A few weeks ago, I was invited to take part in the Xarabank edition that discussed the outcome of the European Parliament election. I will not bore you with more analysis of the PN defeat and the PL’s victory – for those who want to listen, the people have spoken.
My intention is to share a few thoughts about politicians and the way they behave when they are not, so to speak, in the public eye. It struck me that not many people probably know that, behind the mask they put on when they are arguing with political adversaries, there is an affinity between them that is not comprehensible to people who are used to seeing them pointing fingers at each other, sometimes with a few personal insults thrown in for good measure.
It is, perhaps, more than affinity, or comradeship. It cannot be called friendship, but it goes beyond the usual pleasantries exchanged when people who know each other meet, and does not stop with a terse conversation on the weather, a subject that is always brought up when it is clear that there is nothing more to talk about.
This emerged even more when the politicians present for the programme were, at times, surrounded by “their people”. The latter groups glared at each other in a way that led me to think that there would be a fight, or at least an argument, if one of them accidentally stepped on the other’s toes.
They even looked suspiciously at me when I walked towards them, perhaps thinking that, as a journalist, my sole purpose was to put their master with his back against the wall and, by so doing, I would embarrass him and the party in front of the thousands who were watching TV. For a moment I thought they were going to check whether I was carrying a weapon.
While this was happening, the politicians were shaking hands warmly and greeting each other like old acquaintances, and immediately embarked on a tête-à-tête about various subjects, excluding politics.
I am told that this is what happens in the Parliament precincts too. MPs from the two sides of the House chat about football, the village feast and the blonde they saw walking down Republic Street as they walk in or out of The Palace, or while having a coffee as one of their colleagues is addressing an almost empty chamber.
The camaraderie, of course, finished as soon as the Xarabank jingle was heard and Peppi Azzopardi took his place on the podium. The people were told to switch off their mobile phones, the cameras rolled, and the show started.
And so we had Frank Portelli picking on Anglu Farrugia, with the latter then accusing Tonio Borg, who in turn harshly criticised Maria Camilleri, who ended up turning her cannons on Dr Portelli. I was sitting on the side of the table, the only one without an agenda except to be fair in my comments, and was amused to see them getting all worked up as they went for each other’s throats – figuratively, and politically, speaking.
The verbal battle went on for some 25-30 minutes, until it was time for an advertorial break. When the microphones were switched off, they all stood up, all the bickering stopped and the four of them started talking about their next holiday.
Time for a quick coffee, then the cameras rolled again, and the arguments continued, with the past being recalled to make sure that people do not forget what happened, and the present mentioned to show that they have done better than the others. Until the next commercial break, when the discussion on the elephants of India and the museums of Europe resumed.
It went on for the duration of the programme – arguments when on air, and friendly chitchat when the red light on the cameras went off.
The studio was divided in half just as much as our society is because of politics and politicians, with half the audience applauding while one side was speaking, and the other cheering when the other side had a go.
It was a typical representation of the Maltese people, and I could imagine the heated arguments that ensued in clubs where the TV was switched on, and probably even within families where husband and wife, son and daughter, uncle and niece have a different opinion, just because of what had been said by the politicians on Xarabank.
When Peppi bid his viewers good night, the politicians stepped out of the studio and, who knows, maybe they went for a drink to continue exchanging notes on which tube station to stop at to visit the Colosseum, or the Eiffel Tower or Madame Tussaud’s.
Meanwhile, the dividing line that separates the two halves of the country grows wider.
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