The other week, I found a small piece of paper thrust inside my letter box (that’s right, the same letter box whose acquaintance you all made several weeks ago, and which continues to this day to withstand an apparently endless siege of junk mail.)

Unlike the rest of the literature which accompanied it, this particular piece of paper was nondescript in the extreme. No glossy pictures. No special offers on dishwashers from a reputable household appliance store. Come to think of it, it didn’t even inform me that I had just won $1,000,000 in a lottery held in Winnipeg, Ohio. So what’s the big deal about this bit of paper, I hear you ask? What did it say, that was so important you felt you had to tell everyone about it on this fine Sunday morning?

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Well, strictly speaking, nothing. Pieces of paper tend to be somewhat lacking in the vocal chords department... a fact which greatly impedes their ability to communicate through the medium of speech. However, upon closer inspection I did find that there were plenty of words written all over it... and of these, the ones in bold written across the top immediately arrested my attention:

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“Let me destroy the problem before it destroys you.”

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OK, at this point I must confess I felt a vague, tingling sensation at the back of my neck. I mean, how did this piece of paper know I had a problem? I myself didn’t know until I read that. Is it possible that a simple piece of paper can know more about my own personal life than I do myself?

Intrigued, I decided to read a little further... and within seconds I had the answer to all my questions. You see, the author of this particular document (note: name withheld for fear of being misinterpreted as promoting this kind of absurd codswallop) claims to be an “AFRICAN MEDIUM OF INTERNATIONAL FAME”. And as we all know, African mediums of international fame have this innate ability to sniff out your problems, not only from a mile away... but also several hours, days, months and sometimes years before they actually materialise.

However, this medium is unlike any I have ever known. For not only is he a clairvoyant, fork-bender and faith healer all rolled into one: he is also a “Master of Love” (don’t ask me why, but visions of Barry White just danced momentarily in my head) who invokes the “power of white and black magic” to perform all sorts of unlikely feats... the full list of which seems to include: predicting the future; altering the past; communicating with the deceased; convincing the Inland Revenue Department that you are actually up to date with your tax returns; as well as providing miracle cures for every ailment known to man, physical, psychological, spiritual, animal, vegetable, mineral, thing, etc.

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Above all, the Master of Love claims that he “can save all your problems (sic)”... anything from “marriage, love, health, success in jobs, relationships, sexual problems, exams, court cases and financial transactions in business” to “self and family protection from bad spirit to bring your loved ones back in your life.”

He goes on to explain that his “work is 100 per cent guaranteed and you get results... forever.”

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How very interesting. Naturally, a couple of questions immediately sprang to mind. For instance: can the Master of Love also provoke a rain shower by dancing naked on the roof with a couple of bones thrust through his dreadlocks? Does he also do children’s parties? And if so, does he charge less than Vanni Pule’? And more to the point: can he also help with financial transactions outside of business...?

But no matter. It just so happens that when I received this document, I had just discovered that I myself have a very serious, very personal and (apparently) very insoluble problem of my own. And having already consulted all the orthodox and scientifically accepted problem-solving professions – you know, doctors, lawyers, counsellors, confessors, hairdressers, psychiatrists and at least one greengrocer – I know that the solution to this problem of mine is beyond the power of mere science alone. So, in desperation, I tried emulating the least scientific person I could think of, and found myself writings letters upon letters to all of Malta’s civil society asking for help. You know, all the usual clubs and associations that people turn to whenever they need to rustle up a sudden show of support, usually for purely political reasons: the Association of Illegal Boat House Owners, the Ghaqda Nisa Menopawzali, the Tennis Elbow Federation, the Abandoned Personal Assistants Association, the Society for the Protection and Care of Taxi Drivers, etc., etc., etc.

Sadly, though, they were all too busy falling over themselves to get into Tonio Borg’s “ “Holier than the Holy Cow” list to offer any serious help.

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And so, Master of Love, it seems I am left with nowhere else to turn. Can you help me? Can you “destroy my problem before it destroys me”? Or is it beyond even the powers of black and white magic, of voodoo, of “occhio malocchio prezzemolo finocchio”, and all the rest of that outrageously superstitious mumbo jumbo out of which you earn your daily bread?

Anyhow, I’ll just tell you what the problem is, and if you think you come up with a solution, just communicate it to me via telepathy.

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Here goes: I live in a seriously screwed-up country.

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No, no: I’m talking seriously screwed-up here. I don’t just mean that we’ve spent Lm200 million on a hospital we don’t need... Lm10 million on a Brussels “investment” which has since been left to rot... and Lm14 million on a Gozo sea-passenger terminal which is beginning to look like the official dumping site for all of Europe’s unwanted concrete (all this, mind you, at a time when the poor, the sick, the disabled and the underprivileged have to rely on Dar Tal-Providenza, financed only by the generosity of a grossly overtaxed population, for their survival).

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And I’m not even talking the state of the environment, either. In fact, the situation to which I refer is altogether more serious, more worrying and more potentially catastrophic than any of that. Basically, I’m talking about living in a country which has just entered the 21st century (not to mention this incomprehensible and apparently non-existent thing called “the European Union”), only to immediately slide backwards into a depressing quagmire of latent superstition, unbridled ignorance and pure, unadulterated religious fundamentalism.

Don’t believe me? Well, just take a look around you, Master of Love, and tell me what you see. Never mind the abortion entrenchment business, about which enough has now been written to last several gestation periods of an unborn lifetime. Witness instead the pomp and ceremony (not to mention ludicrous hypocrisy) with which the political party stations try and outdo each other in their coverage of all things connected to the Catholic Church: processions, village feasts, first holy communions, the blessing of homes... Witness how much of local radio airtime is regularly taken up by the Angelus. Or how every television and radio discussion programme, no matter the subject, feels it has to provide the official Church line (which, in nine cases out of 10, is usually considered the be-all and end-all of the discussion.) And witness, too, how Malta’s only privately-owned station, Smash, suddenly appears incapable of showing us anything other than an unlikely combination of teleshopping, Eddy Privitera and God TV.

And above all, witness the recent spate of thunderingly crass editorials in newspapers such as The Times and The Sunday Times. I mean honestly: “Let us all play our part to make Sunday the Lord’s Day”? The editorial line of a supposedly secular newspaper? In a country where you can’t buy a packet of pasta, a box of cereal or even a flipping toothpick on a Sunday... precisely because it is the Lord’s Day? Whatever is it going to be next? Will The Times start “naming and shaming” all those whose absence at Sunday Mass has been noticed by the Nationalist Party’s street leaders? Hang on, I know: how about a weekly list of the most popular penances handed out during confession? (Let’s face it: it would be a good deal more interesting than a weekly list of the most popular traffic contraventions, as is published elsewhere...)

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And just when you thought we could only get more fundamentalist with the re-introduction of the velu... hey presto! PBS (that’s short for Public Brainwashing Services, in case you didn’t already know that) has just announced that it will be airing a new advertising campaign to educate us all about... Human rights? Gender equality? Better driving? Any or all of the many and various things about which public education is, in fact, sorely needed... like sex, for instance? Or public health? Or littering? Or better eating? Or the finer details of that vaguely incomprehensible (and purely theoretical) phenomenon, democracy?

No. PBS will be airing an advertising campaign, paid for by the Media Centre, to educate us all about...

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... Christian values.

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Excuse me for raining on everyone’s procession, but... in a country which has been overdosing on Christianity for 2,000 odd years... and in which you need to be heard publicly boasting about your impeccable Christian values to get appointed to any of the chairpersonships currently available… and in which the government appears for all the world to think that it is, in fact, a Church (leaving the real Church with no option but to fill out the role of government, and provide this thing called “welfare”)... well, isn’t that a little like trying to sell a new pair of shoes to Imelda Marcos? Or a pair of shades to Elton John? Or a new set of stainless steel butcher knives to Mohammed Abu Al Zarqawi?

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Hang on... my extra-sensory perception radars seem to be picking up some kind of telepathic message. Hang on while I tune in...

“Dear Raphael. Thank you for calling the Master of Love. The solution to your problem is actually very simple. You need to emigrate to somewhere more progressive and a good deal less fundamentalist. Personally, I recommend Iran...”