It is at this time of the year, according to Christian belief, that the spirit of goodwill should be cast towards all men and most women. With this in mind I would like to extend my Christmas greetings to the following with a few kind words of encouragement.
To Dr Santa Claus, Leader of the Amateur Dramatic Party – please don’t worry about what old Daphne Caruana Galizia says about your wig. Lots of Father Christmas guys wear funny clothes, wigs, and even false beards. Santa, old boy, it’s what goes on in your head, rather than what you wear on it, that worries me.
To Dr Charlie Mango-tree, the Deputy Leader of the Amateur Dramatic Party, who is reputed to be the second best thespian on the island, after the great Santa himself of course. I hope you get a good part in Much Ado About Nothing when it comes to Valletta in 2008. Failing this, I hope you at least put your bottom into the rear end of the pantomime horse “Boxer” in your party’s production of Animal Farm. I know you would like to be in government instead but come on Charlie we both know that isn’t going to happen don’t we. Frankly, Daphne’s got more chance of becoming Miss World.
To Heather Mills McCartney, who no doubt could have married Prince Charles if she hadn’t been so busy doing her charity work. Dear girl, I hope the next 12 months brings you the recognition and respect you so richly deserve. Surely, the rest of the world will eventually wake up and realise that it was you and you alone who wonderfully opened Mother Teresa’s eyes to the plight of the poor in Calcutta despite being crucified yourself at the time. And, most important of all, it was you, although you hadn’t been born yet, who discovered Paul McCartney, formed the Beatles and then proceeded to write some of their greatest songs under your pen name John Lennon. Don’t worry pet – if you hum it loud and long enough we’ll get the tune eventually.
To Vladimir Putin, who was given the title “Sadam Insane of the Frozen North” by President Nicky Sarkozy. I hope Father Christmas grants your Christmas wish for 20 million Russian dissidents and six idiotic British spies so that you can keep your hand in.
To good old Dr Gonzo and his magnificent Dog Do Da Band government – I hope someone explains the real meaning of the words caring, truth, arrogance and corruption. Gosh they’d be doing you and the folk of Malta a good turn if they did. Nice idea but I don’t suppose it will happen. There’s probably more chance of Malta being voted holiday destination of Europe for the super cool and rich or Gonzo himself playing for Manchester United.
To dear little David Milliband Minor, aged 14½, who is Britain’s youngest Foreign Secretary for 300 years, and the pint-sized Le Petit Bonaparte Sarkozy. Guys, I hope you both get a pair of Cuban heel boots in your Christmas stocking. This would mean that you won’t have to stand on a chair when kissing anyone over seven years of age.
To Angela Merkel, the German Chancellor – a face lift.
To the Fat Controller and ex-Stalinist Prime Minister of the once Great Britain – an audition for the part of Oliver Hardy playing the PM in the new British comedy Never Mind the Sleaze Look at the Incompetence. Crikey, Gordon you have already made the part your own old thing.
To all the Islamic clerics of the Sudan, who wanted teacher Gillian Gibbons to be given a public flogging because she allowed her class to name a teddy bear Mohammed. Guys, I hope Santa brings you each a little teddy of your own called Jesus.
To the ladies of the Bubble Club – a mild winter so you don’t catch your death while running naked after dark in the deserted streets of Mdina.
To Hillary Clinton, who is affectionately known as the “Witch of Whitewater” by New York voters, either a carbon emission free broomstick, signed by the whole of the Bubble Club of Mdina, or the castration of hubbie Bill ‘Dick’ Clinton. My dear Witch – the choice is yours.
To those beautiful Maltese parking warden girls in case they need a little snack – five Big Macs, four large turkeys, three Christmas puddings, two toilet rolls and a partridge in a pear tree.
I did warn that Nicky’s honeymoon might be short
Nicky Sarkozy may have enjoyed a successful visit to the US in November. Bashing the Iranians is very popular there. He even spent a king’s ransom trying to impress the Chinese on a State visit shortly after in an attempt to shrink the trade deficit with China and catch up with the British and Germans who lead the export trade with the Peking Mafia. But at home his titanic battle with the lawless trade unions and the predictably violent and uncontrollable youth of poor Parisian suburbs continues.
On 5th August I warned that the arrogant and yet politically naive French were worshipping a new presidential couple – little Nicholas and his beautiful wife Cecilia. They apparently possessed the magic of the late John F. and Jackie O Kennedy. I also inferred that in reality, as the Kennedy magic was no more than a mirage, these two unlikely French clones of those 60s idols would do well to just soak up the fanfares while they lasted. His ratings were very high at that time.
On 19th August I questioned Le Petit Bonaparte’s wisdom in appointing Rachida Dati as Justice Minister, given the constant rumours that surrounded her past and her current lack of management skills. On 14th October I reported that his honeymoon with the French electorate might be short-lived as his economic reforms would compel the utterly lawless French unions to fly into industrial action and questioned whether he had the “Thatcher factor” to take them on and win where no French President had succeeded since the Second World War.
Then disaster struck. He was treated like a schoolboy on his first trip to Russia by their President Vladimir Putin. Ugly German Chancellor Angela Merkel showed her irritation with the little Napoleon and went so far as to say she didn’t even like being kissed by him. And he couldn’t even turn to his hero Tony Blair for mutual support as he had been replaced by the Fat Controller in the once Great Britain. Now his ratings were falling.
So life in the fast lane was proving about as friendly for Le Petit Bonaparte as in McLaren’s pit when Lewis Hamilton and Alonso were about. But it was only going to get worse and towards the end of the month it was announced that the police were investigating a claim that little Nic, when Mayor of a Paris suburb in the 1980s, bought an apartment there for a mere £600,000 from the builder when the true value was nearer £1,000,000. Then, almost immediately after, this pint-sized emperor was photographed carrying around current love letters among his Cabinet papers which called into question the state of his “perfect” marriage.
And so at the end of October, as the industrial strikes, which I had predicted, were bringing France to a complete standstill, it was announced that Le Petit Bonaparte and the beautiful Cecilia’s marriage was over. La Belle is supposed to have said, “I have done my duty. I brought Nicholas where he had to get to.” Meanwhile, her husband’s ratings were in free fall.
Perhaps they will make a film about her – “Cecilia of a hundred days”. Perhaps they won’t as if she had wanted to join other thoroughly self-obsessed and useless women adored by the shallow end of the media, such as Eva Peron, Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana, she should have stuck around a little longer for them to get used to the idea.
As for him, well he still has every chance to redeem himself but it hasn’t been a great start which has just been made a little worse by the news in France that Rachida Dati, the French Justice Minister, whose appointment I questioned, has been accused of faking her credentials to get into national magistrates’ school according to L’Express Magazine.
Nevertheless, I still retain a certain sympathy for this well meaning novice president but fear that things could remain difficult for some time to come and success will only be achieved by courage Mon brave – something your political forefathers have lacked. Being a true son of Thatcher is only achieved by guts and not by being a globetrotting celebrity – just ask your mate Tony Blair.
But surely there is a lesson to be learnt here. The people should elect a man (or woman) on the policies and the party that he (or she) represents rather than this silly obsession with their celebrity and personal life. Nobody showed any interest in Thatcher’s personal life as she got on with sorting out a horrible UK mess.
Whereas JFK and his weak imitator Dick Clinton proved that they could neither really hack it at home or in the White House – despite the rather woolly headed liberal hero worship of those in St Paul’s Square Mdina.
Baby Girl Jesus
Last Easter I was holidaying as usual in Reid’s Palace Hotel, Madeira.
I was talking one morning to Lord Walker, the ex-Tory government minister, who also goes there each year, when his granddaughter came up to us with her favourite doll.
“What’s she called?” I enquired. “Baby Girl Jesus!” came back the enthusiastic answer.
At which point we were all arrested by a gang of religious zealot Madeiran nuns who just happened to be passing at the time.
Really? Of course not because a) we weren’t in the Sudan, b) the nuns were gentle Christian girls who appreciated that the little girl meant no offence to anyone, c) the doll hadn’t been named Baby Girl Mohammed and d) there were no demented Islamic extremists within a thousand miles to whip up a rent-a-mob to demand our execution.
Mohammed is great – it’s some of his followers, those who run over little boys’ arms with a truck for stealing bread or imprisoning Gillian Gibbons for allowing a class of seven-year-olds to name a teddy Mohammed, that aren’t.