow me to add a few finer points of my own that seem to have been missed in this song and dance in praise of fanaticism. In short, without much mincing and beating (of words and round bushes), my whole argument (an apologia) rests on the fact that ski-jumping (and its injuries) only happens to the “fanatics” engaging in the sport. Firework factories and their preparation has this slightly different tendency of having a detrimental effect and of being a constant menace to other people’s life and limb (lives and limbs).

Yes. To begin with and to put our finger on the crux of the matter, firework preparation, transport and use in the Maltese islands is self-evidently a fanatic practice that puts much more than the lives of renegade desperados yearning for “the thrill of feeling alive” in manifest danger. The multiple factories dotting the islands like some insane minefield, the transportation of fireworks via main thoroughfares (metres away from civilian houses) and the questionable handling of the fireworks in situ just before the country’s air is filled with the “noise, colour and smells” are actually a continuous (and continuing threat) to the life and health of any a person who would desperately hang on to the “thrill of feeling alive” without so much bravado and manifestation of ignorant attitudes towards basic precepts of safety (thank you very much).

You see David? The ski jumper flying oh so highly and bravely over the green fields of Upper Austria is – at most – taking the risk of splattering himself onto the ground in what would be verily a gruesome affair of blood and a jigsaw puzzle of sorts for forensic experts. At most – and I underline the “at most” once again – knowing the Austrian fervour for regulation and safety (second only to the ever so boring Swiss) they would have made sure that no civilian (as against ski-jumping fanatic) wandered in the vicinity of the estimated point of landing (nor would such landing point be within range of any house or log cabin). Thusly, people who are fully capable of recognising their vital nature without resorting to fanatic thrills are spared the possibility of being surprised of a ski-jumpers limb careening through their bedroom window.

It’s not just that though is it David? You tell us:

“And let’s face it, feasts would simply not be the same without the murtali, murtaletti, blalen, murtali ta’ l-art and all the other exotic and colourful, yet potentially lethal objects which fill this country’s air with noise, colour and smells throughout the summer.”

Hmm interesting. I too am hooked to the smell of sulphur (is it sulphur?) in the air that sends unquestionable orders to the brain in the form of “tuzzana pastizzi, pizza bil-muxrums u kendi floss ‘ekk joghgbok” racing to the brain. Isn’t the pagan and spiritual thrilling eh? Does not the firework light, smell and sound provide the lovely background  to that ‘incestuous meshing of politics and religion’? Of course it does. We do not know otherwise do we? Does the fond memory of festa nights in any way justify the careless abandon with which our incestuous political leaders have tackled the issue until now? Not at all.

I’m sure an Aztec five hundred years ago would reminesce of the bygone days when the smell of blood and the scream of sacrificial victims filled the air while the population of Technotitlan celebrated the festivities in the name of the Sun God between a game of poc’t’apoc and a cup of hot choclotl. I’m sure he’d complain to the conquistador about the limp new style processions with the Virgin Mary at her helm and how they’re nothing compared to the wonderful passion exhibited by a winning poc’t’a’poc team on its way to summary execution on the high altar. Darn. These pussy Spaniards and their imported religions and traditions – they’ve ruined our passionate fanaticism to no end.

Seriously David. I’m not really that bothered about your branding a “son et lumière” as being a limp import – it is after all a question of taste and I’m not here to force feed you my questionable tastes. The problem though is that the conclusion in your article is a bit of a non sequitur. It may be cool and hip to get a thrill of feeling alive – many illegally available drugs and psychotropic substances provide just such a thrill. Does that make the danger posed by the current set up of the firework industry any better? Is fanaticism a justification? Methinks not. And while I sincerely hope that the idea of son et lumière is taken up by an avant garde village that will invest in training its sons in the art of light and sound engineering instead of bomb manufacturing I sure hope that a well-regulated single factory of fireworks will be able to still provide us with a taster of the crazy revelries of festas past.

I’m quite sure that change will not happen fast. There’s rarely hope for that on our island. In the meantime here’s an ode to the fanatics mentality – with no care in the world except their own. My way… or the highway (Limp Bizkit).

Categories
Hunting Politics

Living in Denial

The FKNK is busy ‘pouring scorn‘ on what they describe as an ‘alleged discovery’ of 70 (seventy) dead birds by CABS in the Mizieb valley. The war of attrition between FKNK/hunting community and the CABS/Birdlife coalition goes on. We’ve had another physical assault on CABS personnel who were inspecting an area for dead birds. Later in court, FKNK committee member Briffa claimed to have hit the CABS representative by mistake while trying to take his camera. While the lawyers and the law will work on the fine details of illegal arrest (tut tut) it is rather obvious that “trying to take his camera” does not sound like the most collaborative of methods by someone who should have no worries about searches for dead birds – especially since any discovery could only be ‘alleged’ or ‘fictional’. Comparisons may be odious but the trend in logical acrobatics and obstinate ignorance is common to the pro arguments of both hunting and firework factory lobbyists.

A friend of mine who recently temporarily relocated from Luxembourg to Malta after six years in the Duchy spent Independence Day at Buskett. He told me a story that sounded like a fable. For the first time in his life he saw many birds of different varieties (apparently Kuccard were spotted – and other unnameable ones for alas he is no birdspotter – at least not the avian kind). He also told me of the many hunters who gathered around in admiration of the flying spectacle. We both wondered whether the following thoughts went through their mind: “Ara jahasra, issa li ma nistghux nikkaccjaw ara kemm hawn ghasafar. Qabel qajla kienu  jigu. X’sahta!” (It’s such a pity that now that we cannot hunt so many birds are coming. Before we rarely saw so many. What bad luck!”)

Do you really think  that that scenario is hypothetical?

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Mediawatch

Masters of the Universe (Bruges)

Helena Dalli MP penned an article in today’s Times (Politicking in Lilliput) in which she attacked PN’s councillor Cyrus Engerer for daring to insinuate that Labour’s councillors had it in for him because he is gay. Tut tut. Here at J’accuse we can see where the Labour MP is coming from and we do not need much convincing to realise that Cyrus’ is a ploy to distract from the troubles of the ill-fated Sliema Council and PN’s participation therein. What we did not appreciate were two shots by Ms Dalli MP that had absolutely nowt to do with the issue.

Firstly, in a manner most unbecoming to a member of the house of representatives (and more becoming of certain sections of the pink blogging media), Helena of Labour takes a dig at Cyrus’ name. What has Cyrus’ name got to do with the price of fish? Unless you were to detect ancient Greek vs. Persian vs Trojan undertones the dig at Cyrus’ name is completely gratuitous. Helena then moves on for the kill. Proudly parading Labour’s credentials in the pro-gay camp Helena raps Cyrus for not realising that ’twas a Labour government that decriminalised sodomy “in the 1970s, when being gay was considered a matter of shame by many and the word pufta was used liberally and meant as an insult to homosexuals and others.” Now that’s one hell of a history lesson. The angry MP goes on:

But, then, they wouldn’t teach these things in the one-year Masters degree course in political science at the College of Europe in Bruges, would they? Although they do teach students the necessary skills to research a “fact” before making claims, as opposed to relying on gut feeling.

Say what? Now I had no idea that Cyrus Engerer also attended the college I consider to be my second Alma Mater but forgive me for feeling a tad bit involved there. Since when are the achievements (?) of a Malta Labour government of the seventies in the field of sodomy an important part of the syllabus in a Masters degree course in political science? Should we really be tut-tutting all the way to the Belfroi that the lecturers in the “one-year” (sic – as against a five year Masters I guess) course failed to examine the intricate details of Labour’s massive movement for homosexual emancipation in the seventies?

Forgive me Helena but much as I may agree with you on the whole Cyrus charade and deviating tactics you really have shot yourself in the foot on this one. Labour might have come up with decriminalising sodomy in much the same manner and habit as PLPN have of legislating the obvious 50 or so years too late but Labour is also the same party whose secretary general was overheard describing a (I have to say this) “talk show host” as “Pufta” over the mic during a public meeting. That was early in the twenty first century not late in the twentieth. I doubt whether rights of homosexual persons have really been so well championed by the nouveau PL – and I sincerely doubt that any of the truck riding, violence distributing, hell raising bastards let lose in Mintoff’s era were in touch with their feminine side by the way.

As for Bruges. It really tickles me that an exponent of the progressive moderates’ agglomeration still believes in the kind of classist bullshit which il-Perit (Rhodes Scholar by the way) had gotten us used to. I am very aware that the Bruges scholarship is currently underfire in certain quarters for other reasons that are absolutely unrelated to the academic standards. I can proudly say, for one, that I got the scholarship on my own wind without any parrini or recommendations in the background. I can also proudly claim that the Bruges experience was very much like a Saint Aloysius’ sixth form abroad – once you make it in you are left to your own devices. Simple really – by handpicking a bright bunch from the start (no modesty intended – and when there are no saints pushing idiots into the system – something I cannot deny could be happening nowadays) the College of Europe needs input little else to guarantee an elevated standard. Voilà.

By misleadingly drawing the Bruges degree into your article you only succeeded in alienating your readers (at least the un-modest intelligent ones) from the main thrust of the argument. Bravo.

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Articles

J’accuse : Preliminary Round

My mind’s been elsewhere this week since I’ve had to deal with a horrible combination of deadlines and convoluted case-work that managed to distract me to no end from my usual “side-job” of diligent observation and general filling of the pages of the ether with bits and bytes of bloggery. If I had to be frank I also think that the distraction has a lot to do with the beginning of what is generally known as the scholastic year. Mayans and Aztecs may have perfected the calculation of calendars and the passage of time and Popes may have adjusted the number of days in the year and whatnot but there is something about the scholastic cycle that is bred into the very make-up of the people of my generation.

I actually still wake up in the morning expecting the sound of the cockerel on the radio, as we were wont to here many years back while we were getting ready for school. That would be followed by a quick rush to perform the morning ablutions, showers and more before slipping into uniform to the sound of the sports newsreader maliciously mincing the names of teams while reading the football scores. Thursday morning could be quite a treat, especially during the earlier rounds of the Champions Cup, UEFA Cup or the sadly missed Cup Winners’ Cup.

It would become a virtual geography lesson replete with the most exotic of pronunciation twists as the sports reader would battle his way around such tongue twisters as Twente d’Enschede (they’re back), Lokomotiv Leipzig and Jeunesse d’Esch. I’d have a mental countdown , cringing inwardly as he approached the names of the more famous teams with the linguistic ability of a blind butcher culminating the experience with that ever so painful “Rijal Muddrid”. Somehow the ubiquitous omnipresence of the world of football has killed the charm of such pleasant moments and we have morphed to the daily observation of errors of all kind in the world of online news.

Varteks Varazdin
It is ironic that with the proliferation of European nations and the multiplication of clubs participating in UEFA competitions the young ‘uns of today rarely have any idea of the genealogy, geography and science behind every participating team. In my day (I hate these moments that make me feel old but hell it’s over twenty-five years ago now) I’d know that Jena was the city from which Karl-Zeiss hailed and by the time I found it in the Encyclopaedia (Caxton’s) I’d also have discovered that it would be famous for lens making.

I have surprised denizens of relatively unknown towns (by continental standards, no offence intended) with my knowledge of their local teams. True, it’s a geek’s world but hey, those were the pleasures of a pre-teen child in the era before Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. Now they play football on their PlayStation (great game by the way) but fail to gather the fruits of serendipitous knowledge that comes along with the fun of football.

Chernomorets Varna
So yes, this is the time of the year when the body sends signals that we have moved up one level as though I am living in some imaginary Pac Man world and we’ve moved from cherries to bananas. I’ve got no new schoolbooks to cover but I’ve still got that funny itch – 25 years on from the last time I started a primary school year. It’s not just the start of school but also exam time that gives you that funny feeling. It’s a bit like the whole world is programmed to work in bursts. I also have discovered that people from other nations have a different sort of “clock”.

Take the French for example (and most other people in the Grand Region i.e. Alsace-Lorraine, Luxembourg, and Rhineland). The school season seems to work in eight week bursts. Basically every eight weeks the kids have a substantial block of holidays and their parents get a supposed moment of respite. The effect it has on the general populace is a general feeling of lightness of being for those of us who are left behind (traffic in the morning is blissfully absent) while there is a general rush to fit in another family holiday. French kids do not have the same kind of “clock” as ours you see?

Go Ahead Eagles
Enough of the school and football talk though. This drab week will remain notable mainly for the funerals of the unfortunate victims of the explosion that is already fading away from our collective memory. Trust me, it will be business as usual before you can say “hoist by my own petard”. Incidentally the whole expression of being hoist by one’s own petard comes from the early use of gunpowder in warfare. Sometime after the Great Siege in Malta armies developed units called “pétardiers”. These men were charged with the carrying of explosive gunpowder on their person as well as other paraphernalia that allowed them to create an explosive in situ.

One of the things a petard-man had to carry (petard being the French word for bomb at the time) was a wick that was constantly to be kept alight. “Lucifers”, or as we tend to call them “matches” were not yet easily available so the poor pétardier had to carry the lit wick, the gunpowder and cetera and cetera. As wars developed into a series of elaborate sieges during the period known generally as the Thirty Years War, the job of the pétardier would be to follow the sappers who had been busy digging tunnels close to bastions and once on site to plug sufficient explosion into a hole in the wall to blast it to Kingdom Come (protestant or catholic).

There was a slight snag. The pétardier’s equipment transformed him into a walking trap. He could literally explode at any moment. Just like most machines in the early period of gunfire this was a very unfortunate circumstance. What with guns backfiring (one in four times the gun injured the user) and loosely manufactured gunpowder life on the front was not easy. So pity the poor pétardier who with a brusque movement or a sudden jerk suddenly manages to ignite the gunpowder on his person and disappears in a bang and a puff of smoke. You see? Hoist by his own petard.

Portogruaro Summaga
bert4j_100919But this week also brought us a stranded boat and a papal visit to the land of Henry VIII and Rowan Williams. That the Fernandez story was probably the most newsworthy this week accounts for much of the current dry spell in blogging. As for the Pope, poor Benedict. I couldn’t help wondering how he felt as he sat in Westminster Abbey across from Archbishop Williams reading his speech during evening prayers in his quasi-comic german accent. His papacy has been plagued by the whole issue of paedophilia and dark truths of the church. Benedict compounded his current PR position by sort of implying that such evils as Nazism were the product of atheism. He actually used the term “godlessness” which is slightly more equivocal and at least in my book implies more the kind of person who as strayed from god rather than someone who does not believe god exists.

In any case we live in the age of the touchy and false tolerance and political correctness. Benedict’s anti-godless words infuriated the atheist community and they once again presented the common fanatic front that we have gotten used to nowadays. Anyways. My biggest question in this not too reflexive a moment is simple – while I understand that popes must look like a more sober version of Santa Claus is it really necessary that they move and speak like robots? Rowan Williams may look like a wizard from the Harry Potter series but he does have the advantage of looking alive. As I type Williams has started to address the congregation while the Yoda lookalike is doing his best impression of a statue.

I apologise. This restless banter is the product of the nausea caused by the switch in season. A general lack of concentration, a doubled workload and a lapse of inspiration are to blame. I cannot really be bothered by the ailments true or imagined of the leader of opposition, the continued failure to address the needs of regulation in the firework industry and beached boats making the headlines, not to mention the lack of progres sin the regulation of party financing. Sadly even the lone columnist misfires every once in a while and this promises to be that once in a while for me.

Intercettati FC
While the recharging of mental batteries on the columnist front is taking longer than usual (also thanks to the dearth of bloggable material) we will soon be back in the thick of the political season. It is getting harder to decipher the real politics from the mediatic spin. In my five years of blogging I have witnessed the gradual creation of a virtual Maltese reality. As the papers have adapted to the scene and as more temporary bloggers appear we get a parallel Malta that is being conjured up on our computer screens.

Dom Mintoff’s hospitalisation provided us with the latest flurry of quasi-obituaries since Guido De Marco’s recent demise. Once again the noticeboards on the ether were filled with surreal proclamations and wishes as yet another window on this psychedelic island of weird customs gave transfrontaliers like myself a picture of the island we left behind. I met a Romanian person today who is a manager at a Luxembourg gym. He has been here for 27 years and we discussed the feelings of nostalgia for our respective homelands. He had an interesting observation to make – basically the nostalgia we have for our countries is for a country that no longer exists. For both Malta and Romania have continued to change in our absence. They will never be the same.

The land of Kinnie & Twistees I left five years ago when I embarked on this adventure to the forgotten duchy is no longer the same. On the other hand there is this parallel universe online that is a new, different Malta that seems to somehow occasionally cause ripple effects in the real world. So as the school bags are packed, the books covered and the lunchbox prepared J’accuse is still gearing itself for the new season. Have a good Independence Week.

www.akkuza.com is really in need of a good Kinnie (Zest). Can you match each heading in the article with a European nation? (Don’t bother with the last one, nobody does really)

Categories
Uncategorized

Raptor Camp

A great report on MaltaToday about the work of CABS monitors in the Maltese countryside merits as much attention as possible. Private individuals attempt to fill the administrative lacunae and shortcomings by providing valuable assistance to the ALE officers. “Raphael Vassallo spends an afternoon with BirdLife and CABS monitors in the Maltese countryside looking for that very elusive of species: poachers.” (MaltaToday)

Categories
Arts

31.07.11 – End of the World?

What with all the Mayan calendars and other superstitious nonsense about the end of the world in 12.12.12 (jeez… thank god for Gregory and his tiny adjustments), the last thing we need is another freak announcement about the end of the world being nigh and all. Don’t fret. We don’t have any insider information just yet, nor have we decided to kick off a new sect of the Advent of the Terminal Moment. Nope. We have sighted a near world-shifting moment that will be overlooked by millions of people the world over but it is world-shifting just the same.
Ferran Adrià, the mastermind behind Restaurante El Bulli has announced that the world champion kitchen of gastronomical bliss will be serving its last dishes on the 31st July 2011. It leaves us plebs who have never been to the famed restaurant and who still counted it among the “100 things to do before I die” will never be able to savour the pleasure and enjoy the relative exclusivity of the much-praised works of Chef Adrià and his team. It’s a bit like being a viking who has just been told that the Valkyries have gone on permanent retirement and Valhalla is being redesigned as a retirement home for the elderly on the lines of a Costa del Sol dump. So be it. Let’s face it. There is NO WAY we will make it on any list before July 2011. Ferran will not stop there though. There are new projects ahead and we hope that this time we will find a way to squeeze in on the waiting list.

Speaking to The Times (UK) Adrià complained that running the restaurant is no longer like it used to be. He compared it to Groundhog Day – knowing each day what will happen. So Adrià is on a quest for new horizons and excitements. We are more than willing to look forward to the next trip…

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