The honesty of politicians has never been questioned. In fact, it’s never been mentioned. Perhaps that is why most politicians have four speeches – what they wrote down, what they actually say, what they wish they had said, and what they are quoted as saying the next day.

But then, they say that the mocking bird can change its tune 87 times in seven minutes. I am sure politicians regard this interesting fact with a lot of envy.

Ever since the nationalisation of broadcasting, Guardamangia Hill has always been a source of both inspiration and embarrassment for politicians of all shades and hues, especially ministers who presumed their Cabinet appointment was some sort of green ticket for virtual personal ownership of the State’s radio and television apparata, the often bemused personnel, like a pack of glittering batteries, included.

I have seen them come and go like little tin solders in and out of my childhood’s wooden box of wonder. One important thing I learned throughout those many years of involvement with national broadcasting was that some politicians who act foolish aren’t really acting. There have been the arrogant, the feeble, the crafty, the bewildered and the astute. There have also been the kind, the understanding, the openly disinterested and the meddling.

There was always such a flurry of excitement every time a new minister responsible for communication was about to visit us. Those who knew him did the preparatory whitewashing, those who didn’t simply masticated into their nails. But we all knew the man, for it was always a man we had to look after our electronic souls, could mean happiness or anguish to one’s working life. The magnetic political appeal of the place, even since the advent of pluralism in broadcasting, was to the politician what McDonalds leftovers are to a rat.

Thankfully enough, one soon realises that politicians don’t live up to their promises. If they did, the country would be in permanent ruins. Don’t politicians do more funny things naturally than most of us can do purposely?

So when Austin Gatt came to PBS after the last election, most of us had grown used to these first encounters of the third kind. As managers, we tried to prepare our staff for the visit, though there were several occasions when many of them actually knew the visiting politician much better than the rest of us. I guess they could even tell what he had in mind for them! There was also, of course, the same situation in reverse, courtesy of the strictures of our dual-party system.

We had heard so much about Austin Gatt, so the anticipation was greater. Here was a man whose reputation for doing things preceded him. How he did those things, of course, was another story. My own perception of the man, always from a distance, was that here we had the kind of Maltese politician who reports that he concluded a very pleasant and fruitful campaign… because he only kissed the babies who were old enough to vote.

When the big day came, the new minister strode into our boardroom for yet another round of introductions and policy speeches, fully aware we had heard them all before. But there was a warmth to it that day. As always happens, when all the official niceties were over, those present quickly fragmented into little groups around the room and, in between one stuffed olive and the other, continued the great debate on the future of public broadcasting now that we had another political Tom Jones to sing us the tunes.

I was then running the Archives department at PBS and keenly involved in an EU-financed project to help salvage, preserve on modern format and, hopefuly, one day digitise the audio-visual treasures in our care. So there was a lot to tell the new minister, happily no stranger to the IT process we would eventually need to utilise. But we had gone our separate ways. The minister was on one side of the boardroom with the chairman and other brass hats, I was on another with some fellow executives.

Suddenly, I heard my name being shouted. “Charles, come and tell me some more about this archives project,” the minister told me from across the room in his strong, macho voice that would have given John Wayne goose pimples. But I felt important. Here was our beloved new minister showing special interest in my work. Archives people were never this popular. So I quickly walked over to him, re-shook hands and was about to start my standard explanation of how important it is for the national station to finally have the opportunity to organise its precious holdings on behalf of the nation that had so far been rightly critical of its record. My colleagues must, by then, have become sick of hearing it, so often had I yodelled the same arguments.

I had also mentally prepared myself for this opportunity. I knew that some politicians are so windy they could give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation by telephone. Here was one, however, at least so we were told by conoscenti, who would rather wallop you back into breathing.

At the end of my short elucidation, watched by some of the

non-PBS guests, who could

possibly have been winking at the minister from behind my back, he shot back: “And why have you not put all those archives on DVD yet?”

Just as I was about to explain that we did not have a single DVD-player at our station in 2003, let alone the possibility – and wisdom – of transferring the thousands of unidentified, dirty 16mm films onto that particular format, the minister rose, started talking with someone else about something else, perhaps how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall, and I was left standing there like an idiot who had thought he’d won the race when the other horses had already been washed and groomed back into their stables.

That was my one and only meeting with our new minister, who two years later, criticised the Ombudsman for declaring that I had been shabbily treated in connection with my application to remain at PBS as part of the new restructuring exercise. But I will not let this be a vehicle for some sort of personal crying game. The man simply does not deserve such pleasures. Suffice to say, though, that for someone reputed to have a forward-looking attitude, it is sad that he should have let his hatchet men drum up a past that has never been seriously examined or explained. But then, he has no time for explanations, has he?