Strange how people can be so unwittingly honest at the unlikeliest of moments.

Take George Pullicino’s press conference this week. That’s right, the one he gave after the development boundaries vote was taken, in order to retrospectively explain the reasons why his party voted the way it did, when really and truly, no clear reason had actually been given for the vote before it was taken, with the result that, well, the vote went the way it went. (Don’t worry, I didn’t quite understand that either.)

But in any case: according to George, the government has come out of the whole sorry mess “with its head held high.”

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Hear hear. I couldn’t agree more. For George is entirely correct: the government’s head is indeed held very high. More than just high: it is way, way up there, above the tree-tops, beyond the cloud belt, into the stratosphere and out into the farthest reaches of the galaxy, far, far away from all the mundanity of ordinary human existence. Further, in fact. So distant has it grown from the rest of us common mortals, that the government’s head is now visible only through the Hubble telescope, and even then, all you really get to see is a nebulous cloud of formless gases, bearing little or no resemblance to anything ever published in any Nationalist Party electoral manifesto.

In truth, you could almost say that the government’s head, not unlike the Starship Enterprise, has boldly gone where no head has gone before, and now stands at the very height of hypocrisy. I must say I’m impressed.

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Meanwhile, back down here on Planet Earth – you know, that round, blue planet that was built illegally by the Polidano Group, only to be retroactively sanctioned by MEPA – heads held at ordinary heights are currently being scratched in great bewilderment by ordinary people who just cannot, for the life of them, understand what the hell the Minister was trying to say. Heads held high? Is that a metaphor? A simile? Or just a load of Michael Ballacks?

And one by one, they all turn to me – possibly mistaking me for a wise old man on account of the first white hairs in my recently trimmed beard – to beg for an explanation.

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Explanation? Moi? Why, certainly. Here goes.

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OK class, open your First Aid In English books on page 36. As you can see, the expression “to hold one’s head high” actually means “to be proud of one’s behaviour”. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Proud? Of the new development boundary extensions? What on earth is there to be proud of?

But then, you’re clearly not seeing the bigger picture (possibly because your head isn’t held high enough to take the whole thing in.) So try putting yourself in the government’s shoes for a second, and see if it doesn’t suddenly make a heck of a lot of sense.

For instance, if you, like the Government of Malta, had succeeded in springing on an unsuspecting population a measure that is diametrically opposed to your declared aims to protect the environment;

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And if you, like the Government of Malta, managed to engineer things in such a way so that it is the supposedly autonomous authority known as MEPA to propose the scheme on your behalf, and even then, at speeds which clearly indicate that the entire exercise couldn’t possibly have been properly thought through.

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If, while you were at it, you also get MEPA to state that no Environmental Impact Assessment is actually necessary, against all logic (and even against the law);

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If you, like He Whose Head is Held High, succeeded in using the selfsame arguments you yourself once rubbished – e.g., that an increase in development will bring about a drop in property prices – in order to justify your own absurd proposal.

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And if you managed to bully, cajole and suborn the country’s leading environmentalist NGOs into not protesting against your proposal, to the point that (as a friend of mine so ingeniously put it) they can now almost drop the “N”, and become simply “GOs”.

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If you managed to cultivate an entire party of genetically engineered backbenchers who are physiologically incapable of doing anything other than agree totally with whatever you say, regardless of whether it makes any sense or not.

And if, my friend, having done all of this and more, you still manage to hoodwink the entire international community into thinking that you’re some kind of “democracy”...

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Well, wouldn’t you be proud of yourself, too? End of lesson.

Oh, to be a Nationalist backbencher

You know what? In conjuring up and elucidating that entire argument, an incredible thought just popped into my head.

What the hell am I doing here? Why do I bother writing articles, coming in to work on a Saturday, and getting all hot and bothered about such trivialities as the environment and human rights, when... I, too, could have become a Nationalist Party backbencher, and never had to do a day’s thinking for the rest of my working life?

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Yes indeed, I can visualise my entire campaign strategy already: Vote for Raphael Vassallo: he’ll say ‘yes’ to whatever you like.

For whichever way you look at it, being a Nationalist party backbencher must be the easiest career in job market history. All you have to do is sit at a bench, occasionally thump on the desk in front of you when the “Applaud” sign lights up (this usually happens when your beloved Master says something he thinks is witty), and... well, that’s it.

OK, every now and again you also have to vote on something; but even here, the process couldn’t be simpler. Just watch how everyone else on your side of the House votes, and do exactly the same thing. (Conversely, you can just look at how the Opposition votes, and do the exact opposite.) And even if you get it wrong, don’t worry. It’s called a “lapsus”, and will probably result in you being entrusted with a nice parliamentary secretariat in a couple of years’ time.

And then, just in case you hadn’t yet understood how entirely despicable your predicament really is, you’ll occasionally get someone like Austin Gatt (“To investments, and beyond!”) who’ll come out in public and openly rub you nose in your own uselessness. “Debate? In Parliament? What on earth for? Don’t you know we’ve got a five-seat majority? In other words, 33 human rubber stamps, all programmed to do exactly as they’re told, without exception, ever...?”

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Come to think of it, being a Nationalist backbencher is not unlike being a permanent groom at a permanent wedding service. Every now and again, the Speaker of the House will turn to you and say something like: “Do you, (Name), take this proposal to be your lawfully agreed upon Opinion, in Government and in Opposition, regardless of what your constituents actually think, so help you Gonzi?”

To which, not unlike Fabrizio Faniello, you simply reply: “Yes, I do.”

Amen.

* * *

There is, of course, a tiny snag. For in order to become a backbencher, you first need to get yourself elected to Parliament. This does admittedly take a little bit of work; not least, some exercise in the form of door-to-door campaigning. But in reality, it also provides excellent practice ahead of your lifelong career in dutiful obedience (with one significant difference. Instead of saying “Yes, I do,” all you have to say is: “Yes, I will.”)

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Right. That’s it from me for this week. I’m off to prepare my “Nghidu IVA” billboards ahead of the next elections. And after that, I have an appointment with a jellyfish at Bahar ic-Caghaq. Au revoir!