Winning elections and song festivals in Scandinavian Malta

Going back a couple of weeks I heard a lot about local songs, singing and trashy songs and trashier gloves. But I have to admit I am one of the few unwashed –figuratively, of course—who didn’t watch the song festival which chooses our Eurovision representative. Shame on me. I also missed San Remo with its lovely cut dresses and glorious butterflies: double shame on me.

So forgive me if I stray where bolder pens have strayed and said more erudite, more measured words than silly me. My words regarding our local song-fest are based on hearsay, newspaper cuttings, online comments and general bitching.

Kurt Calleja, the winner of the song for Europe, is, may I admit immediately before I am accused of familial bias, unrelated. Thank the lord of singing for that. Well as unrelated as one can be here on the rock. Till some months ago it could have been called the “sunny” and “warm” rock—now it’s the windy, freezing rock so maybe our actions are soon going to become conditioned by climatic changes. We seem to be trying hard to join Scandinavia what with our weather.

If we do become Scandinavian—like good old boring obedient Scandinavians—we will promptly pay our taxes, be orderly in all we do, never let our doggy soil the soil or the pavement, and we will generally pale into insignificance. But at least the rock will be even greener than it used to be. We will become like one of those specially-kept roundabouts in Malta. Freezing it might be—and numbingly boring—but we will all have great fun never doing anything wrong. And we will never smile.

Back to the Eurovision. And if I may be allowed some politics—I’ll give you my vision and what Dr Gonzi seems to be hatching as supreme leader of his party and of this dotty part of the world. Joining Scandinavia, through cold and calculated climatic changes, is all being orchestrated by Dr Gonzi in his infinite proximity to fundamentalists and their ever-pliant God. Malta will then garner enough votes from our newly acquired “neighbours”—the Finns, the Great Danes, the Swedes, the Norwegians and Icelanders—to definitely make it finally and with great fanfare to the exalted Nirvana of all real Maltese: the Eurovision finals.

With a final almighty push by geographically moving us, as a country, to the east we could also get a few more votes and reach Super-Nirvana—which would be actually winning the Eurovision song festival.

Malta will, at last, be united—we will surely then wave just one blue flag (oops I forgot we already do that as the big parties, nowadays, seem as blue as anything) and we will be one nation, one dream, one klaxon-playing nation of unrivalled revelry. The most prestigious and mind-numbing show will be won by us at long lordly last.
And Dr Gonzi and his evil accomplices will then call a snap election. And snap we will have another GonziPN victory. Miracles, if sanctioned by Eurovision victories, are yet possible.

Just in case Dr Gonzi’s diabolical plan fails, and the Labour movement sweeps into power (are they, when they win the election, going to wave blue flags too?), the new leader of the opposition can always watch and laugh as Dr Muscat, and his erstwhile assistants and various economic gurus, figure out how on earth they can organise and subsidise the 2013 Eurovision song festival being held in tiny Malta.

We could then move closer to Greece to guide us on how to go on winning festivals, over-spending and being bailed out a few dozen times.