I am afraid that in my normal fashion and in spite of my initial good intentions, things always start to degenerate sooner rather than later. And my mini series of amusing childhood stories is no different and certainly not immune to this natural decay of decency and respectability.

But what is true is true and ultimately begs to be revealed, for it is simply a real narrative of past experience, even if certain elements may be far from savoury.

I was here in my mid teens which was an entirely different world to the one we live in today. Suffice to say that, as we will be speaking of traffic and related matters, sometimes you didn’t even see one single vehicle on the road.

I distinctly remember driving to the airport with my father, either from Rabat, or later on from Balzan, at the middle of the night, to pick up friends coming from England, when we literally didn’t see one single car all the way. No, not one!

Similarly, as we used to spend our Summers in Xemxija, where I had many friends, some of whom remained there later, before returning to their Winter homes, or even lived there throughout the year, I had problems getting a lift home after we moved back to our Winter home in Balzan. In those days the last bus was at 8pm and if you missed it you had to walk or hitchhike. I can remember many an occasion when I tried to get a lift at night and all the way from Xemxija to Balzan no more that two or three cars would pass my way throughout the entire journey.

So we paid bitterly for those few extra moments with friends, usually resulting in a couple of hours of walking home. But at that age who cared!

This is just to indicate the ominous nature of the last bus. Or should I say The Last BUS!

Yes you either made it or you didn’t. And if you didn’t you’d then might as well stay on much longer with your friends, before facing that two hour walk. But on the days you intended to get that bus, then you did your damn best not to miss it.

On one such occasion I remember that I just about made it, by running desperately to the bus stop as I saw the old chugging bus approaching. Had I arrived only a few seconds later, I would have missed it for sure. My strenuous sprint in no way helped my already groggy state. I had indulged in some wine, which we all did in those days, in spite of our tender age and at the time what we called wine wouldn’t even be added to olive oil to embellish a salad today, and that is no joke. Just to effectively drive my point home, does anyone remember Special Reserve? Well as the name indicates, that was reserved for special occasions, as we normally drank much more modest crap, which I won’t even refer to as wine. I had also smoked a few cigarettes, as one does when one desperately wants to look cool and older.

So I jumped onto that last bus and to my horror it was packed solid and steaming hot inside, with dozens of sweating human bodies. “Oh no, air conditioned buses still won’t arriva in Malta for another 35 years” I astutely thought to myself in unparalleled insight. I pushed and I shoved just to create for myself a small standing space amongst the rest of the solid, sweating, huddling crowd.

I didn’t feel too good at all. The heat, the stench of human sweat, the hot breath all around, the occasional whiff of nauseating flatulence, the long bumpy ride, the sudden braking, the mad swerving from left to right. All a vicious conspiracy to turn my stomach inside out. It gradually became worse and worse. First I felt my stomach form a painful knot. Then as the terrifying realisation set in that I could do nothing about it, that there was absolutely nowhere I could relieve myself, that the only possible way would be to get off the bus and walk all the way home, in spite of my wretched state, that’s when it really hit me.

Suddenly the knot in my stomach let go. My stomach not only opened but it wanted to suddenly overflow. I panicked. What could I do? I felt that I couldn’t hold on any longer. The entire contents of my stomach were about to erupt. I looked around desperately trying to work out a plan. I was literally squashed between other huddled bodies and there was absolutely nowhere to go. The one only option was to push my way out, jump off the bus, do my terrible business and walk the rest of the way home.

But then suddenly it was simply too late. Too late even to think about what I could do.

Now I don’t usually stop the story half way through, especially at the very peak of my narrative. But I will make an exception here. If you get queasy and sickened quite easily, if you get revolted by graphic material and filth, then please stop here, because it’s about to get bad, very bad. So you have been warned! Stop reading!

So my stomach opened and simply refused to continue holding in its putrid contents. In a huge powerful rush it all came racing up. I desperately held my mouth shut as best I could, but the pressure and the force was far too strong. The vomit not only filled my mouth but squirted out of my tightly pursed lips. I pressed and I pressed for nothing. Strong hot jets of disgusting vomit sprayed out of my swollen cheeks in every direction, showering people’s backs and arms and heads and faces all around, not unlike an exorcist sort of way.

But there was nothing anyone could do. Nobody wanted to get off and miss that last bus.

So there I was trying to desperately and unsuccessfully hold it in, all in vain. And with each massive and successive heave I again and again tried to hold it in my mouth, but there simply was too much. So I was transformed into a stomach-churning vomit fountain, spraying those both close and far, as I slowly rotated my head from side to side to spread out the proceeds equally for fear of drowning any one individual.

What made the situation worse, much worse, was that to somehow contain the gallons of rancid, macedoine-like, regurgitated spew, I also tried swallowing back much of it to hold it in. After years of hindsight I can still attest that this was not a very good idea. This foul hot retch is really not what you want to push back down your throat without inciting much more spewing as a direct consequence. So I vomited, filled my cheeks to their full extent, sprayed around a bit on my fellow passengers and swallowed back the rest, only to vomit even stronger again and again.

Well that sums up much of the journey to Balzan that evening. And with every heave and ensuing spraying there was a collective scream from all the passengers, followed by a sigh of relief when I swallowed much of it down.

Yet nobody got off. Nobody even asked me to leave. Hey this was the last bus remember, so we were in it all together until the bitter, vomit tasting end.

But in the end I didn’t want to be much of a nuisance for everyone, so I got off a couple of bus stops earlier, to offer them some relief. I am always kind and considerate in that way and just hate to impose. So I made a rather big sacrifice and walked a couple of extra yards home.

A General Analysis of Area Comparatives – Bugibba vs Sliema

I first intended to write this as a review, but then decided to turn it into a rant, as I can have much more fun with it here wink emoticon

We are extremely lucky to live in the countryside, in a very quiet and totally rural location, between Burmarrad and Naxxar, surrounded by fields, valleys and hills. The closest towns to us are Bugibba, Qawra and St. Pauls Bay, which collectively are part of the St. Pauls Bay local council. This has become today, by far the largest and most populated town in Malta.

However, although this is now Malta’s largest locality, even in terms of inhabitants, much is still lacking, especially with regards to infrastructure. Traffic access has always been very difficult, and it now seems that with the new Coast Road disaster, the situation will certainly become terribly worse, thanks to the crass incompetence of our foolish authorities.

Rather than opening up many new thoroughfares to start easing access for the thousands of inhabitants, the new roadworks have incredulously closed off access via Triq J. F. Kennedy, opposite the now obliterated Kennedy Grove, as well the the very main road itself – Pioneer Road, for all traffic coming up North. This means that now literally all traffic from all of Malta going North, including all that going to the beaches and to Gozo, will have to join all traffic going into Malta’s largest locality, at the roundabout just outside St Pauls Bay, which also leads to the bypass. At this point it would be interesting to find out two things : if this will now be the busiest roundabout on Earth, and if Transport Malta’s stupidity and incompetence can ever be beaten anywhere on the entire planet within the next couple of millennia. Think about it! In Summer the St Pauls/Bugibba/Qawra locality is by far the most populous, and all access to it has to imperatively pass through one single roundabout where all commuters to beaches and to Gozo must also pass! Hmmm absolutely lovely!

Ok now that the important stuff has been said, let us move on to more mundane, unimportant matters tongue emoticon And without further ado I will go straight to the point. The Bugibba area has always been frowned on by a certain category of Maltese. Now I am not known for my political correctness, and I am not either particularly set at being brash and purposely politically incorrect. Basically I report it the way it is and frankly I have absolutely no agenda one way or another. I just say it the way it is, admittedly with little respect for those who have no spine or spleen to express themselves in normal straightforward terms and hide behind their own self-imposed inexpression!

So here goes – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

Yes, a certain category of Maltese have always considered Bugibba to be the pits and I must admit that I never had a very good impression either. We never frequented this part of the island before, but now that we live so close, it is only normal that we tempt fate, leave behind us all the old boring Maltese stereotypes, and take an objective look at the matter, beyond all preconception. Things change and unless you experience them yourself firsthand, you will remain a slave of collective thinking.

Over the past few months we have managed to have quite a few good meals in various restaurants in the area, following specific recommendation and careful selection. So I must admit that our overall impression of the area had started to significantly improve. Yes there are some good restaurants in Bugibba/Qawra, if you know where to go at least.

So with this in mind, yesterday evening we tried something different. Why should Bugibba be any different to anywhere else on earth, where you can simply stroll around the streets and just select the eatery of your choice based on what should also be a very effective method – that of actually viewing the establishment in front of your very eyes. We were there anyway, running some important errands, so we decided for once, to get ourselves a relatively simple meal, without having to conduct weeks of research on the matter.

Most of the roads in Qawra and Bugibba are literally dotted with catering establishments, so it wasn’t a matter of finding an eatery, but more one of choosing which one to go to.

I won’t even mention names in this case, because as you will eventually see this is quite unnecessary. We just proceeded on the assumption that Bugibba is no longer the pits, no longer a shabby forsaken hovel based on our distant and dark three star shoddy budget tourism past. So we confidently walked into the first semi decent looking establishment.

A very miserable, English sounding server, came up to us and while literally staring at the ceiling said “Yes?”. We informed him that we would like a drink first before we ordered food, and asked for a bloody mary. He just about laughed at us and informed us that they “don’t serve those sort of things”, so we went for gin and tonics and looked at the menu. He came back with two tiny glasses with no ice, no slice of lemon, there must have been half a gin and two drops of tonic in there. Totally shocking stuff and when I very politely asked for some sort of enhancement there was an audible pfff!

So naturally we drank our repulsive drink, paid up and gladly moved on somewhere else.

We walked down the road and saw a nice looking establishment prominently placed in the corner of two streets. We sat and ask for two bloody mary’s. The waitress just looked up at the sky and simply uttered the word “no”. I realised that what she meant in her infinite helpfulness and customer care skills, was that she had never heard of such a weird drink, so again we changed out order to G&T’s. They came with no smile, no politeness, no consideration whatsoever, so again we thankfully decided to move on.

I must admit that already at this stage we were just about starting to change the focus of our outing, from that of having a quick light informal meal, to conducting some form of intriguing survey of Bugibba eateries. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for us to find the fun in everything, especially when there’s drink involved.

So we sort of accepted our fate, looked at each other in mutual understanding, gave a knowing nod, and went for it heart and soul. Someone’s got to do it and the truth should finally be revealed about this part of the island once and for all.

We landed at our third establishment, this time being a bit more wary. So we totally abandoned our bloody mary expectations, we just ask for two gin and tonics. But again, the server who in this case sounded eastern european was very unwelcoming and brash. There was no way on earth that we would have an entire meal there and as he virtually slammed our drinks on the table with his heavily tattooed arms, we drank up, paid and moved on.

Our next stop was in Bugibba Square itself, in one of the very main establishments there, where the servers were Maltese. Ours again looked up in the air while taking our order – there really must be something special about the sky over Bugibba, because wherever we went the staff always gazed blankly at it. As their drinks menu consisted of endless pages of the most intricate cocktails, we again stupidly expected that mixing vodka with tomato juice would be within their realm of competence. But yet again we were wrong. So again, based on the marked lack of care and friendliness, we headed elsewhere after our drink.

Before describing our fifth episode, I simply have to say that we were virtually flabbergasted at the average person around, and this included serving staff, fellow customers sitting in the establishments, as well as passersby. I kid you not, but the amount of terribly obese, rough looking, cheap sounding, ugly, even freakish, weird, unstylish, badly dressed, redneck, foulmouthed, disgusting individuals we encountered, was simply beyond belief. We started to feel that that we were the only normal people around. Much as this might sound improbable, it is the plain truth.

This is not being pretentious, it is not a class thing, it is not being snobbish, it is a simple and real observation one really cannot help but make.

The tourists there have somehow remained the middle aged and elderly English lager louts par excellence, all sitting there with their massive beer bellies spewing from under their soiled undervests, burping and farting as they reach out with their massive tattooed arms for their pint – and that’s just the ladies!

The British bucket and spade brigade have also visibly been joined by many other nationalities and also races, all of which have about the same amount of class and finesse as them.

The few Maltese people you see around are really not the finest examples either. There seem to be certain selected places where these Malteserthals tend to congregate and Mater Dei is definitely one of them. Each time I have to go to hospital I wonder in awe where these people crawl out from as they shuffle around on their webbed feet and gesticulate wildly with their unopposable thumbs. Well there certainly must be a direct bus between Mater Dei and Bugibba…

So off we trot to our next baffling experience which was a nice waterfront establishment where an unidentifiable, genderless, obese, sunglasses wearing, keys hanging out of jeans, bartender served us ready mixed gin and tonics in small bottles accompanied by plastic glasses with no ice. At this point we were actually revelling in the surreality of it all and had long given up even trying to have dinner. We just happily tottered from one dump to another expecting the worst, and the worst we truly got, time and time again.

I cannot even remember if it was the sixth or the seventh, as we had truly lost count by then. But the last place we stopped at was another rather large eatery, this time on the stylish Tourists Street, which was purposely designed as a cross between Rodeo Drive, Champs Elysees and Bond Street. Served again here by an Eastern European bloke, we finally found someone decent and nice. He actually looked at us when he spoke to us and even remembered what it was to smile – our very first one of the evening, six or seven establishments later!

We have found some nice places to eat in Bugibba, when we went straight to these rare establishments. In many of the shops and outlets we specifically go to in the area, where logically other Maltese and non-Maltese residents congregate, we have also found the general level of service to be good. However when we threw ourselves out at random and tried out what the average tourist would encounter, we were instantly sucked back into a third-rate, cheap, 1970’s scenario, which was rather shocking and where little has changed for decades.

To sum up our experience, yes, there is absolutely no doubt about it. There are still enormous differences between Bugibba and the Sliema/St Julians area. In spite of the few new fine establishments which have so far managed to survive in this area, much of it remains the pits, there is unfortunately no better description for it. Prices are significantly cheaper than in Sliema, but if you want the cheapest booze then simply stay and drink at home.

But it just goes to show how a tourist’s experience could be entirely different if staying in St Julians or if staying in Bugibba…

It was doubles we were both drinking all evening, so by the end of it, as we visibly staggered towards the car, we too started to blend in nicely with the Bugibba crowd. As they say, spend enough time in a place and you too become part of it!

…in ‘lay’ man’s terms 😛

Isn’t poetic license simply an awesome thing!!!

One had a really big smile
The other a runny nose
Two had really bad gums
Another was obviously-late
And one with a bloody nose

She leaned over her Honda Hornet like a horny hornet, ready to sting.

Her long, luscious, slim and curvy body wrapped around that bike. A midriff as long as an airstrip, legs that climb out of hot biker’s boots, along smooth marble like legs, ending in the heavenly buttocks that any saddle has ever had the immense pleasure of accommodating in such an intimate and delicious way.

I waited by the window for the postman, for postwomen still didn’t exist in the 1970’s. I waited for that one letter from my penfriend in Germany to hear what he thought and what he had to say.

And when I finally got that letter, many many weeks later, I read it over and over. Then I carefully thought of an answer and after a few weeks I wrote out my own reply. I then ran down to the post office and had my letter posted. So eventually, after about two or three months in all, my pen friend got my reply.

That pretty much sums up the speed and more so the volume of communication back then. One letter every couple of months and somehow we survived. Don’t ask me how, but there was obviously a lot of marbles, hide and seek and skimming stones involved somewhere in between…

These memories came to me as I scrolled through my FB wall and saw what my friends today had posted. Or to be more precise, what they posted in the last couple of hours and certainly not more.

There are photos of children, loads of children, others on the beach, plenty at parties and a couple who were abroad. Close ups of faces for the overweight and poses in bikinis for the slightly less overweight, dogs and cats everywhere, babies and cars, poses yes never ending poses, solos, with and without spouses, kissing boys and girls no matter their gender. Their entire lives and activities displayed blatantly in front of my eyes, all at the single fingered scroll of my trackpad.

There were many posting videos, others funny generic pics, sharing of clips and images which have already gone around the world five dozen times in the last 24 hours. So many senseless visuals with morals and teachings and supposedly clever advice, written over various images, as if anyone cares, does anyone even read this crap? Everyone trying desperately to be funny and smart and sharp and different, in their very sameness and their desperate search for likes and comments.

There were others ranting on about their hidden yet screamingly obvious agendas. The racists calling themselves patriots and praising their country like it isn’t the dump they themselves otherwise admit. The anti racists posting shocking videos of black people suffering and abused on every possible occasion. The not so secret feminists whose every post rants on about the abuse of women, as they fume in anger and menopausal frustration in their villas with pool with their convertibles parked outside. The obsessive religious posting somehow yet another reason we should all love Jesus and yet another visual interpretation of the crucifixion with more blood but shorter thorns. The charity junkies constantly peddling their dubious wares, today collecting for a new kitchen sink for their holiday home – why pay for it yourself when you can always find some sucker to finance it.

Then there are the romantics with their fairies, unicorns, sunsets, flowers and white horses. The sad perverts with their bouncy booby videos and raunchy clips. The horny housewives desperately trying to turn their constant pics of topless, incredibly hunky, greased up plumbers, holding phallic shaped tools, into the blondest forms of non-humour. The fatalistic martyrs with their morbid gravestones and vampire like creatures with some enigmatic nonsense text, which is meant to sound mystically powerful, but fail miserably at even making any sense.

The football freaks, the politically motivated, the hunters and the hunted, and very worst of all the politically correct gestapo, who somehow find the time and energy to patrol your every step, your every post and comment, and come down on you like a sour ton of bricks with their righteousness and virtuosity. Those who are in a permanent state of shock. These people must live their entire lives with their mouths wide open and their eyes firmly rolled back. They post furiously, virtually inciting entire crusades about subtleties and meticulously unimportant details which you didn’t even know existed. How dare that evil monster call the little boy in north eastern Myanmar autistic instead of a boy with autism – we must all revolt!

There is thankfully also the savvy. Interesting news and facts, so many things you never knew. Loads of useful info on events and activities and concerts and parties and stuff. Also the important and sometimes life-changing personal news, from normal birthdays, to anniversaries, to weddings to the sad demise of loved ones.

People proudly losing weight, others so visibly gaining it but never admitting it. Refugees losing weight, but none of us ever admitting it. Two idiots ended their 12 year marriage online, right in front of the amused spectating eyes of the entire universe. A half-baked friend insists on taking pics of her disgustingly prepared meals, and a chauvinist middle aged idiot revels in posting adverts from the 1950’s being smugger than smug and as palatable as vomit.

There are those vanity obsessed females who change their profile pics every half an hour and their fat slobbish hubbies who think they’ll play it cool by posing without a shirt. Oh and those who insist on giving us a minute by minute account of their every move – off for a shower now, going to have a nap, doing the washing up, oh and what do we have here? do I sense my second bowel movement of the day?… every painful, pathetic, mundane move they make, documented for mind-shattering posterity.

Then there are the drama queens who start off a mini revolution and scream and yell, yes simply because their washing machine packed in, or their ironing board just broke.

Oh and perhaps the very revolting of all, are the tons and tons of nauseating nonsense on gender based stereotypes, either badly disguised as humour, or even worse feigning some hidden profound meaning. Dumb women repeatedly calling all men shallow and selfish, idiotic men calling all women users and good for only one thing. When, but when, will these sad individuals finally realise that every man and woman on earth is different and that gender has absolutely nothing to do with it and that they are only projecting their own weaknesses, inadequacies and frustrations by blaming it on the opposite sex.

We don’t live in the information age, we live in the information diarrhea age. And in the little time it has taken you to read this, if you return back to your own wall, you will see so many new posts carrying infinitely new bits of information. All the people around you compulsively communicating, endlessly, with and without scope, with and without sense. But even that is no longer important. You can, as many do, go onto your timeline and write something as dumb as a “Hi” or an “Oh” or “My toenails are itchy” and sure enough within minutes those magic likes start trickling in. And before you know it several comments first about toes, then about feet, then about health, diet, eating out and whether you want to join in on a party tomorrow.

For that’s how it goes OH WAIT, I just heard an enormous bang. Let me just rush to my window to look outside…. Oh my, it was the postman who crashed with his scooter as he was coming up my drive. It seems that he was posting on Facebook while he was driving and was simply overwhelmed and lost control…

A deep and academic analysis of the choice of people’s profile pics based on gender…

Have a giggle and most certainly take it all with a massive pinch of salt!

One is a fucking good artist and the other is a hopeless romantic, or was it the other way round, a hopeless artist and a fucking good romantic… I’m not quite sure now with all the wine I drank – upon their own seductive suggestions!

But following a bit of light and pointless banter, they both threw at me what they thought might be an enormous challenge. The artist I imagine, because she is used to having her works commissioned, so she rightly assumed that I too can write on demand. The romantic because she was curled up at home, entirely on her own, and desperately trying to find my mobile number which had totally escaped her mind.

So Krista and Romina simply dared me blatantly and unashamedly to write about filth and smut, which I am very pleased to transform into much more palatable material, full of charm and wit and gentle smiles.

They dared me to touch such taboo topics as the gradual and sensual undressing of a geisha. Why good women end up doing bad things with wine. The irresistible charm of bad boys. Why Scots wear no underwear. The reason behind women liking it very hard. To write about the ideal boob to hip ration and finally how to masterfully tease the testis.

No short order, if you’d excuse the pun, you might be thinking. These two crazed women, just throwing the wildest of ideas that come to their impoverished and sex-starved minds. straight onto my bulbous ball pointed pen.

It is with extreme consternation and looming writing constipation that I will attempt to pull all these disjointed and somewhat perverse ideas together.

The very worse part of it all was that I was right in the middle of dinner, when they slapped me with this impossible dare. My gentle wife had prepared a stylish coq au vin for me, which I had only just started eating. However to be perfectly honest it was a bit on the tough side. We are unfortunately all so used to the extra tender, albeit tasteless water-injected chicken breasts, that hard cock is rather difficult to swallow. It is not something I am particularly fond of, although I hear that it has quite a following.

So I sat there at table, doing my best to eat a bit more. But it wasn’t an easy task at all. Luckily it was only my wife and myself at home tonight, so I was rather comfortable. I had just taken a shower and simply wrapped a towel around my luscious loins and sat there next to the open doors, enjoying the breeze which slowly but surely, surreptitiously reached my unsuspecting hanging testis. It gently found its way in and cheekily played with my inbuilt threesome, teasing and tantalizing in a terribly tangible sort of way.

And as I write this dubious detritus disgustingly disguised in distinguished discussion, I cannot but help think that most women are somehow attracted to bay boys like me who demonstrate delirious delusions but in such a delightfully descriptive way. But enough with the d’s already!

As my gorgeous wife disappointedly removed the virtually full plate of hard cock from in front of me, inciting a bit of envy from my side, how it can possibly remain so hard for such a long time, I look up at her fucking fantastic figure. She is really and truly a 36-26-36, as simple as that. Now this is about one of the very first naughty things I remember, when I was still a young, pimply, daily masturbating teenager, before alas it dwindled down to twice weekly, then to twice weakly. We even used to quote these vital statistics I remember – the famous 36-26-36. And yes! I am so frigging lucky to have this goddess of a wife who even at the mature age of 30 sports a bwoodie (that’s how she pronounces it !!) of a 50 year old! Oops wait, I think I got things mixed up there again tongue emoticon Can there ever be a better boob to hip ration on this side of the universe?

And in such a short piece I feel that my task is already done. Perhaps the only one missing link you might ask is what has the Scotch got to do with it. Well, haha as I write I hold in my hand a little glass, which in fact needs a bit more ice… So excuse me now, I’ll be off to do more important things, such as fish around for my next fun challenge.

To love is to empower, they are one and the same thing. If your brand of love does not empower, then sadly it is not true love. For by its very nature, love is empowering.

There are two distinct levels of this empowerment. The first which should ensue automatically and unconsciously from the very existence of love, and the second which should be intentionally and purposefully bestowed between those who love each other.

The first automatic type should come from feelings of positivity, of being supported morally, of stability and of protection. You are no longer alone. There is someone constantly by your side, either physically or mentally, or ideally both. You have someone to share your problems, your woes and your doubts. You have someone to share your joys, your secrets and your most exhilarating moments.

You are no longer alone. Being loved is one of the best feelings on earth, especially when this love is fully and unashamedly expressed in all its forms.

All these feelings are very empowering. You are happy and proud. You are motivated in much of what you do and take life by the horns and shove it in the direction that suits you. You are elated, virtually high, and feel invincible. You have no time for negative thoughts and people. You walk a bit quicker, you stand a bit taller, you push a bit harder, you talk with greater enthusiasm, you discuss and negotiate better, you are much less shy and reserved. You are made strong.

In turn people will listen to you, they will believe you and follow you and respect you. They will want you and love you. This is how love empowers you more than anything else in life.

Then there is the second level, the conscious empowering of your loved one. There are many ways you can treat your partner. You can try to cage them and to confine them. You may try to bully and intimidate them. Others just go with the flow and seem to be indifferent and dispassionate. Some think they are being exceptionally generous and lenient, simply by according a few liberties.

Then there are the few wise ones whose only wish is to empower. Not to control or suffocate. Not to ban and forbid. Not even to impose any form of limitation. Rather than putting a bird in a cage, or clipping its wings, or even attaching it to a long cord, you should simply set it free. And moreover before you do, you should also make sure that you have shown it how to fly, taught it how to soar, far above all the others, and to glide away further and stronger than is really necessary.

Give it all the required skills and abilities to be totally independent. To make it on its own and to thrive fully without you. This is true love.

If you do this perfectly and truthfully, without any hidden agenda, then the bird will fly and soar high up in the sky. But it will always return, nowhere else but to you. It will come back and eat from your hand, it will love you dearly for the rest of its days. For it was you who gave it all its power and strength and somehow in certain irony, the stronger it has become, the more it will consider you its creator and its master.

Do not restrict and impede. You are nobody and nothing without creating others bigger and better than you. They are nothing without their creator. The pupil must always surpass the teacher, if the teacher is at all a good instructor. If you are unable to produce anything that surpasses you, then it is you who is a limited person.

If you do not want to set them free, then it is you who is insecure. If you do not want your loved ones to be stronger than you and independent of you, then you are afraid that they will crush you.

If on the other hand you don’t just sanction, but you relish, the total liberation of your most loved ones, the greater they will one day become, the greater this will elevate you.

Set them free, let them run and play, all the games they want to. Give them all the freedom they want, as this will be your freedom, your choice, your decision, not theirs. And hence they will always be yours.

Only in this way can they never escape from you, by creating the space not where you lock them, but where you have set them free.

Forty years is a long time.

It was probably my very first full length essay, when I was in my early teens. Our English teacher gave us all a theme to write about, being – When We First Met.

So off we all went, trudging back home, to tediously try and complete this seemingly impossible task. What would we write about? How would we possibly manage to find all those required words?

And for the first time ever, that magic seemed to have hit me. It just suddenly came out of nowhere. As soon as I sat, biro in hand, I just started writing automatically with perfect ease, with ideas flowing, trying desperately to catch up with my thoughts. I even remember that I always had very bad handwriting, but this was virtually illegible, as I scribbled madly to put on paper what my mind was effortlessly throwing at me.

We all presented our work to the teacher, an ageing sour faced cleric, who I never ever saw smile once, in all the years he taught us. A day or two later after having read them, he presented them to the class.

It was very simply a never-ending tirade of “when I first met my best friend it was during the Summer holidays” with a couple of “when I first met my teacher on the first day of school”. Then there was mine. And in my naivety I truly and honestly didn’t even think that it was any better!

So when it was my turn, Father Frowny looks up at me fuming, holding up my essay in his hands for added effect. He told me “I want to know from where you copied this?”. I was like, eehh?? I beg your pardon!! “Just tell me which author this is”. What, sorry? He said that it was obvious that I copied it all and just changed a work here and a word there. The argument went on and on until he finally genuinely believed me, that it was entirely mine.

He of course slammed me for starting it off with the most boring and stereotypical of intros, being “It was a warm Summer’s evening” – now how lame is that! On my side of course… This was probably the one and only real thing sour face ever taught me. But then he went on to read my story, the essence of which went something like this…

“I sat there on the edge of the rocks, enjoying the cool Summer’s night air in the perfect silence of night. The breeze ruffled my hair (I still had hair then!) and sat, fishing rod in hand, looking down into the deep blackness of the waters below. My mind traveled to places afar, imagining views and landscapes and encounters. Then all of a sudden there was a ripple, which then broke out into a wave, until the waters broke just beneath my face and a big white beautiful stunning shark slid its massive head out of the water.

It glared at me directly in my eyes. We both remained there perfectly immobile, in shock, in silence, looking deep into each other’s eyes. We read each others’ thoughts. We made a magical connection. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, it slowly slid back away, beckoning me to follow. I hesitated, temped to follow it into the mysteries that lay below.

Later on after I had packed my fishing gear and was quietly walking home, I stopped and wondered. Was it all a dream? Was it just a figment of my imagination? I would never know.

That was when we first met. I still wonder if we will ever meet again.”

After he read it there were a few moments of silence in the class, before all the boys nervously started chatting again, not knowing what to make of all of this.

But the really sad part of this story is that what would you expect that a teacher should do, when spotting any sort of talent? But in this case he actually hated me and scorned me for as long as he taught me. Never a compliment, never a word of encouragement. Looking back now I am quite sure that he was quite simply jealous that a young teenage boy could write much better than he could, in spite of him giving the impression that he was god’s gift to the English language.

So the years passed and then the decades. And life takes you places you didn’t really plan. Luckily I also have a bit of a flair for business, so that is where I spent most of my life. I wrote very very little. A tiny article here and a little letter to the press there. But absolutely nothing like I should have. I simply left this latent passion virtually dormant, always telling myself that I really should start to write.

Yes that is the reality of our so called formal education. I was forced to study chemistry and physics and I don’t know what, but the talent I obviously showed was purposely thwarted and derailed, until now!

Forty years is a long time. But I sure as hell am going to make up for lost time!

M’Hawnx Wiehed/Wahda Sura

As many of our friends know, until relatively recently we ran a catering establishment which was rather large. This permitted us, besides operating a restaurant, to also hold parties twice a week, along with DJ and dancing. Very soon the scene automatically evolved very much into one which attracted virtually only singles, and people of a certain age. Much of our clientele were in their forties and fifties and very obviously out on the prowl.

This wasn’t specifically what we had intended, but it certainly wasn’t something we were opposed to either. On the contrary, from a takings point of view, it was infinitely better than settling for young couples smooching their way through the entire evening, while sipping one glass of wine between two with a straw. And business is business and you simply take what it throws at you.

So we soon become the talk of town and we made a big name for ourselves in this particular market.

As both my wife and I were always there, supervising and assisting with procedures, we very effectively got to know of attitudes and current trends of this particular scene. I have always been quite the observer and also the amateur psychologist. So in between stolen grabs and kisses in dimly lit corners when my wife wasn’t looking, which wasn’t half as often as I had wished, I always relished the people watching and the odd engaging conversation.

The majority of our patrons were regulars, so it was also easy to quickly get accustomed to their own particular approach to their evening of pursuit for company, and sometimes for a bit more. It goes without saying that singles of that age are virtually always separated and desperately or not so desperately in the search for their next partner. There were also the occasional married individuals who sometimes came, when they were of course “working late”…. full lists with photographic evidence may be obtained upon payment of €100!

But what was of particular amusement was the way people differed so much from each other. Much to their own painful frustration, the majority of both men and women were already convinced that they weren’t going to score the moment they set foot in the establishment. They trudged in, walked around with a distinctively nasty snarl on their face, snapped at a couple of people who dared approach them, and proceeded miserably to the bar to drown their sorrows in a desperately fatalistic way. This happened in equal proportions with both men and women.

I invariably approached such individuals and did my PR thing. We had to keep these people coming, so the men were happy to buy me drinks and I was happy to buy the girls drinks, although many a time it was also the other way round. I felt it was my mission to try and cheer them up, and to see if there was anything I could do to help, besides the aforementioned grope with the men and the stolen kiss with the women, or was it the other way round?

These rather sad individuals invariably were fully convinced that every member of the opposite sex there was totally worthless, a leach, a bloodsucker, a waste of time and a total loser, while in my objective eyes it was obviously they themselves who were the losers. So all the women were adamant that all the men were jerks and all the men were sure that all the women were unappealing. Now how sad and sorry is that!

All men are losers and all women are users, in the minds of these sad individuals.

They moped and they sulked and no amount of sweet-talking or encouragement would convince them otherwise. I spoke gently to the women and pointed out a couple of decent blokes I knew who were also game. Oh no not him, he’s far too tight with his money. No the other one is only after one thing. And he there is a real freak and the other too short. I tried to joke with the lads nodding towards a few sweeties. No yuck she’s a whore. And the one next to her is a massive user. Her friend just wants to get married and the other is far too fat, look at the size of her thighs.

I wish I were joking, but I am not. And as absurd as it might sound, if at least it were only one of the sexes, any one of them for that, who had this distinct impression, then perhaps you would try to make some sense out of it. But no, both genders were equally insistent that every member of the opposite sex there was an idiot.

How lame, dull-witted and imperceptive must you be to think this. How shallow are those women who believe that men are shallow just because they do not unnecessarily overcomplicate themselves to the extent of confusing even their own selves. How insensitive are those men who have no sensitivity towards women’s emotions and insights. And incredulously they came back again and again, and just went through the same fatalistic routine each and every time.

And then there were the others.

There were a few men and women, definitely the minority, perhaps 10% or 20% at most, who always without fail had a good time and very rarely left the premises alone.

They came in beaming. Like smiling was soon going out of fashion. They walked and they talked with a marked air of confidence, they exuded positivity and never failed to score. These were the ones who had only praise for the opposite sex. The men who adored every single woman (and possible a few married ones too), and the women who simply loved all the men. Those men who showered all the girls with drinks and lovely compliments and the women who believed so strongly in the men around them that they unashamedly told them so. These were the ones who only brought out the best in each other, the ones who realised that it was only a matter of attitude and not much else.

Nobody is perfect and nobody is perfectly good or bad. It is up to you to bring out certain traits in the others around you, at every possible occasion.

So the vast majority had destined their own selves to failure and invariable went home sulking, disillusioned and alone, while the same few picked up a choice item every time they came. And it was always a choice item, for these are the fellow strong, positive and fun individuals who gave others a chance and hadn’t already marked their fate before they had even started. These are the ones everybody wanted to pick up, not the grumpy cranks. And I can assure you that looks had little to do with it.

As they rightly say, it is all in the mind and this is yet another valid example of this old adage.

This absurd gender feud only seems to have gotten worse in recent times and simply makes conditions worse for everyone, especially for those who advocate it. If you are convinced that the entire world is against you and make it a point of spreading your poison wherever you go, may I suggest that you drink a cup or two of it yourself and so do us all a favour.

All women and men are beautiful. They are clever and vibrant and intelligent, but only if you consider and treat them as such.

So while the likes of me happily, and often even ecstatically, grope and kiss their ways through life, before going home with my gorgeous, loving and also forgiving wife, seeing everything through rose coloured glasses, there are those who are stuck in their dark and dismal holes. Give people a chance, believe in humankind, give them the benefit of the doubt. If you have already condemned yourself to fail, then fail you will.

Open your mind to accept the positive, then open your arms to embrace others, and finally if and when you think appropriate, open your legs and have a hell of a good time.