Most days I feel strongly about not feeling strongly about anything. The other days I don’t even feel strongly about that.

Everyone has so many bleeding issues. Take LGBT just as an example, and tell me exactly why I have to care so much. The L’s are usually nasty and butch, and simply create unfair competition. They’re meant to know better what the girls want, although I would challenge that claim anywhere, from anyone’s bedroom all the way to a court of law. The G’s are having the time of their life and should try to support me for a change. Last time I checked they weren’t exactly moping around crying about their miserable fate, but were amongst the most successful, talented and popular people around. As for the B’s… now how on earth did they ever make it onto this list, I wonder? They swing both ways, always have it good, and are about the last people of earth who need any sympathy. I would suggest a chastity belt or a dose of anti-promiscuity, rather than rallying for people’s support. As for the T’s, oh well yes, they might be a bit confused, but then again so are many other people.

And in all this we are also forgetting the OCD’s, and I am not referring to the obsessive ones here, just the Occasional Cross Dressers.

Some gay American deranged drama queen drag artist with lesbian tendencies, made all of this up, in some trendy New York 65th storey loft apartment, during a wild cocaine party, just for fun, and fuck me, or rather all of his/her friends, which I am sure they all did, much to everyone’s mindblowing surprise, it actually stuck! How cool is that.

I am most definitely the least homophobic person on earth, which is basically why I stopped campaigning for gay rights somewhere around 1975. Now if I lived in the middle of sister-fucking Kansas, it might be a different story. But here in 2015 Malta, I think it is straight married couples that need protection and that are a dying species, so go create some new dumb profile pic for us please.

Yes I really and truly hope that everyone is now labelling me as the most insensitive bastard on earth, because for me at least, gay people are so much an integral part of my daily social landscape, that I simply and totally refuse to fuss over them any more than anyone else around me. Their battle has long been won and now that they can even get married and adopt kids, they will undoubtedly very soon start to realise that they were much better off on the margins of society, partying and having fun, rather than burdening themselves with so much mundane responsibility which they luckily escaped before their mainstream arrival. Haha, talk about fighting for the wrong rights! Now how gay is that tongue emoticon

Ok, so we’ve done LGBT, so let me now sink my wicked teeth into every other boring issue on earth. There is the environment, global warming, the depletion of the Amazon Forest, the whales, the sharks, pandas, animal rights, freezing of embryos, GMO’s, age discrimination, bullying, domestic violence, equal pay, obesity, spouse abuse, teenage pregnancy, lactating teens, and under-ventilated sweat shops in Northeastern Bangladesh. Naturally this is just a greatly abridged list, for a full list just go to Google and search simply anything, yes anything. I can guarantee that there is a support group for absolutely any concept you can dream of and for quite a few which you cannot.

The main question here is – shouldn’t we care? And my own answer at least, would be a resounding – yes, of course we should.

But frankly, and this is my main point here, we should care not half as much as for the real issues around us, which unfortunately many seem to have totally substituted by their endless care for the forced circumcision of hermaphrodite iguanas in the central Argentinian plains.

I care about all of the above, but not half as much as I do for my marriage, just to throw in an example at random. I give my marriage infinitely more importance and work hard at it every day. I do my very best to love, respect, assist, support, serve, spoil and sustain my spouse, in every way possible. Simply because this is an infinitely more important issue than saving the trees.

Before they passed away, I totally cared for my parents and refused to send them to a home, preferring to sacrifice much of my time and energy for them in their final years. Yes, I know that homes are there for this purpose, but their own home was even more suitable and desirable in their eyes. So in their last few anguish filled years, I put aside my preoccupations on equal schooling for girls in rural Nigeria and decided to look after my parents instead.

I care about my children and grandchildren, for whom I would do literally anything. I think about my friends and relatives. I care about my neighbours and the people around me. And the list will go on and on a bit further, before I start hitting matters such as the freedom of expression of the incarcerated population of racially unequal communities.

I love animals with a passion, which is why I have transformed my home into a mini zoo. But my concern for my family and friends somehow comes before that of the humane cooking of lobsters. Yes it does.

My own personal theory is that in today’s society most have become extremely concerned about themselves, first and foremost. It’s all about their own needs, their full comfort, their life and their desires. Nothing will ever jeopardise their own gratification, not their partners, not their job, not their friends, or anything else. It’s me, me, me all the way. And in the few situations where they really have no other choice than to serve others, they are filled with scorn and contempt, rather than experiencing notions of happiness and satisfaction from giving to others around them.

Then after loving themselves and only themselves, there seems to be an enormous void, with little concern about the people and the real issues around them which should mostly matter, and which should really make them tick. And then somehow comes a passion for relatively obscure matters, which have little or no practical relevance in their lives, but for which they hold very strong feelings.

I too feel for the stray cats in Greece, and yes, for those who perhaps weren’t aware, there is a rather big movement rallying for this issue too at the moment. But shouldn’t I first check out my neighbourhood to see if any lonely, aged person in my immediate community is in dire straits and in desperate need of assistance. Shouldn’t I support my friends and lend them a helping hand in their current troubles and anxieties.

We neglect so many around us, even those who should by far be the main recipients of our thoughts and energies. We disregard misery and hardship which is so close to home. Yet we are so concerned about issues on the other side of the planet.

I feel strongly about the real people around me. The league of Los Angeles leprous lesbians can look after themselves.

Yesterday I was in Zebbug. I stopped at a service station to fill up my car. The bloke at the station was visibly Arabic and while he was assisting me, two Muslim women walked past wearing veils on their heads. Big deal.

As I then had about 20 minutes to kill before my next meeting, I parked my car next to the parish church, entered one of the typical band clubs there, and had a bacon and eggs ftira. Big deal.

These tiny mundane non-incidents led me to think what an absolute bore everyone has become. The sheepeople around us just keep being pulled into one inconsequential affair after another, getting their panties in a twist over absolutely nothing. This week it was all about burqas and bacon, next week it might be about dodos and dildos.

For all I care people can walk around stark naked, or topless, or wearing three piece suits, or yes totally covered. I know several who would gain a lot, or at least do everyone else a big favour, by covering their faces up completely…

And the arguments you hear can be so pathetic. I have heard several say that they could be caring bombs. Well unless they are carrying bombs on their cheek bones, then any Western woman wearing a skirt can equally be carrying a bomb, for what shocks people is that their face is completely concealed. So I really don’t get the bomb argument.

Others say that they could come into your home to burgle you, without being recognised. As far as I know, many Western burglars wear a burqa mask of sorts when they burgle too, so really no need to be Muslim for that.

While others still, repeat that they should be made to remove it when entering a bank. Well fine, when I will be opening my own bank, then I’ll have to contemplate this eventuality, but meanwhile it really isn’t my problem and no, I really and truly don’t care.

As for bacon, well what can I say. Isn’t virtually everything supposed to give you cancer, so why not bacon. There you go, that was my full analysis on the bacon issue.

And if you think I am being shallow and trivial, I very much beg to differ. I think it is those who bother about such nonsensical issues who are extremely shallow. While I ponder the meaning of life, the big bang theory and other cosmological models of the universe, as well as down to earth issues such as how to look after my family, you can discuss these meaningless and transient fads of the moment.

Social media is no different to anything else, insofar as it can be used for enormous good, it has endless potential in so many ways, but it can also be wasted on such trivial and pointless crap, which so many unfortunately choose to follow.

Yet ironically, it is not even this unsavoury aspect which still somehow puts off the odd remaining troglodyte, who does not even have a Facebook account yet, to consider finally joining the rest of the social media world. Oh yes, although this is an extremely rare specious, it is still not totally extinct. These are the same sort, in spirit at least, who many years after everyone else had a mobile phone, still called the rest of the world showoffs and posers, as they resisted what was more than inevitable. These are the same as those who decades after everyone else was using a computer, still did everything manually, thinking that it was they who were in the right.

Unfortunately these people will always exist. For them Facebook will automatically reveal all of their personal and most intimate of secrets, without them ever wanting it to. It will inform the burqa burglars when they are abroad, and will generally expose their every movement to the world at large.

I just had the dubious pleasure of spending an evening in the company of one of these dreadful dinosaurs, along with his much more contemporary wife and friends.

Yet although he is still not on Facebook, he is more than aware of my constant scribblings here and seems to hold dear a strangely harsh and passionate criticism for everything I write.

I must first make it clear that I am now fully used to spending much of my time discussing my rants, whenever I am out. As we very well know, Malta is a very small place and you tend to make a name for yourself very quickly. So of late, wherever I go, the subject tends to automatically revolve around my writing, which is now what I am most known for. I must also say that I constantly receive great encouragement from all and lovely words of praise, from literally everyone, except from this envious gentleman.

So as he has taken it upon himself to belittle my writing, he first seems to obsess on petty issues of grammar and spelling. I tried to explain that unless you are doing pure journalism and reportage, there is such a thing as poetic license, and that he needs to look at the bigger picture. I don’t do perfectly replicated landscapes and portraits, but I paint abstract, and as such I feel free to write in the way and the style I personally prefer. I even sometimes purposely ignore grammar and traditional syntax and deliberately put it the way I feel it and simply the way I want it, so as to add my little bit of personal flavour. But this seemed to be a concept that he couldn’t grasp. In his blinkered vision and Victorian reasoning, I required an English Literature Ph.D. to be entitled to write in the first place.

He mockingly even advised me not to touch politics and other seemingly serious matters, as in his own words I wasn’t of the required echelon to debate such learned topics.

This provoked a rather loud laugh from my side. For me at least, there is probably nothing more boring, basic and mundane than local politics. It is about the very last thing I want to write about, but for very much the opposite reason.

But the evening’s discussions fully confirmed the mindset of my afacebooked friend. We painfully went through all the common fears and phobias of local economies, the EU, immigration, Muslim invasions of Europe and holy crusades. About the end of civilisation as we know it, immigrants taking all our jobs. Today’s children having lost all sense of values and about a doom and gloom scenario when the Internet’s main cable is purposely cut, leading to panic, looting and general strife. This all ended in the dreaded topic of local petty partisan politics, just to round off the evening nicely.

Not quite my discussion of choice, and not, as he might think, because this is beyond me, but because I really and truly have no time to waste on such mindless matters.

His friend, who similarly to everyone else on Earth has a much more positive outlook on my scribblings, confessed that he thoroughly enjoys my humorous pieces. He admitted however that he found certain others to be quite introspective. I explained that in reality they were all introspective in one way or another, as they were all a direct reflection of my mind.

My friend’s wife, on the other hand, might have made the wisest comment of all. She remarked that it took a lot of courage for me to speak openly and to totally reveal my inner feelings and emotions to the world at large. I am not sure if she read the current cover picture here, but I would think that this were really her own feelings. I explained that I had absolutely nothing to hide and that I was true to myself as I was to others. For me at least, deep and contemplative writing comes straight from the soul with no suppression or censorship.

I really write for myself and although an audience is required, it is truly required for me to write for myself, if you see what I mean. I believe that all performers of sort need an audience, but ultimately they have to inspire themselves and do it the way only they themselves can feel it.

I must say that in spite of his disparaging ways, I still somehow enjoy his company. I like his wit and humour, and even his more than quirky cynicism, even if in many ways he is still stuck in the cretaceous era.

It wasn’t quite burqas and bacon, but sadly at times we really weren’t that far off.

I really hate alcohol. It most definitely must be the root of all evil. It destroys your liver, your kidneys, your brain cells and much of your body. It creates marital and social problems. It leads to excessive behaviour, promiscuity and poor judgement. Also to unplanned pregnancies and to so many bad decisions in our lives.

Yet still, somehow I say all this, as I pour myself a lovely glass of red wine. It’s a great little obscure French Vin de Pays de Vaucluse, which I particularly enjoy. And although it is the first glass of the day, it certainly will not be the last.

I managed to finally quit smoking a few years ago, after being a smoker for many many years, knowing full well how harmful it was to me, but drinking I still admittedly haven’t, and probably never will. There are some things in life you simply enjoy too much to even contemplate ever quitting.

I have had much more than my fair share of ridiculous and shameful alcohol induced moments. I could probably write a full length book on these experiences alone. Suffice to say that even as a young lad there were many moments which led to binge drinking which in turn landed me in very awkward situations indeed.

On one occasion many decades ago, and even before I owned my first car, after a huge night of drinking with friends in Sliema, I must have passed out at some time or other. When I woke up at around 7am, I somehow found myself curled up under the bench of the main bus stop in Msida, just across from the police station, in a large pool of vomit, with a gruff constable prodding me in the belly with his boot, while all the bystanders were safely waiting for the bus at a considerable distance, well out of smell’s way. Talk of a massive walk of shame as I crawled up slowly and painfully and ambled slowly away looking worse than the worst of the homeless!!

Coincidentally, another equally unsavoury experience concerning alcohol, vomit and buses has already been recounted here before, under the name of “The Fountain of Youth”.

Then of course there was the time when I was on holiday in Nice, France, with a buddy, living it up until the wee hours of the morning and reporting to the airport just a couple of hours later to catch our flight back to Malta. We were both in such a terrible state, still totally drunk, dirty, unshaved, reeking of alcohol, bright red demonic eyes, and slurring incomprehensibly, that they simply refused us to board. And this was at around 7 in the morning! So we just returned to the hotel, checked in again, slept straight through the day and went out again partying that evening.

Luckily the hotel organised our tickets for the following day and when we checked in it was the same personnel at the airport. So when we arrived in front of the girl, she picked up the phone and called her manager, who also had the pleasure of making our distinguished acquaintance the morning before. He looked at us in pure disdain and disgust and in a strong French accent he said “Hmm, not vehy mootch betteh but we prefeh dat you leave”, so he pushed us through once and for all. I am sure that he was rather reluctant to start his day’s work every morning with us two sorry sods in front of his sore eyes.

But my main anecdote here does not even concern my relationship with alcohol, but a gentleman’s whose name I don’t even know.

When we ran a local catering establishment we were very big in parties and functions and the place was equally used for drinking as it was for eating. On most days we actually had three bars running simultaneously and at times we even had four. So we were naturally surrounded by drinkers and drinking, and all that it brings with it.

Every New Year’s Eve we organised a very big party and were always packed solid. It is pointless to state in which condition many of our clients left our place, usually the last exiting well after 4am. And as may be expected, the later it got, the worse the state of the remaining customers became. The early departing were usually still relatively sober, but then gradually it tended to degenerate pretty quickly.

We always ended up helping people out by supporting them from under their arms. We often slowly and laboriously walked people all the way to their car, whenever possible to the passenger or back seat, as these were luckily not the drivers. Although as may be expected, we have endless rows with customers who we firmly advised not to drive, but who simply would not listen.

One such client spent about half an hour arguing with us, but in the end if they don’t listen there really is not much you can do. So he stupidly and hardheadedly got into his car, started the engine and proceeded to drive literally straight into the first tree, which was only about ten metres away, without ever even swerving or trying to miss it. He must have passed out immediately the moment he started the engine. It was very lucky that he didn’t end up in the sea, as our establishment was just on the water’s edge at the Msida yacht Marina.

And speaking of water, one year at the end of one of these massive New Year’s Eve parties and just when we were finally shutting everywhere down in true zombie manner, all but dead from the endless proceedings, quite a notable incident happened. It involved two people who had just left our premises only minutes before.

She was residing on a small yacht berthed exactly next to our establishment. She was Irish and it goes without saying therefore, that she drank like an entire shoal of fish. She had a bit of a tongue on her too, so I was always a bit wary with her, especially when she drank. Her husband was away on business and their two very young children were (hopefully) sleeping on the boat totally unattended. But we are not here to judge her mothering skills, so let us just ignore this here. She came in rather late, supposedly for one quick drink to celebrate the new year, rather than staying on her boat alone, except for the sleeping children, and ending up having at least twenty. And that is of course, besides craftily seducing this middle aged English gentleman and convincing him to join her for more on her neighbouring boat.

The only problem was that while she was rather drunk, he was just simply paralytic and not even able to walk. I’m not quite sure what sort of performance she was expecting from him on the boat in her husband’s absence…

I cautiously warned her that there was no way he was going to make it along that swaying flimsy passerelle which is so typical of these small private yachts. The boats there were not moored sideways along the quay, but moored either bow or stern to, and could therefore only be boarded by walking the dangerous plank. But you simply don’t argue with a tough, tipsy Irish woman. So she instantly told me to shut it and to mind my own effing business and tugged at the tottering drunkard to follow her to her evil den.

We were closing up the last of the windows upstairs when we heard a large splash. Not the sort of thing you usually hear at 4:45 in the morning. We look out and we see her on her boat, laughing her head off, as the poor sod was gradually sinking into the water, with only his legs above the surface, as they were tangled in some of the ropes. In the few terrifying moments we looked on, not once did his head ever emerge out of the surface.

I had of course also had much more than my fair share of alcohol, but believe me within a split second I was totally stone sober. What instantly flashed in front of my eyes were shocking news headlines the next morning saying ‘Englishman drowns only metres away from the restaurant which fed him far too much alcohol directly leading to his death!” “Who should be held responsible here if not the restaurant owner?”

I suddenly let everything go and raced downstairs and outside to try and save this fast drowning man, followed by several members of my staff. We all took a short cut to get there quicker as ever second counted, and all jumped over a low wall straight onto the marina side. Our head waiter, equally inebriated, caught his foot on the wall and fell down onto his knees, but even this didn’t stop him, as we all raced towards the boat and the witch’s constant cackling laughter.

The only way to try and pull the poor man out was by perching myself dangerously over the side of the passerelle and pulling him up by his clothes. I somehow managed to untangle his feet and pulled up his head out of the water. He was still just about conscious, although very badly coughing and sputtering and spitting, while gasping for air.

I tried in vain to pull him all the way out of the water. He wasn’t a small man and the weight of all his wet clothes and more so my precarious position perched off the side of the passerelle, with no real leverage or much to hold on to, made it impossible. The others could not come directly next to me as there was no space on the passerelle. They were all positioned around me. waiting to haul him up onto terra ferma, once I managed to pull him up far enough. I tried several times which resulted in my losing more and more of my strength, until I came to the one and only sad conclusion there was. The only way I could ever pull him out was to heave so hard that I would definitely end up in the water instead of him.

I again took a quick read of those shocking, incriminating headlines in my mind, which now had only become worse. “Alexander Bonello, owner of the restaurant which got him stone drunk in the first place, makes a weak and failed attempt to save him, gives up and goes home to sleep, while man dies directly due to his negligence!”.

So I told the others to get ready, counted slowly to three, and heaved with all my might, ending up, as expected in the 1st January cold and filthy marina waters, wearing a full New years Eve suit.

I woke up the next morning feeling rather bad. By that evening and after the doctor had been, it had gotten even worse and was eventually diagnosed as bronchitis, which lasted over two weeks. Our head waiter couldn’t walk the next morning, went to hospital and the x-ray clearly showed that he had broken his kneecap, keeping him away from work for over a month. That flash on the way home as the sun was rising on the main road in Attard, was as expected the speed camera, and a I got a nice fat fine to end up the lovely night’s festivities. Naturally my brand new and expensive suit was totally ruined.

When I met the Irish witch again upon my recovery and return to work, she very simply couldn’t remember even the smallest of details of that night’s proceedings. She just laughed that she woke up the next day with an Englishman she didn’t even know soaking wet and lying in her bed. So the bastard somehow got onto her boat anyway in the end. She even went on to scold me for not dissuading him from joining her upon leaving our restaurant, when according to her she was drunk and vulnerable.

But the biggest mystery of all is how Malta wasn’t treated that year, around the middle of January, to the striking headlines “Restaurateur strangles Irish woman so strongly, that the authorities had to have his arms amputated to get them off her throat”.

Having turned our clocks back an hour last night, I woke up an hour earlier and decided to utilise this precious extra imaginary time to write a quick one here. And this was after figuring out what the real time was. Back in the old days you made a mental note, got up in the morning and simply adjusted all clocks and watches accordingly. Now that many of them change automatically, you really are not quite sure which is the right time as some say one thing and some another.

I remember once when we were still running the restaurant we had a late night party on the same night in October and were running an open bar. The organiser somehow incredulously expected us to run the bar for an extra hour for free, as it started at midnight and when at 3am it became 2am again, he didn’t want to be charged in real time, but in clock time! I initially thought he was joking and had a good laugh, but no, believe it or not, these people do exist.

His main argument was that this was simply our bad luck and that if we had any business sense we would ensure that we book up a similar open bar event at the end of March, when we move our clock forward and then charge the poor sod for an extra nonexistent hour.

Now I am not usually a violent man….. no actually my look was enough to firmly finish that argument. Nice try I thought to myself, but fat chance you have in shoving that one down my throat.

But the cheek of some people can at times be astounding, and running a restaurant is one of those situations which exposes you to a lot of such antics, which are cheeky, mean, yet often humorous.

One of the most common forms of cheekiness is the free drink stunt, practiced by many. You offer a complimentary after dinner drink to say a table of four, the men are game but the women aren’t. So immediately you notice the men nudging, winking and kicking their poor spouses under the table and sure enough it so happens that the spouses purely accidentally want the same drink as their husbands. Cheap and obvious you might think, but wait, that is really nothing.

There are others who have their meal, ask for coffees, get the bill, proceed to pay and only then, very strategically ask for a round of liqueurs. And if you so much as even hint that they are going to be charged, they will in all probability snap back at you that you will never see then again. At which point you must really bite your tongue, which is not one of my better skills I must admit, and refrain from screaming back the word “Good!”.

I am a great believer in taking away with you what you have not managed to eat on site. Both my wife and myself are not big eaters, and we very often end up leaving much on our plate, simply because we are full. We also happen to have seven dogs, three cats and a goldfish, so anything we can cart home with us is also much appreciated by our pets, although the goldfish doesn’t really appreciate very large bones.

There is absolutely nothing wrong either, in my books, in taking away the remains of a bottle of wine which you prefer to finish later. Especially if there is quite a bit left in the bottle. But we did have the odd scrounger who also wanted to take something like a sixth of a bottle of water away, the bread and the butter too, on the premise that if it were put on the table, then it was his to eat on site or to take home. But probably the worst of all in the take home department, and I kid you not, were a table of regular luncheon clients who after having eaten their salads, always insisted to take home their lemon segments, albeit these already being squeezed, as in their own words these would come in handy with their afternoon tea and some juice was always left in them, finishing off with their magnificent words of wisdom – waste not want not. Our initial disgust eventually turned into humour, you just have to laugh at the absurdity of these situations.

But we also regularly faced much viler practices where certain clients even cheated their fellow diners, including friends and family. One thing to watch out for when part of a large table, and someone in your party very – or should I say overly eagerly, takes over payment procedures with quite a passion. They insist that a good tip is left by all, which with a big table could of course add up to quite a lot. They then take the money themselves to the cash point, pocketing most or all of the tips themselves. Yes! We did see this happen on many an occasion.

We had a couple of others who regularly brought us customers, and with whom we had worked in a commission on every meal, normally a percentage on the total amount. I find this fair and standard practice when dealing with their contacts, tourists and other recommended diners. But when then they bring their parents for a birthday meal, or on Mother’s Day or a similar occasion, it is not them who pay for the meal, but say their parents themselves, and as they walk out they tell their parents, oops I forgot something inside the restaurant, I’m just off to fetch it, be back in two minutes….. Yuck, you can imagine what they come back in for! If they simply asked for their commission to be deducted from the bill to save their parents a few bob then fine, that I can understand. But the standard excuse with us at least was that they didn’t want to show the sort of arrangement they had with us for whatever reason, so they would use the commission to buy a gift or something for their parents. Yeah sure they are, we always thought…

Then of course you have the compulsive nicks, who purely and simply cannot go out without pinching something or another which is entirely useless to them, but of great use and expense to the restaurant. Anything goes – cutlery, ashtrays, glasses, table numbers, whatever comes their way. In most cases they will probably chuck this out anyway after a few days, but collectively it naturally costs the restaurant a considerable amount of money and is a totally dumb and ghastly habit.

We saw this in a very big and openly cheeky way when we had late night parties. It is fashionable for certain people to walk away with their drink, glass and all, thinking this makes them look cool. In this manner they also drink on their way to their next drinking hole, lest they dehydrate or rather sober up on the way. And many also seem to think that they have every right to do so, as it is customary in certain circles. What they do not realised is that if you use nice glasses these very often cost more than the drink they paid for. So it is ludicrous for the establishment to let it happen. There are certain places where many bars are located next to each other, and patrons move from one to the other bringing their glasses along, which should automatically level out between the bars, and that I can understand. But this certainly wasn’t our case, so at the end of each party, along with another staff member, I used to stand just outside our establishment and literally fight and run after people to get their glass back, usually resulting in dozens of retrieved glasses.

On the subject of pinching stuff, I did this once myself, purely out of fun and in one of my madder moments! Yes wait for it… I was still living in France many years ago and was at a nightclub with some friends, in Valence just South of Lyon, I remember. For some reason we were discussing this same very subject and some of us there were showing off about the various items they had lifted from different establishments, when they started mentioning some of the larger items they had managed to move. These were mainly large bottles of wine or spirits. So fuelled by alcohol and egged on by my friends, I was dared to try and beat this there and then. Yes, I fully admit that these sort of things always end up revolving around naughty and incorrigible moi. So in my mad alcohol and adrenaline induced state, I simply stood up, lifted the very large armchair I was sitting on, which was a full sized, mini sofa type one, and simply walked out of the club with it in my arms, as my mates watched incredulously, mouths wide open.

I make it all the way outside, passed assorted club personnel and decide to wait for my mates by placing the armchair right in the middle of the establishment’s rather large car park, with me sitting comfortably in it, facing the entrance, in all my pride and glory. They all streamed out laughing hysterically and shouting and clapping, and in my opinion it must have been this that gave me away. Sometimes when you do even the oddest of things, but very naturally, in the open and in plain sight of others, everyone automatically assumes that there must be a valid and perfectly explainable reason for it. And I believe that this is how I got away with it.

But my friends were making such a massive row that they obviously caught the attention of the staff and well, let’s face it, me sitting their at around 3am on one of their sofas right in the middle of their car park, might also have been a bit of a pointer for them.

Perhaps pulling this stunt at a nightclub was not the best of ideas, as the two staff members who came out for me were about the biggest and meanest looking security personnel I have ever encountered. Without even saying a word and before I could even have a go at some ridiculously redeeming story, they simply picked me up, sofa and all and tossed me off it so high and far off that I literally bounced off a large plastic skip onto the hard surface below. I wonder if that is why they call them bouncers in the first place…

But to return to our restaurant in Malta, we had to bear the brunt not only of cheeky customers, but also at times, of nasty staff members. The very worse incident of this type happened with a new dishwasher who was working on his first shift. So we show him the ropes, set him up comfortably at one of the sinks and off we go to serve that evening’s customers, following which of course, all crockery and cutlery end up in the hands of our new Einstein.

When you know a place very well, through your constant and longstanding presence, you tend to hone in very easily on anything out of the ordinary, be it something visual, auditive or even olfactory. In this case there was something clearly auditive which caught my attention. It was only a little click or chinking sound, made by hitting metal with metal, which I heard every so often, which I was not in the habit of hearing.

So I follow the sound and realise that it was coming from the dishwashing area. I walk in quietly and as the dishwasher had his back to the door, he didn’t see me come in. I observe him for a while and much to my intense horror and disgust, I realise exactly how that sound was being produced. This flipping genius saw it fit with all the cutlery that came into his hands, to wash one piece of cutlery and chuck the next one into the large bin next to him!!! So he washed every alternate one and trashed every other! I watched in amazement, desperately searching my brain for some sort of logical explanation. I simply couldn’t come to terms that this anus of a human being was actually discarding half my cutlery and tried desperately to come up with any other possible reason why he was doing this.

After having watched the process time and time again, I finally went up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and asking him what the hell he was doing, in exact words I will not repeat right here. I look inside the bin and there is a massive pile with many dozens of forks, knives and spoons pilled up inside it. I can also confirm that this putrid hemorrhoid of a man was engaged with us very incidentally only days after I had just upgraded all the restaurant cutlery, costing me several thousand Euros, each individual piece of course costing several Euros on its own.

And here now comes the cherry on the flipping cake! You will simply not believe what this horrid ape told me. His stared back at me unashamedly and said “Pfff just cause I’m not washing everything. It’s only a bit of cutlery. What a greedy man you are. You own an entire restaurant and you’re making a fuss for a few forks and knives. It’s true that in life the more you have the greedier you become and the more you want”!!!

That is word for word what he said. My wife and all my previous staff who were there and know the story well will vouch for this.

It was one of those very rare moments in my life when firstly I was totally speechless and secondly I very genuinely can say that I came very close to murdering another man. Really. I distinctly remember as the saying goes, truly seeing red and being transported into some other evil dimension where only revenge existed. I looked down on the side of the sink and there lay a big pointed kitchen knife and immediately my arm started moving down towards it, as I went to grab it and to stab this vile snake several times in the neck and throat. I was also looking at his throat and planning exactly were to dig that knife repeatedly into him.

Very fortunately something stopped me in my tracks. And how lucky that was, for I really and truly would have killed him in my immense state of rage. So I somehow managed to pull myself away, I walked out without uttering a word and strongly trembling I asked my head waiter to go kick the bastard out, ensuring that he does not pass by next to me on the way out.

But enough of this, as yet again I have been brought back to my senses by another distinct auditive sign. That of my poor dogs barking with hunger out in the garden. I forgot that for them their body clock hasn’t changed, and that I am now an hour late in feeding them.

They very much miss our restaurant times when it was daily lavish leftover fresh fish and steaks and the odd bit of cutlery to chew on.

This is my musing, contemplative, introspective, gruesome, emotional, humorous, rational and factual tale. Yes an all in one in many ways, although all it is really, is a simple narrative of a normal day in our lives. But a day which still evokes so much meaning and so much reflection, through a series of otherwise mundane events.

My dear wife Maria was always very fond of my parents, before their very sad demise. And I must also ashamedly admit, that it is normally she who reminds me and insists on paying them a visit at the cemetery, from time to time. To be perfectly honest, if it weren’t for her, I probably wouldn’t even go, and definitely not from a lack of love or respect towards them.

I have never been one to stand to ceremony and all this symbolism isn’t really my thing. In these matters at least, I have a very cold, solid, no-nonsense approach, whereby I try to help the living in real and practical matters, rather than revel in posthumous symbolism. However, with age and maturity, I have come to realise and respect that not everyone is the same as me, and that certain concessions must sometimes be made to accommodate other ways of doing things. So I very gladly visit my parents’ graves along with Maria from time to time, which never fails to evoke a flood of memories and ensuing tears.

We get to the Addolorata Cemetery mid morning, purchase our flowers from the friendly lady outside and solemnly make our way inside, first to my dad’s grave on the far left hand side of the grounds, then up to the very top to my mother’s. As my mum passed away only nine months after my dad, we couldn’t bury her in the same grave, which was obviously a shame, and had to put her temporarily in a communal grave.

As we walk away from my mum’s grave, Maria spots the couple of guys who were gravitating around the flower trucks and who, according to her, pick up all the purchased flowers freshly placed on the graves to take back to the trucks to resell them once again. I initially laughed at the thought, but then she explained that after a recent visit together, when she had to return again the day after to both graves with someone else, both graves were devoid of the flowers we had just purchased the day before! So you really never know do you… and with further thought on the matter, you start to think that this could be really easy money. Anyway, I cannot and am not incriminating anyone, as I really have no idea if this does happen or not. It was however rather suspicious to have seen them there and later on when we went back to our car, to see them again in the parking place. What else would they be doing following us around?

At the end of our visit we decide to pay a visit to the cemetery office to discuss the exhuming of my mother’s body and moving to the grave where my father is buried. Two years have to elapse before this may be done and this was now the case. So we speak to a polite and respectful gentleman who is very helpful and who looks up all the necessary information on the computer, completes the required paperwork for us and explains the basic procedures.

This is not something I have ever done before, so I start asking various questions about the exact proceedings, and this It where our day becomes exceptionally gruesome. It turns out that the coffin must be opened and that the remains will be pulled out and placed into a box. We are told that the body at this stage will be decayed and dismembered and that literally it will be taken out in pieces. Also that by official regulation, the remaining clothing must also somehow be pulled off the decaying remains, which is a very messy affair. We are also warned to be careful for any small body parts such as fingers which might fall off in the process and to ensure that these are picked up and placed into the box with the rest of the parts. And lastly we are also advised that the personnel doing this will then arrive at my father’s grave, make a big fuss about lifting the marble slab and start to negotiate a price for lifting it, mum’s remains threateningly in hand!!

I am neither making this up, nor believe me am I enjoying any part of it. I am neither squeamish nor usually queazy in such matters, but even the simple thought of all of this, both then and now, are admittedly making me a bit nauseous. I mean can you even start to imagine living through such a horrific ordeal concerning the body of your own mother!!!

In the two or three days which have elapsed since, I have had the occasion to discuss the matter with a few people who have been through it, and all agree that it is far from being a pleasant experience. Some tried rather poorly to play it down, others came up with a few obvious palliative measures such as staying as far as possible and not looking, but I must admit that the while ordeal sounds worse than a horrible nightmare or the worst of horror stories.

I refuse to put myself, my wife, my sister and other dear ones, through such an ordeal, unless it was totally inescapable and unavoidable. This to me is not showing respect to the memory of my poor mother, but pure desecration. I am sorry but I manage my life in the way I see fit and logic has always taken much greater priority to nonsensical custom, and if this is the savage custom other force themselves to endure, then it is their problem not mine. I have seen the finesse and respect of these people handling coffins and people’s remains and the last thing I would want to see is two senseless gorillas pulling apart what’s left of my mum’s body.

No, that is not going to be the last image we retain of my mother for the rest of our lives and there is no way it is going to happen! I am fully aware that sometime soon they will require the space for further burials and that her remains will still have to be moved, but at least we neither need to bear witness to this, we would not have instigated it prematurely, and hopefully it will also happen a bit later on when no more than simple unrecognisable bones will remain.

So I suggested an infinitely more humane and civilised private ceremony we could engage in instead. We will all meet up there on a given day, next to my mother’s grave, with a trowel and a little box. We will each in turn scoop up a little bit of soil from around her grave and place it into the small box, seal it and walk down to my father’s grave, where we will place it. We will then say a few words and reflect on their lives and wish them well.

Whether you are a believer, spiritual, or not, the whole affair of exhuming a body is totally symbolical. Whatever your belief, you know that the rotting flesh and bristled bones are nothing more than the remains of a dead body and not the person you ken and loved. So this whole affair is very obviously symbolic and no more. So symbolic for symbolic we will take an infinitely more tasteful and elegant symbolic option, rather than the gruesome one made out of horror and nightmares.

While I was talking to the cemetery gentleman through a small slot in the plastic window, separating the public part of the office from the personnel part, I immediately felt a strong draught coming through the slot. Worse still, I sensed that this air coming straight into my nose and mouth, as I placed my face close to the window to make myself heard, smelt foul and putrid. As I breathed it in, it even burned my nose and throat making it hardly bearable. I could distinctly tell that it was bad air and that it wasn’t doing me any good. I am not in any way referring to any corpses or other such morbid matters. I don’t quite believe that cadavers are actually stored within the cemetery office or anything equally ridiculous. But I can vouch that this air was bad.

I only recall one other such occasion when I was really taken aback by the foul air around me and was equally convinced that I will pay the consequences later on through the resulting malady. This was incidentally, or not, in Luxor in Egypt, in the Valley of the Kings. We had descended into one of the deep tombs through a very tiny stairwell which went down many dozens of metres in an extremely confined space, which was jam packed with thousands of pushing tourists, all breathing, sweating and farting in the same stale and unventilated air. Due to the crowds, the whole process took well over half an hour, continuously breathing the stinking air, until we finally surfaced and refused to visit any other such tombs, so we then contended ourselves to seeing them from only the outside.

And sure enough, the day after we were both extremely sick, with very bad lung infections, which restricted us to our bed, in the otherwise lovely Winter Palace Hotel in Luxor. So in this case at least, it wasn’t the dead, but very much the living, who made us sick. What it was at the Addolorata Cemetery I do not know, but I could instantly tell that it was bad noxious air that I was breathing at that window.

We gladly leave the cemetery, rather shellshocked with the news, as I plan my civilised alternative, and we head back home to Burmarrad, automatically passing via the centre of the island. So we are passing through Balzan where my parents used to live, take a quick comprehending glance at each other and make that very small detour to pass in front of their previous house, which brings back a veritable tsunami of lovely memories of their lives and of ours as part of theirs and them as part of ours.

We sold it to a lovely youngish couple who we truly love and respect. Suffice to say that around 3 months after the sale I received a phone call from them asking me to pop by when I was in the area, which left me rather perplexed. They are redoing and modernising the house, so not yet living in it, but they are usually there in the evenings doing the works. I had even forgotten about this completely, until many weeks after their call I was in the area in the early evening and decided to call them on the matter. So he confirms that he is there on his own working and I pop by. I walk in, he pulls me quietly from my arm and takes me to the false fireplace they had in the sitting room. He points at the false bottom and asks me to lift it. I wasn’t even aware that it had a false bottom until then. I pull off the dark slab of heavy granite and there lay all my mother’s jewellery and gold!

We had found a few bits and pieces here and there in the house, and as my mum loved to hide valuables in the most unlikely places, we had long resigned ourselves to the fact that most of her jewellery was lost forever. The great warmth and love and respect you feel for someone who was virtually a stranger, for showing such astounding honesty and integrity is indescribable. I remember that I just threw my arms around him and hugged him really hard. And what he told me when I finally let go was one of those eyeopening moments which will remain with me for the rest of my days.

He told me that the only reason they wanted to return the valuables to their rightful owner was because I was such a nice guy. If I weren’t they would have gladly kept them!

I always, without exception, do my very best to be a very nice person with everyone, unless I am given ample reason not to. I have been blessed all of my life with happiness and joy, I am always in a great mood and make everyone smile and laugh around me. It is the way I am, so in the end I don’t even do it purposely. I am like this even with perfect strangers who I brush shoulders with for no more than a minute or two. Even if I pop into a shop or an office, I automatically joke and laugh and bring smiles and joy to everyone there. I don’t know why I do it, but I do.

So these are people who bought my parents house and also the house where I spent a few years myself in my teens. People who paid me and my sister a lot of money, so in my book at least, how could I not be nice to these people. So immediately after signing the house contract I had invited them to lunch. I made sure that we all had a whale of a time at the notary’s for the pre-sale agreement and an even more comical one during the contract itself. We invited them to our house a couple of months later to our tenth wedding anniversary party, and why the hell not.

I wasn’t expecting anything in return. Absolutely nothing! But as the seemingly corny saying goes, you get back what you deserve in life and this is my very favourite lesson of them all in this particular domain. I was automatically a nice person with them, and this was exactly, in their own words, why they felt compelled to give us back the jewellery. What a lesson in life!

With all of these recent and fresh and fond memories in mind, we pull up in front of the house. There was a small car parked outside and visibly the works were still not finished. We knock at the door and an elderly gentleman opens and I rightly guess that he is the husband’s father, who I had been already informed, was helping them out with the works. I explain who we were and we were immediately let in and shown around. We have a lovely walk around reminiscing of old times with tears pouring down our faces and I also couldn’t help give a furtive glance to the place where the false fireplace once was.

We walked out in a bit of a daze, having been totally immersed in the memories of my parents and what usually happens when in that state, you try and do everything not to make it stop. You hang on to what memories are left, you cling onto those rare moments. So impulsively we decided to go to Santa Lucia Cafe in Attard, which was a favourite outing with my parents.

We sit there sipping a bottle of wine and nibbling at some snacks and end it all with a brandy, in honour of my father, who used to end all his visits there with such a beverage. As we drive home we discuss the various aspects of our eventful day, from the horrors of the cemetery discussion, to the tour around the metamorphosed house, a discussion we continued that evening as we eventually went to bed to sleep.

It was then that I got my first very distinctive highly irritating tickle in my throat, which never fails to forebode the onslaught of a forthcoming sickness. Sure enough I woke up the next morning with a very sore throat, coughing and sniffing, totally dizzy and sporting a high fever.

It wasn’t the curse of the pharaohs this time, but this will truly teach me to follow my gut instinct next time and to move away instantly when I next sense such foul air. So here I am on my second day of illness, but thankfully already feeling better. Nothing a few hot toddies and some nice red wine cannot cure…