Queen Elisabeth, Prince Philip, Prince Charles and Camilla recently visited Malta on the occasion of CHOGM. British royalty in all its pomp and ceremony. The peak of sophistication, polish and refinement. Everything about them exudes class and poise, their posture, their etiquette, their manner of speaking.

Everything British at its very best. Then there’s Bugibba.

I am not at all classist. I pride myself in getting on perfectly with everyone, no matter their background and even have close friends of all types. However I am not a great fan of ignorance and stupidity. The unenlightened and the uncouth, the uncivil and the crass, are for me at least, a waste of time and space. This is not a matter of class, you can come from very humble origins and still be bright, interesting and mannered and behave like a human being.

Another common notion I do not associate myself with is patriotism. I am diametrically opposed to it in every way, being a citoyen du monde through and through.

So I feel that I really look at individuals for what they are – some are despicable morons, and some are not, entirely irrespective of class, nationality, race or creed.

So I find myself doing some work in a garage in Qawra, what is supposedly the slightly better neighbour of Bugibba. The immediate area of this garage however, would really benefit a lot if a massive bomb was dropped on it and raised the entire area to the ground. The scruffiness is mindblowing, with every building being totally incongruous with all the others, air conditioning compressors everywhere, the majority of doors being garages at different levels, broken, uneven pavements, weeds growing everywhere – in summary, a total disgusting mess reminiscent of a third world country slum, and that’s if you’re not really looking.

So what, you might be asking, have British royalty, classism, patriotism and the Bugibba/Qawra area have in common. Well the answer is – not much really, outside of this narrative, where they all come together to take centre stage.

As mentioned, we have all sorts of friends, including a fair share of English nationals living in Malta. Even our English friends are quite varied, however I must admit that in their majority they happen to be pretty smart and elegant individuals, definitely falling on the posh side of things.

It is very obvious that many of them have an evidently patronising attitude towards Malta and the Maltese in general and many of their comments and remarks are steeped in discriminatory innuendo. You can just feel their old colonial ways whereby the British are supposed to be superior and dominate over others.

As I am not at all patriotic, I do not take offence, however this in no manner means that I do not at times find them annoying, in their shortsighted view of things. I try to explain to them that as in any nation, there are Maltese and Maltese, the clever and the dull, the efficient and the lazy, but usually to no avail. In there minds the British are miles ahead, and so indisputably superior to the Maltese in every way.

Perhaps they too should take a quick trip to Qawra and attempt to have a quick snack in any of the local establishments and judge for themselves the level of many of their compatriots.

This was my fate these last few days. Being confined in a dark, cold garage with no water or electricity for several hours, it is to be expected that after some time we would crave for a hot drink and a bite to eat. So without wanting to wander far afield, at lunchtime we popped into a couple of the countless nondescript establishments which litter the streets every few metres from each other.

And if they looked totally devoid of taste and style from the outside, when we walked in it only got significantly worse. Their shabbiness hits you in the face the moment you walk in, as it becomes immediately evident that they were whipped up in the most ramshackle of ways and that every expense was spared in their every aspect.

Every one we tried out was run by English people and frequented by English people, who were in their totality, very unroyalike in poise, fashion and style and especially not in their manner of speech.

In every occasion we were welcomed with long stern and unfriendly faces, a far cry from the notion of English manners, so much overstated by our English friends, especially when perhaps rightly putting down Maltese customer care. This was the same, but five times worse.

Every time we asked for coffee we were snapped at that we could only have instant, because naturally fancy snobbish stuff like an espresso or a capuccino are only for loathsome, snobbish Maltese individuals. It was obvious that the only reason we were clearly warned, was because this was exactly what they were thinking.

The menus were exclusively anything fried under the sun, invariably accompanied by sausages, beans, fried eggs and chips. Yes it is so extraordinary, but us admittedly crap eating Maltese, can only be beaten by the even bigger crap eating British. The menus looked like Butlins canteen in the 1960’s, absolutely nothing at all has evolved.

Even the bottles in the bars and the condiments on the tables, were in their vast majority unheard of brands. A Gordons gin and a Heinz ketchup is far to expensive for these English upper crust.

In one crumby joint, reeking of cheap burnt oil, we had four bog standard sausage sandwiches and four instant coffees for €14, when having the same in a humble Maltese workers’ bar, inclusive of infinitely better and more wholesome sandwiches with ten times the ingredients, would have cost half the price.

We were served by an obese, grubby young English girl, bordering on the rude and had to listen to two drunk Englishmen belching every couple of minutes, as they downed their morning beers, wearing only a flimsy tee-shirt and shorts, in spite of it being only 10 degrees outside. Do these people even own clothes?

The day after, following our utter disgust at this joint, we tried another one, seemingly more elaborate from the outside. Sadly once inside, it was exactly the same story. The Northern sounding English woman with few teeth, first glared at us in a most unfriendly way, then gave us the stern warning that they didn’t do fancy coffee, then the disaster of a menu, which was nothing short of surreal. Not only were the contents just as horrendous, but these wise guys even charge more for their crappy sandwiches in the afternoon than they do I the morning!! Yes, I even had to take a photo of this because I am sure that nobody would ever believe me otherwise. Do you laugh or cry?

And their sandwiches are about the sorriest specimens I have every encountered. Not a sign of lettuce, or a slice of tomato, or a few chips on the side. Nope! Or should I say nawt, as per their harsh regional accent!

The place was a massive dump, their toilets were shocking and falling to bits, all doors were used as signposts for all sorts of messages and all staff was gruff and unwelcoming.

The place was rather busy with large and loud English people scoffing beans and chips in what could have been deemed as a mini freak show of sorts. They also came complete with a few screaming kids, a horrific incidence we so often associate with the Maltese.

Upon arrival I went to the bar to order our food and drinks. I waited patiently for my turn after two other British customers. When I placed my order, unlike my predecessors I was asked to pay immediately! For once I chose to shut it and play it cool, there are certain types you can tell just by looking at and hearing them speak that the chances of having a reasonable conversation with and making some sense, are about as slim as Prince Charles himself walking into this hellhole and ordering a chip butty.

Many might disagree, but for me all nationalities and races are the same. There are great people and idiots of all nationalities. But the next time any of our English friends put down the Maltese in any way, be it customer care, style, efficiency, professionalism, general personal development, smartness, anything… I will personally drag them by their posh colonial whiskers to meet their lesser counterparts who infest Bugibba like slimy cockroaches, and that includes Kora too. Yes because they aren’t even capable of pronouncing the word Qawra, then they correct our ‘th’.

Perhaps CHOGM or no CHOGM next time the royals come to Malta they should spend a weekend at the Fish & Chips Hotel in one of the ghastly backstreets of lovely Kora.

I must start off by apologising to my readers for such a long absence, sorry but I was drunk!

Now that we got that out of the way, we can focus on today’s subject matter – drinking!

Because if there is a period throughout the year when this is most relevant, it is obviously during the festive season, which has just come to an end, providing us with the perfect opportunity to look back and come to some valid conclusions on the matter.

My first conclusion is that drinking is at least as fun, relaxing and liberating to the mind and to the spirit, as it is harmful to the body. So it’s a big positive to both the mind and the spirit and only bad for the body, making it a two against one situation, in favour of drinking. Stated otherwise, there are twice as many reasons to drink than not to drink.

Similarly, we all know that the more we drink the more likely that we will suffer from a bad hangover the day after, but ironically the more we drink, the more we don’t care about it.

Most of us do not require any lessons or advice on when, what or how to drink, but it’s always nice to share a few hints and ideas.

My biggest problem with the Festive Season is that first we start off organising a couple of do’s at the very beginning of December, when people are still not too busy, then of course comes the onslaught of both work related and personal functions, and to top it all up, my wife being Russian, they celebrate their Christmas and New Year two weeks after we do. So in our home we don’t close the celebrations until the third week of January, by which time my liver is screaming stop!

So our season lasts around 7 weeks and as it is best not to shock the system, but to gradually gain momentum and then to very slowly taper off, we usually get going in early November and seem to keep it up until around Easter time. So that’s taken care of our partying and drinking over Autumn, Winter and Spring, next time we’ll talk about the Summer!

It always amazes me that when in the thick of it, in the last two weeks of December, sometimes there are so many occasions that it all sort of blends in. The other day I was at a reception of sorts, chatting away with an old business acquaintance about the price of property, when he asked me how much I was paying for a large garage which I rent. Just as I was about to reply, he was suddenly pulled away by someone else and never returned. Only about five days later while at a luncheon party, he happened to be sitting just across the table from me, and as soon as I noticed him there, without as much as a hello or any other greeting, I instinctively told him “€250 a month”, to which he simply replied “oh that doesn’t sound too bad to me”, and we just snapped back into the same convo like the previous five days had never elapsed.

Similarly, when meeting people at all these do’s and they start off by saying “Oh hi there again” you’re never quite sure whether you last met them the week before or perhaps last year!

So some time in the beginning of December I just wear my standard smile, I put on my glazed look, arm myself with a battery of vague meaningless pleasantries and I head straight for the bar.

And talking of bars, yes! I am very much one of those who always heads straight for the bar, or if there isn’t one in sight, to the location where the staff come out with the drinks, and position myself strategically next to it for the entire duration of the function. I mean why on earth wouldn’t I do this? The chitchat is the same everywhere, but the drinks certainly ain’t! I have been at many an event where the thirsty crown vastly outweighed the relative presence of staff and whereby the drinks rarely made it to the outer reaches of the parched guests, beyond a few metres radius of the action.

So upon arrival I observe the main flow and sources of drinks and stick my cumbersome self right in the middle of it all for good measure. But that is only the beginning of my devious strategy. I then invariably select a friendly server, who will be assigned the dubious role of personal assistant. So I look around and find one with a noticeably pleasant disposition, craftily look at the name tag and say “Ara Joseph hawn. Always lovely to encounter you at these parties, cause I know that you’ll look after me well. I’ll have the usual thanks”. The trick is to say it with full conviction, like you fully and totally mean it.

Remember that these guys see thousands of people and it is commonplace for guests to remember them but virtually impossible for them to remember guests. So just stand there and wait for the inevitable question. They will usually feign a false happy hello nice to see you again, and then tell you “please remind me what you usually drink again?”. So you inform them of your select tipple for the day with an added jokingly “Now don’t go forgetting that again will you tsk tsk”, which not only has them at your attention and service for the duration of the reception, but also feeling a little bit guilty and ensuring that they do not forget and that you are kept happy all the time.

A furtive glance at them and a quick wink is then all it takes to have them rushing every time to bring you your next drink. If at any time you feel that the spell is starting to wear out, then throw in an occasional stunner, such as “And how is you wife now, feeling better I hope”. This really messes up their brains and gets them scrambling to help you in any way possible, thinking that you must be an even closer acquaintance than they first imagined.

And if you’re thinking, what if he turns round to you and says that he doesn’t have a wife, then please bear in mind that I had a good look at his finger first…

Hey life is all about planning and organisation and these little tricks are what turn your life into a happy and comfortable one. In the end I am in no way disrespecting them, au contraire I am one of the few who gives them the most attention and who shares a quip with them now and again – a very symbiotic co-existence I think.

All of this also ensures that you are always well topped up in merriment and cheer. Everyone applauds your positive attitude and sunny disposition. Little do they know that it is mainly based on you being permanently and happily tipsy.

Then of course there are all the assorted personal engagements with family and friends, many of which require an even heftier dose of drink, not only to be merry but also to plainly ignore the comments which might be tipped with a bit of venom. You know the style, the jealous cousin, the envious friend, the sibling grinding the same old axe for 40 years, the social climber taking notes of all your contacts, the haughty relation finding ways to put you down, the acquaintance who’s every sentence must contain the word “villa”, “luxury car” and “holiday”.

Basically all the verbal crap we have to listen to, which isn’t really intended for others to consume, but only for themselves to masturbate their own fragile egos. And in these cases, without even the slightest of doubts, the very best reaction is simply none at all. Just wear that constant false smile, make a random nod every couple of minutes and keep those drinks coming.

Conversation is perhaps the most intriguing and fun part of it all, besides for the drink. I love playing games and messing with people’s minds and usually appoint one or several partners in crime to share the fun with. There are endless games you can play, such as picking on the most likely victims.

One game I thoroughly enjoy when there are the compulsive braggers around, is to make a bet with my buddies on how many times I can get them to mention a particular word such as “travel” for example. You know the type, those whose self-perceived status revolves around them repeating ad nauseam on how often they travel. So rather than having to very reluctantly endure this all evening, you turn it into a fun game. Set yourself an ambitious target and every time they seem to let go a bit, throw in a devious question such as “so what do you enjoy doing most in your life?” or “don’t you feel that Malta is too small” and off they go again relating yet again the expected, while you give a wink to your buddies and clock in the score.

You can also, to some extent, inverse roles with the jealous cousins. First let them spit out their poisonous remarks and snide comments, loaded with meanings of hate. Then when they least expect it, just hurl in an atom bomb in the form of “Oh did we tell you that we just bought a lovely apartment in Central London, just to have somewhere to stay when we’re there?”, or “We just booked a first class cabin on a round the world cruise, it did cost us over €50,000 but hey that’s what money is for”. Then just sit back and watch them change colour, as they sit there smouldering, scheming and searching desperately for their next nasty comment.

For in the end each party must be enjoyed in itself and should be seen as an end and not a means. Whatever you say and whatever you do will rarely change anything or anyone in any way. The haters will still hate and the envious will remain. So just pour yourself another one and have a great time at their expense.

Cheers!

I did my fair share of alpine skiing in my younger years, especially when I was living in France. My first honeymoon, as I have had the luxury of having two (so far), was in Chamonix, where I took pretty intensive lessons, which is always a very good idea for a beginner.

This set a sound basis for my forthcoming years of skiing, enabling me to improve relatively quickly. In later years when I was living in Nice, it was only a couple of hours drive to the closest resorts, which made it even easier.

So I progressed nicely from green to blue to red and was also starting slowly to tackle the odd black slope once in a while. No mean feat, especially in France where the level of their pistes is known to be rather difficult.

So all in all I was rather pleased with myself and gaining in confidence as time went by. All until one day a few of my friends asked me if I wanted to join them for a skiing weekend in Meribel/Val Thorens. And why the hell not, I figured. A few days with the lads should be fun for a change.

They asked me briefly how well I skied and I told them quite confidently that I was pretty good, which was not an exaggeration by most standards. However, as the saying aptly goes, everything in life is relative… as I was soon enough going to find out, the hard way.

We all made our way there, a couple of us from Nice, one from Marseille and some from the Lyon area and it came as no surprise that we spent that first evening partying hard until the very early hours of the morning. I distinctly remember that only a couple of hours later, when we had to meet for breakfast, my tongue and lips were still bright red from the gallons of vin chaud I had consumed during much of the night, and the only bit of rinsing they had received was from the dozen or so fiery eau de vie, which knocked me out flat.

Breakfast was painful, very painful. But not half as painful as putting on the tons of gear, trudging laboriously to the ski lifts and making our way up to the top of the frigging world. This happens to be quite literally the world’s largest ski resort with over 600 kilometers of trails, served by 170 lifts and joining Courchevel, Meribel, Val Thorens and four other stations together into a mega resort like no other, called Les Trois Vaallees.

So we took lift after lift and we went higher and higher, until we were close to the mountain tops themselves. All of this physical exertion, the bitter cold and the relatively thin oxygen, sent both my head and my stomach spinning, as I regurgitated disgusting burning residues of red wine and white spirits. What I desperately needed was a nice comfortable bed and another eight to ten hours sleep rather than attempting to beat some world skiing record, that morning.

But what was done was done and I strongly hoped that the exercise and the fresh air would eventually clear up my throbbing hangover. What I found a bit strange however, was that as we arrived at the top of the world, at the end of the final and highest ski lift, my mates didn’t head down the harsh black slope that started its torturous way down from there, but they headed in the opposite direction, down a steep and very dangerous narrow ledge, beneath which was quite literally a near vertical cliff, falling precipitously several hundreds of metres below.

As I shuffled carefully along behind them, trying to hug the mountainside on the opposite side of the narrow ledge, to my intense and terrifying horror, all my friends suddenly started popping over the edge one by one and shooting down the vertical face like bullets! No, no, no, no, NO! I thought! This isn’t skiing, this is absolute madness. It was exactly what you would watch on TV in some extreme sports type of programme. And they were not even trying to slalom carefully down from side to side, they quite simply couched forward on their skis and headed straight down forward, dodging rocky outcrops and totally vertical falls, as they raced down at lightening speed.

Within seconds they were all the bottom of the immense drop and making their way along some gentler slopes, before disappearing again over another edge, much further down. It was more then obvious that these guys were totally ignoring the marked trails and just doing it their way totally hors piste and searching for near vertical drops and other madness, just for thrills. A couple beckoned me to follow them down, as they too then vanished over a much lower ledge.

The rule we had set was that we would always wait for each other at the bottom of the slopes, until we all regrouped, before moving on to new ones. With this in mind, with the great difficulty to make my way up the steep narrow path to the top of the lift, and even to manage to turn around in such a tight spot, and also because I would lose these guys for the rest of the day – this being well before the time of mobile phones, it really seemed that I had no other choice than to follow them down their chosen cliffs.

Fear, dread and terror are words which do not even begin to describe my feelings as I went over that edge. I however kept my skis parallel to the slope, leaning sideways towards the mountain, desperately trying not to tumble all the way down, and began the extremely tough and tortuous descent, as slowly and and carefully as I could.

Because of the immense gradient, I had to literally spring up into the air and twirl myself around in the opposite direction, every time I had to turn, otherwise I would instantly shoot down to the bottom, the way by long-gone buddies had done, but in my case not at all out of choice.

It was truly exhausting, painstaking and very slow work, as I laboriously wound my way gradually down the first face. By then already, my legs were shaking uncontrollably from total fatigue. But after the small comfortable slope at the bottom, there was another cliff, and then another and yet another… and no trails anywhere in sight, all the way down.

I was so totally spent by the end of it that I literally didn’t have the strength to stand any more and I descended the last few slopes sliding down on my backside. I was simply unable to stand up.

When I slid down the final few metres, onto a large flat area at the bottom of the slopes, where hundreds of skiers were commuting in one direction or another, I was the embodiment of shame and humiliation. Everyone looked at me with scorn and disgust, as they steered well clear of my broken body, in case anyone around would wrongly assume that they were with me.

I was cold, wet, shivering and dangerously exhausted. My lovely helpful and compassionate friends were nowhere in sight. As I lay there, panting in the melting, filthy sludge of a thousand skis, one of my mates gingerly comes forward from amongst the crowd, desperately hoping that nobody recognises him.

He looked down at me with a look of utter disgust and said “And you told us that you could ski! Pfff” and walked away, coldly informing me that they would see me at the hotel that evening.

I struggled hard to stand up and to make my way to the bus which would take me back to the hotel. Every step was immensely painful and I must have tripped and fell on my face at least three times, as all the skiing fashionistas made huge detours around my failing body.

I spent the rest of the day in bed trying to recover and finally summoned enough courage to go down to the bar and face my friends. As they say, attack is the best form of defence, so I thought I would play it in this direction. I gave them all a big piece of my mind and called them every French expletive and obscenity I knew, which I can assure you was exceedingly prolific.

So they all had a chuckle and a laugh and when I was finally done, they then explained how they were all ski instructors except for one, the one who had won a gold medal as the best skier in Savoie, and he was considered as the weakest one of them all.

NOW YOU TELL ME!

Christmastime evokes vastly ranging feelings for different people. Some have retained and sustained the magic they experienced as children, many have become uncaring and unconcerned, while others dislike the added work, worries and hassles involved. There are also a number of people who have come to loath it and everything it represents.

We all have our own personal thoughts and perspectives and our subjective sensibilities. It makes little sense trying to impose your own on others. We all associate the things around us with different factors and experiences in our own past.

It starts as a rising breeze. Pleasant and teasing at first, the harbinger of change and reinvention. Flattering your skin with endless caress and flirtation, promises of muse and inspiration.

Then slowly it grows. It fills in its own unrestrained impetuousness, unchecked by the landscape, unscathed by the hills. It is amplified by the slopes and the valleys, funnelled by the shapes and the contours of the land, and encouraged by the flat expanse of the sea.

Then it maddens, it waves and it twists, it whistles and it blows, fiercely and tumultuously, uncaring of the damage it may wreak in its wake. It pushes and it shoves, savagely bullying everything in its path.

With each howling gust of unashamed power, it raises debris and dust, swirling towering clouds of uprooted litter, mercilessly spewed all around.

It paints vague horizons, whipping up water, erasing distinction between sea and overlying sky. It greys out the blues, effectively merging them to its careless delight.

And on land it sets everything in motion, nothing sits still. It combs through forests and kicks hard at the sands. It rushes around rocky outcrops, playing its high pitched songs. It sets mast cables on yachts viciously vibrating, frantically ticking in anticipation of quieter conditions. It screams furious V sounds on electric wiring and bends branches and trees in its chosen direction.

But no matter how strong, no matter it’s fury, it will eventually calm, it will soon blow itself out. After all its huffing and puffing it will always tire, until slowly, very gradually, almost imperceptibly, perfect silence and complete calm is restored.