Jonathan, Charlotte and why the world has finally gone to the dogs

Quite literally, too. Words just could not be found, for love or money, to even approximate the excruciating level of crassness that now characterizes practically every level of what passes in this country for 'politics'.

To be honest, I suspect the little blighters were avoiding us on purpose. And I can almost see them all, too... huddled together in the dark, compressed between the pages of a closed edition of Roget's Thesaurus ... until a metallic voice crackles over the speaker system above:

"Nouns and Pronouns, Conjunctions and Participles, Verbs, Adverbs and Adjectives... yes, you too, Prepositions... your attention, please. It seems the word 'boring' has literally been used to death in recent weeks, and is now in danger of becoming... cliché..." (There is an audible shudder of genuine revulsion among the assembled parts of speech)

"So we need a few volunteers to act as temporary replacements. Even as we speak, a columnist near you is trying to write an article about an Opposition motion of no confidence..."

A general groan arises  from the crowd.

"Yes, I know, another goddamn opposition motion... the third since January I believe...  so as you can imagine your co-operation would be most appreciated..."

At this point Monotonous audibly stamps his foot.

"And I suppose you'll be turning to me as usual," he sighs. "And what makes you think I'm not in danger of being overused too? And besides: how long will these pesky journalists take to finally realise that I'm supposed to be used only in an unnecessarily repetitive audio context..?"

"Oh stop whining, will you?" mutters Tedious in reply. "In case you hadn't noticed there was a whole discussion about the entertainment value of certain lectures at the University of Malta this week. Do you have any idea how often my name cropped up in that particular debate? Monotony isn't the word, let me tell you..."

Murmurs of sympathy come from both Tiring and Tiresome, who are so often used interchangeably that they have by now practically morphed into one. But Bromidic is not amused.

"Listen to you lot, arguing over who got himself called up the most in the past few years," he growls. "You don't how lucky you are. Why, I haven't appeared in a newspaper article since around 1872... and even then, I was considered too archaic to be taken seriously... Oh, yes you all can laugh, all you newbies out there." (This latter outburst is directed specifically at the 'neologism' section: namely 'Lol', 'Rotfl', and of course 'Rotflmao', all of whom are making a super-lexical effort to keep their giggles under control). "You just wait," Bromidic continues darkly. "One day you'll all be as old-fashioned as I am, you know..."

So who can possibly be surprised, if words suddenly start making themselves scarce? Or when the ones you need never materialise when bidden... but instead you get all sorts of unwanted gatecrashers (including a few you've never actually heard before)... which, though they may even mean precisely what you're trying to say... well, what's the point if nobody really understands them?

But the problem goes beyond the mere unavailability of individual words. (After all, words also have the right to occasionally go on strike if their conditions of employment become too unbearable for... erm... words.) No, the real trouble is...

Hang on a sec. I've forgotten all about Jonathan and Charlotte. Not to mention the dratted dog, too. Why does this sort of thing always happen, I wonder?

OK, so as some of you may be excused for not yet realising... there was originally a point behind all this, you know. It seems this wholesale descent into mediocrity is not a case of 'only in Malta'. It is a global phenomenon. And, solely for the puspose of illustrating this fact, there exists another small European archipelago in which 'oddity' and 'irrationality' have been reinvented and repackaged as 'the new normal'.

I refer to the United Kingdom: that curious island nation in which a dancing dog (I kid you not: a dog that dances) can find itself voted 'most talented act'... in a competition that also featured some of the most seriously impressive vocal talent I have ever heard, and quite possibly that has ever been aired live on ITV.

OK confession time, folks. Guilty as charged. I am a closet viewer of 'Britain's Got Talent' (though on YouTube, not ITV)... and who can blame me, seeing as the alternative is to watch local discussion programmes about things that are so utterly... oh, tedious, monotonous, tiring, tiresome, bromidic AND cantankerous... that words can simply no longer describe them at all?

In fact, silly variety shows like Britain's Got Talent remain one of the very few things in life (other than maybe the rugby world cup every four years) that make me seriously consider the possibility of one day acquiring a new television set, to replace the old one that once - long, long ago - died on me halfway through an episode of David Attenborough's Life on Earth.

(Note: there's an irony in there somewhere, but I can't for the life of me see it).

And before I am misunderstood... please note that there is no actual delusion involved here. No, I am not naïve enough to seriously believe the acts on that show are indeed spontaneous... and yes, I am fully aware that the whole thing is meticulously pre-planned and pre-rehearsed.

It's just that - much like the rest of that show's multi-million, masochistic viewership - I, too, am intrigued by the occasional window it opens up onto the deepest, darkest and most twisted aspect imaginable of that bottomless pit that is the human psyche.

In particular, that ineffable glitch in human nature, that makes the most ordinary, mundane and unremarkable people seriously believe that... if they are not already international superstars (for yes, some people do think you can simply eliminate all the intervening stages... including that annoying one about actually being 'good' at something... and fast-forward straight to the 'fame and fortune' part)... well, they certainly think they possess the necessary talents to get there.

And out of the woodwork they all come crawling: not so much the great unwashed (because their problems are rarely hygienic in nature) but rather the 'Great Untalented'... the ones who can't sing, can't act, can't dance, in some cases can't even frigging talk... and yet the show somehow manages to unerringly reach out to them all, and to speak directly to the darkest secret of their innermost subconscious.

And no matter where they may be hiding in the entire world (for that's another thing about Britain's Got Talent: open to absolutely everybody - which is asking for trouble, really)... they all end up convening on precisely the same spot, at the middle of precisely the same stage, in order to make great big tits of themselves in front of three or four judges, and literally millions of people worldwide.

Honestly, how much more entertainment could you possibly want?

But back to the dancing dog - oh, I forgot to mention, this year's edition was won by a member of the genus Canis lupus vulgaris - a very cure specimen, I admit, but a dog none the less - and a few questions immediately spring to mind.

One: what the heck is a dog (dancing or otherwise) expected to do with half a million Sterling? That's a lot of Pedigree Chum to stock up on, and I greatly fear that (no offence to Ashleigh or anything) little Pudsey can't have more than a few human years left of life in him to lap it all up.

But the real issue is another. You see, having watched the usual auditions - featuring the usual spectacle of astounding mediocrity - I happened to notice a slight difference this year.

While I admit I am not an expert in the finer technical details of operatic voice-training - and while I am as talentless in the singing department as the most dazzlingly useless of that same show's many buzzed-off contestants... I can and do recognise a good singing voice when I hear one.

So by what stretch of the imagination does an admittedly impressive circus act - for that's what the dancing dog was: a circus act, which (again, no offence to Ashleigh) would not even rank as the same circus's tour de force) manage to beat off an act like Jonathan and Charlotte, pictured on this page in the first semi-final?

You can all go and watch the clip for yourselves (I've given you enough information to be able to locate it online). I won't bother commenting much except to say that:

1) Yes, the voices are mismatched... but that's only because Jonathan's is so goddamn powerful that it would drown out anybody else's, probably even Domingo's.

2) Their entire ascent to the finals marks a rare example in which an act starts out well, then manages to improve upon itself twice successively, to end with a tremendous grand finale (in other words, the complete opposite of the much more famous Susan Boyle from 2009's edition)...

3) THEY WERE BEATEN BY A GODDAMN DANCING DOG. (Yes, damn it: a dog. As in, 'woof-bloody-woof', etc... )

Well, having duly witnessed all that in varying stages of disbelief, I can only conclude that... the lack of variety in Maltese politics is actually the least of the human race's problems at the moment. Far more serious a flaw (which underpins both phenomena, unrelated though they appear to be at a glance) is that we have, as a species, lost so much of our former sense of proportion... that when confronted with a straight choice between the 'seriously talented' and the (I suppose) 'vaguely-entertaining-in-a-circus-monkey-sort-of-way'... why, we invariably choose the circus monkeys over the serious talent.

So make no mistake, my droogs:this planet really has gone to the dogs at last.