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.

His name was Michel Gasparini. Quite an unremarkable man. Short, overwieght and slightly balding. Very unassuming and with absoloutley no pretence, or claim to fame. Single and a bit of a loner, this was a rather unspectacular man.

I met him in the Western suburbs of Paris in 1986, when he was a direct colleague of my French ex-wife. We never got too close or personal, and I couldn’t have met him more than half a dozen times. But in spite of all of this and the thirty years which have since elapsed, I still remember him distinctly and for good reason.

It must have been on the first occasion that we met, at one of my wife’s work functions, that I was listening in on a conversation between him and some of his mates. It was the normal expected chitchat, talk about their work and other mundane matters. Then suddenly one of them touched what seemed to be a rather hot topic, about rumours that their company might be laying off some workers the following year.

The tone instinctively harshened and people aired their concerns. They all talked of their financial commitments, about the reluctance and difficulty of looking for a new job. All of them revealed a certain uneasiness and anticipation, to see if and when such hearsay was in any way founded.

I was keeping my distance, as the matter did not directly concern me. But as I watched and observed, I noticed that while all of them had visibly been absorbed by this new turn in the conversation, Gasparini had kept the same smile and nonchalant look. He put in the odd word here and there not to be totally left out, but he certainly aired no concern.

Then my wife turned up and joined in the conversation. But I soon asked her why Gasarini seemed so detached and she laughed out in front of the others “Haha my husband asked why Gasparini isn’t worried about getting the sack”. They all laughed and giggled and by general consensus I was informed by all that Gasparini never gave a hoot about anything and that he had a totally relaxed approach to life.

I found this rather intriguing and at the first opportunity I grabbed a quick tete a tete with this unique chap. In so many words he chuckled away with me that he had managed to train himself to take everything with a massive pinch of salt and that he simply refused to worry or get upset about anything.

I initially thought that this might be fun party talk, or just generalisations on his part. However as several of the others joined in next to us, stories of court cases, divorce, health problems, his house catching fire, being falsely accused of theft and being arrested, attempts at being humiliated in front of his colleagues by his boss, and other substantially alarming stuff, was revealed about him. Not to incriminate him in any way, but simply to clearly and unequivocally demonstrate that nothing could ever perturb him. And sure enough, at each of these personal disasters, he laughed and he cracked a joke, and he recounted how merry his was at the time, to the great puzzlement of judges, lawyers, police, insurance surveyors, and all others around.

On the few other occasions I met this man, I always brought up the subject, which in no manner bothered him. On the contrary, he always found new fascinating stories, which would for others translate in a mini nightmare, but which for him were clearly the occasion for a joke and a laugh, both during and after the otherwise harassing experience.

His philosophy was simple, and one known to all, and repeated by many, but truly practiced by very few. It is totally futile to worry and get upset, in fact it only made matters worse. So good old Gasparini had somehow managed to totally disconnect himself from these negative feelings and was literally a very happy man.

As may be seen I have never forgotten this unusual man whom I have always held in great admiration. I cannot say that it has always been my main ambition in life to emulate him, and neither can I say that I did not gain directly from his inspiration.

Our past experiences and the people we meet in the long journey of life, all have some form of impact on our psyche and our behaviour, and it goes without saying that some affect us more than others.

Today I am proud to have finally made it into the Gasparini world of total zen and bliss.

It was obviously a long and slow process, made up of countless little stages in my life. The recent passing away of both my parents contributed to my present attitude, as did my following decision to slow down my work and take more time to enjoy life.

In fact it was a very recent and nearly sudden realisation, that I had finally achieved this elated state.

I can honestly say that now absolutely nothing worries me, I remain unruffled and composed no matter the situation. I simply cannot be troubled or harassed. And above all I have no issues with anyone or with anything, anymore. I have worked out all my issues without exception, and although I obviously have likes and dislikes and preferences, I am totally cool with everything.

Not one person truly upsets, I simply give more attention to some rather than to others. In fact I must admit that those who place themselves as my adversaries tend to amuse me, more than anything else. And what entertains me most is their seriousness and the gravity they give to such situations.

As for all the world’s issues and troubles and tribulations, yes I am very aware of them all. I know that there is suffering and pain and injustice, but my consciousness and knowledge is never transferred into anger or frustration. People’s ignorance and abuse will generate scorn and disdain, but no emotional and passionate behaviour. If people are crass and uncouth and politically incorrect, it does nothing to me more than a chuckle and perhaps a snide remark.

I have however, not only managed to retain my passion and fervour towards life, but also to greatly intensify it. In the process of desensitising myself from the negative, the anger and the frustration, I have simultaneously succeeded in shifting this emotion and sentiment to all that is positive and joyful.

I feel more, I am far more sensitive, I love stronger and I laugh harder and much more frequently. My passion for life has greatly increased, for all that is good and fun and beautiful.

It might sound strange, but I must admit that I am a perfectly happy person.

I care about everything, yet I don’t care too much. I live and let live more than anyone else. I cannot be provoked or angered, simply because I easily rise above it.

I no longer follow the quest for happiness, as I can honestly say that I have fully found it!

It lays there in perfect peace and unperturbed harmony. The embodiment of innocence and purity. The fruit of love.

Two people get together for moments of intimacy and passion. Mindless pleasure or purposeful procreation. Physical enjoyment inflamed by lust and sometimes heightened by distant hopes of propagation.

Waves of thoughts and sensations, rushing through loins and minds. Stark images of the erotic, flashes from the past. And then with a sudden tightening, constricting of muscles and veins, furtive and fleeting instants of intense pleasure, until reality slowly creeps back in.

And the miracle has happened. A new life is created. From nothing comes everything. From the improbable and the seemingly absurd comes all.

For nine months the mother’s breath gently oxygenates it, her food sustains it, her love and thoughts nurture it. It grows and it waits. It moves and it kicks, until it is time.

Tiny, weak, miniature, dependant and fragile. So fragile that its beauty is amplified and encapsulated in its absolute vulnerability, leading to the defence and fierce safeguarding by all.

It sleeps, oblivious of its surroundings, dreaming of things to come, uncaring and unawaiting, safely far from any reality, unattached and unthoughtful of any preoccupation.

It twists and it turns without purpose. Its little arms punch away aimlessly in the air and its tiny fingered hands grasp at imaginary mummies and daddies, while it instinctively mimics sucking motions and noises in its sleep.

A perfectly formed individual, with fine wisps of hair, a little pot belly, chubby knees and elbows and a cute button-shaped nose. The tiniest toes and fingers with barely visible but fast growing nails. A nicely rounded bottom and perfectly shaped genitals firmly placing it as little boy or little girl.

It depends entirely on its parents for its survival. Yet it survives. It even thrives.

Until slowly, after years of constant unabating care and attention, with not one small instant of unsupervised heed, it very slowly acquires recognition of its surroundings. The dawn, the awakening, the realisation of self.

We look down at our sleeping babies and cannot help think that they are us and we are them, forever one, forever together, but forever separated by time.

Many years ago when I was living in France, one of our favourite pastimes was touring around the endless countryside and many regions of this fascinating country.

On one such occasion we were visiting Normandy, just northwest of Paris. The main scope of our trip was to drive along the stunning coastal cliffs around Etretat, Yport and Fecamp, finishing off at Dieppe, besides savouring the extraordinary regional delights such as their mouthwatering seafood, the many cream based dishes, their superb cheeses, accompanied by lovely apple cider and potent calvados.

We also intended ending our journey by meeting my ex-wife’s brother and his wife, and all spending the night at her mother’s house, in a tiny hamlet, a few kilometres inland from Dieppe. They lived in quite a small apartment in town, but her mother had a very big old house, which was much more convenient to accommodate guests.

So we finally arrive in this little hamlet, literally lost in the middle of nowhere. We got there around dusk, just in time before it became totally dark, especially as it was a sombre and overcast day. As soon as we glimpsed the old house, we were rather struck by its impressive, even foreboding appearance. It stood strangely on its own, away from the other buildings, and had a distinct eerie and sinister feeling to it.

It was one of those large dark stone and black timber framed houses, known as colombage, so typical of the area. We shook off our initial apprehension as we were greeted in by my then brother and sister-in-law, and told to make ourselves comfortable. We were shown to our room right up in the attic, which was furnished with the oldest, heavy, rustic furniture I had seen in a long time.

When we descended to the dining room for dinner, we finally met our sister-in-law’s mother, who was standing oddly by the window of the dimly lit room, staring out into oblivion. She turned around towards us ever so slowly, virtually in slow motion, until we caught sight of her shocking face. She looked exactly like a witch. There were no two ways about it. It was really a witch we were looking at. She had tiny black evil and deeply-set eyes, a long pointed hooked nose, and an even longer chin with a rather ugly wart at its tip. She even cackled when she spoke to us, in her derisive and scornful way.

There was obviously something terribly wrong with this woman, and I am not only referring to her evil looks. She had a sneering, disdainful way of talking to you, and she stared constantly and directly into your eyes, never pulling them away for an instant. Even as we sat around the large dark oak table to eat, somehow each and every time I dared look up, I always found her staring straight at me, in the most unnerving of ways.

Then half way through the meal, she stood up and walked out of the room without saying a word, only to return a few minutes later, pushing an old squeaky wheelchair in which sat her own dying mother.

This was our second big shock of the evening. Her mother was totally paralysed and immobile, but worse still she was also blind and she stared out into the darkness with large horrifying white eyes, while her jaw laid permanently hanging at a very odd angle.

As may be expected, in the circumstances we did not quite enjoy our dinner, and to be honest I cannot even recall what we had eaten that evening. We finished quickly and made it quite obvious that we wanted to retire to our bedroom to sleep.

The witch insisted on coming up with us to lead us back to our room. On the way up she firmly informed us that the only light in our bedroom was the large central chandelier which had eight bulbs, so she insisted that we switch it off at night. What an odd thing to say, I thought. When we got to the bedroom, she opened the door for us, virtually shoving us in, bade us a good night in a clearly mocking tone, and literally slammed the heavy door shut, before proceeding down the corridor, cackling and moaning on her own.

We just looked at each other speechless, really not knowing what to make of all of this. Why hadn’t my brother-in-law mentioned any of this. Surely he too could see the perturbing situation. It was simply one of those mind-boggling situations which just left you speechless, with absolutely no words to describe it.

So we switched off the lights and got into bed. But that’s when the real terror started. The room was in total and perfect darkness. There was nothing, not even the tiniest glimmer of light anywhere. Just complete and pitch black darkness in every direction, no matter how much you desperately looked around.

But the most unsettling thing was that we could distinctly feel a strong sense of evil all around us. There was a morbid and foul sensation filling the room and engulfing us within it. And as it was also perfectly silent, as the saying goes, the silence was deafening. My ears were ringing loudly inside my head.

We just laid there shaking, terrified, hugging each other. Neither of us ever slept. We wouldn’t dare allow ourselves to sleep, making ourselves even more vulnerable to the malicious elements lurking all around us in the dark and preying upon us.

Only half way through the night, I desperately had to use the bathroom, and couldn’t hold it any longer. The word reluctant doesn’t even start to describe my feeling, as I had to crawl out of bed and fumble around blindly in the total darkness to the door, were the light switch was located. By then however, my ex-wife seemed to be finally sleeping, so I left the lights off not to wake her, as I made my way outside into the corridor.

But when I returned and opened the door, I distinctly heard her panting furiously in bed. I quickly switched on the light in a mad panic and there I saw her, lying in bed, with her eyes wide open, and with the most petrified expression ever. She was pinned to the bed and unable to move. Her head and neck seemed to be held down by some ghastly force, visibly being thrusted down into the bed and pillow with great weight.

I flew at her in wild panic. And as soon as I was about to pull her up she literally launched up at me from the waist up, hitting me hard on the chest with her head. She finally came to and started screaming and shouting and weeping uncontrollably, hysterical in her state of total horror and shock. I held her hard in my arms desperately trying to calm her down.

When she could finally talk, the very first thing she told me, was to pack our things there and then and leave immediately without further delay. It did seem like the most obvious thing to do, but somehow even in such terrifying situations, some amount of logic still remains. I was wondering how on earth we would explain our sudden disappearance in the middle of the night to her brother. I was worried that they might call the police, when they didn’t find us in the morning. This was well before the time of mobile phones and we didn’t know the land line number of the house, to inform them the next morning that we had decided to leave.

We discussed what we should do over and over. One thing which was sure, was that we were leaving the lights on! I was also having visions of us getting lost in the surrounding woods and driving around aimlessly in the dark, which was not a very comforting eventuality either. And then, as we continued contemplating the best plan of action, little by little we could see a growing glimmer of light coming in through the window. It was morning and soon the sun would rise, so we might as well do our best to endure the last couple of hours, saving ourselves a lot of very awkward explanations.

We were downstairs very early, packed and ready to go. Even showers and shaving could wait until we got home. We would rather get out of this evil place smelling dirty, than spending even a few minutes more than we had to.

So we had the obligatory so-called breakfast, which in those days consisted only of the French traditional large handleless bowl of black coffee and slice of plain dry bread, and got the hell out of there.

As we were about to exit through the front door, the witch approached us, looked at us malevolently in the eyes and uttered “I told you not to leave the lights on”. We just rushed out without even replying or speaking to her. We jumped into our car and raced off as quickly as we could, in any direction. I only looked back once, when we were about a hundred metres away from the house, and I could swear that I could see her in the window staring right at us.

Those who have pets will certainly understand me better than those who don’t. But each one of our seven large dogs so obviously has such a distinct character from the others, that is sometimes feels uncanny.

Somehow we seem to associate character variances with humans only, which definitely isn’t the case. Dogs might even have more differing dispositions than we do, perhaps due to the lack of social and ethical pressures and norms.

So it all started a few years ago, when we decided to go to SPCA to get ourselves a puppy. However, upon stating that we had a lot of space and a pleasant disposition, they craftily ‘sold’ us three large ones instead!

It is obvious that everyone wants the puppies first, so it is easy to find a home for these. But it is not everyday that such big suckers as us walk in and agree to take half the damn dogs they have in their kennels…

From left to right – Lucy, Maya, Baci. Orion, Jetty, Chubby and Cessie

So this is how we got Lucy, Cessie and Jetty.

Lucy is a light brown, short-haired tal-Fenek (pharaoh hound) and tal-Kacca (Maltese hunting dog/pointer) cross. She is very ‘pointery’ and does actually point quite often. She is a very keen hunter for anything that crosses her way – birds, lizards, insects, anything, or rather nothing – stands a chance. She is most definitely the most human of them all. Sometimes I think that she is inside my head.

When there is someone at the gate and all the other dogs are barking furiously at the stranger, totally fixated at the person there, she is the only one who barks in the stranger’s direction, while constantly looking back at the house to see whether we have noticed or not. And after a while she starts barking more and more in the direction of the house, so as to summon us outside.

She also loves to mimic others. I often notice that when the other dogs pee, she often goes straight there and pees over theirs. But that is probably to smother their scent and lay down hers instead. However on one occasion I kid you not, I was peeing myself in the bathroom while she was next to me, she looked up at me, squatted down over the tiled floor, and started peeing too. She obviously decided that it was pee time for all, and for the first time ever, actually peed inside right next to me.

But what I find by far the most fascinating about her, is that although I do not tend to feed them at exactly the same times every day, and I am always moving around the house for much of the time, the moment I decide to go and feed them she somehow senses this and starts barking and screaming like crazy. How she does this I have no idea. But honestly the moment I get up to go and feed them, in the same way I get up to do a hundred other things, she knows immediately that this time my intention is different, and goes wild with excitement.

Then there is Cessie, who very simply is the other extreme. She is a German Shepherd cross who is part gentle and part grumpy. All she wants is to be left alone. She is extremely docile with us but occasionally snappy with the other dogs when their boisterous nature starts to bug her.

It takes a lot to stir her up and in many cases even when all the others are barking like crazy at whatever caught their attention, she remains still, lying down, and occasionally looks up secretly just moving her eyes, to ensure that all is ok, while pretending that she is totally oblivious to the commotion around her.

As for Jetty, her story is a bit more sombre I am afraid. Her first owners were monsters out of hell who used to beat her as a puppy!! but let’s not go there and spoil our mood… So she has remained extremely skittish and even with us after many years she still tends to go through phases. Sometimes she is relatively fine but sometimes she doesn’t even let us touch her. If for example we need to hold her down to change her collar, pull out a couple of ticks, check her out, or whatever, she is so traumatised by the experience that it takes us many months to gain her full confidence again and to be able even to pet her.

The poor thing tries and when say I am in the middle of them all playing and petting them, she is circling around me coming very close and wagging her tail. But sure enough as soon as I tend my arm towards her to pet her, she dodges it and moves just far enough for me not to touch her.

The poor thing has been marked for life and it would be worse to try and force her. There are the odd moments when she feels safe and lets us touch her. We then give her a big hug and a good scratching on her belly, which she thoroughly enjoys.

She is called Jetty because being a black labrador cross, she is a shiny jet black and beautiful.

About a year after we got our first three, I was walking in the countryside, when I encountered this extraordinarily beautiful puppy. A black, and speckled grey male tal-kacca with truly fantastic features. In spite of his tender age, he was left for most of the time on his own, next to a hunter’s lodge, and visibly fed nothing more than dry bread. However I still realised that he wasn’t totally abandoned and did not intend to take him with me. However after playing with him for ages, he wouldn’t let me go, and as I tried to lose him by rushing off, he did his best to chase me on his little shaky legs.

He followed me on and on for ages, until I arrived on a main road full of people and traffic. It was obvious that if I didn’t take him home, somebody else would have, or even worse he would have been run over by a passing car!

I still somehow felt guilty and imagined his owner eventually going on site and finding him missing. So I called SPCA for advice on the matter. But when I explained the conditions this poor puppy was enduring, they insisted that we keep him as ours.

The poor puppy’s belly was totally bloated due to his diet which consisted soled of bread. So we called him Chubby and we really love him dearly.

As he grew he quickly became the king of the castle, surrounded by his harem of bitches. It is so funny watching him in his typical macho ways. We had a large four-dog wooden kennel built and he loves climbing on top of it barking down at the girls beneath him. Cessie couldn’t be bothered and just glances up at him in scorn, probably thinking what a waste of useless energy. Jetty wouldn’t dare challenge his authority and just looks up at him in awe. Lucy on the other hand, would definitely like to have a go and often tries to hop up next to him. But Chubby always fights her down again, strongly affirming that this is his, and only his, superior perch. Once he has fully affirmed his dominance and unquestioned authority, he happily jumps down again and strategically lifts his leg at every corner, spraying every nook and cranny of his territory with his manly urine.

Then came Maya, a truly stunning Alaskan Malamute who was cruelly kept chained to a parked immobile truck in a garage, before she was given to us, so how could we refuse. Our other three bitches were sterilised before being given to us, so we never bothered snipping Chubby for this reason. But when Maya was given to us, she was nine months old and literally came on heat for her first time on the exact day we got her.

Initially Chubby would have nothing to do with her and tried to ignore her, but she visibly seduced him by constantly chasing him around the garden. She gave absolutely no attention to the girls, but she was really all over Chubby, and kept nibbling at his ears and face. He pulled away time and time again, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. This girl knew exactly what she wanted and she kept grabbing him from the neck and scruff, pulling him toward her.

Then suddenly something came over him and he just went for her and then they were at it all day and night. Suffice to say that in typical doggie fashion they got well stuck on a couple of occasions, until something was obviously well and done.

So Maya is a very hardheaded dog who always gets her way. She has incredibly expressive eyes, always looks directly into yours, as she howls constantly at you, in a manner which perfectly mimics talking. Each time you talk to her she howls something directly back to you, in a very uncanny way. She also turned out to be a superbly dedicated mother.

She gave us seven heavenly puppies which all turned out spectacularly beautiful.

We had to give five away but kept two of them along with our others. My wife kept her favourite one, whom she called Orion. He is now the largest of all our seven dog and looks like a small horse. As may often be expected from a giant, out of all our dogs he is by far the most laid back and docile. Simply nothing moves him. Even to the extent that there were times earlier on when we wondered whether he was perfectly normal. As his sister Baci, who is an enormous terror, bit him and pulled painfully at his ears, he wouldn’t even budge and would virtually sleep right through it.

But now we have come to realise that it is simply his character. Nothing much bothers him and he seems to be a very content dog. Content simply at taking life easy and letting the others tease and torture him while he retains his total zen. Then once in a blue moon, not very often at all, he terrifyingly lets off steam when out of the blue he jumps up, crashes all the others to the ground beneath him, snarling at them with exposed teeth, showing them that he has both the power and the temperament if he really wanted to, before subsiding back into his semi-stuporous state.

So thats leaves the terror Baci, who was my favourite out of the puppies. I called her Baci because she is always licking and kissing your face whenever she can. She is most definitely hyper, a big bully and can also be rather nasty to the others. She always wants full attention, to dominate every situation and has to be the centre of attraction. I wonder why I love her so much…

She is naughtiness caninified! Always up to no good and making a nuisance of herself. But I love her to bits and when she turns up her big brown eyes, seeking both attention and sympathy from me, like the typical female that she is, it feels exactly like having another perfectly spoilt daughter. It goes without saying that I invariably give her what she wants.

Seven dogs, seven tremendously diverse characters, but all so loving and adorable.