5 August, 2013

My desk is always a mess. Amidst the stack of papers the silver framed photographs of the family gasp for some air. On my notice board, my voting document hangs proudly, stuck on the cork by a rusting drawing pin.

It is 5 August, 2013.

The phone rings.

James Piscopo is on the line. It is from the Office of the Prime Minister.

"Hello, Saviour."

"Hawn."

"I'd like to talk to you about that article... the PM is quite concerned about the tone of that particular piece..."

"You know, James: when Gordon Pisani used to phone me, back in the good old days, I would tell him to stuff his complaints up his sweet ass. Give me one good reason why I should not say the same to you."

"Hmm, yes well... but don't you think that, at the end of the day, Deborah Schembri has done nothing wrong?"

"Deborah Schembri is a politician: the fact that she billed people €1,300 for a simple divorce with no hassle is a story. More so when it comes from someone who campaigned for the introduction of divorce."

"Saviour, calm down. I'm only trying to tell you that she need not have been on the front page."

"I see James. So what do you want me to put on the front page? I mean, do you want me to ask for your advice? Or perhaps I should paste the story that il-Perit Charles Buhagiar has won tenders in most of the Labour local councils, or that the new members on Air Malta are all former PL candidates. Or perhaps I should say that the Ta' Cenc extension has been approved irrespective of the structure plan guidelines and against all the opinions of the NGOs?

"And what about PBS? Now instead of that sycophant Lou Bondì, we have that other ass-licker. James, it's all about the reversal of roles, and history repeating itself."

"Ok, Saviour, I see your point. Maybe you'd like to talk about this - perhaps over some lunch?"

"James, stop wasting your time. I am 50, hard-headed, conceited and have no more time for this crap. Spend your entertainment budget with someone else. Why not try Noel Grima or Steve Mallia? They like to be entertained..."

"Ok, bye."

"Ciao."

And with that, I bang the phone so hard that I break a nail.

At the door, my secretary is waiting, and hoping that my tantrum will sort of go away soon enough.

"Sav, the Environment Ministry has just cancelled all adverts."

"Why?"

"I don't know why, but my hunch is that it's got something to do with that story by James Debono on the recent decision to allow for a review on the Comino Hotel project."

I pick up the phone and get on to the personal assistant at the environment ministry.

"Hi Aleander, can I have word with Roderick Galdes?"

"He's busy - could you phone tomorrow?"

"No I can't, can I have just two seconds?"

"Ok, I will check."

I am regaled with Tina Turner's voice - yeah right, never in your wildest dreams - on the telephone.

"Ha nghaddik... hello Saviour, what happened?"

"Nothing really happened. But Roderick, there's this campaign about MEPA reform that is all over the place and I've noticed it's been cancelled for MaltaToday. Has this got anything to do with something I don't know about?"

"What do you think Saviour?"

"I'm asking you..."

"Come on Saviour, do not be a simpleton. You know that there are repercussions. How can we advertise in a newspaper that criticises our reforms?"

"Oh, I see, so you decide to advertise if I praise your reforms. So the advertising is there to shut me and others up."

"No," he says.

"Well, maybe your NO means that you can decided how public funds are spent and to whom they are allocated. You know Roderick, you are no different to George Pullicino. From the day we hit out at him for his scandalous decision to extend the development areas, he blocked all advertising. And you know what you all said then: x'gharakuza!"

As I talk I turn around in my swivel chair and stare at the vote that hangs together with a memo on rosters and a calendar for court sittings.

"You know Saviour, you are simply fomenting the same arguments the Nationalists are making about our reforms. You are their portavoce."

"Okay, this conversation stops here. You are now calling me a Nationalist. That's great. You know what Roderick, I've been in this business far too long to take this shit. Don't want to include MaltaToday in the campaign? Good for you."

For the second time in a day, I lift the receiver in the air and then plant it with a big bang on the console.

The secretary is still looking at me.

"What?" I ask.

"What do we do know?"

"Nothing. We do what we have always done - continue to do our job. I didn't expect anything different. I just thought it would take some time before they became as anal as the Nationalists. Rule number 1: we cannot depend on government for our existence."

I hear laughter emanating from the newsroom. I stand up and walk over, to see what all the fuss is about.

"Read this, Sav - Vince Farrugia has issued a statement saying that the problems small businesses face are a result of the serious mistakes Lawrence Gonzi made when prime minister."

"What do you expect from that man?"

"Hey, look at this! The bitch is praising MaltaToday."

"Why the hell do you look at that crap," I say.

"Yes, but this is unbelievable: she is saying that we are the only opposition and that the Nationalist party is dead."

"Well, if Mario de Marco does not take some tough decisions and get the PN's act together, they have another ten years in opposition to look forward to."

"Sav, did you see that George Abela is off to Peru again? He is taking Franco Mercieca and Philip Mifsud with him."

I walk back into my room. The phone rings. It's the secretary.

"There is someone who wants to speak to you. She said she has a story."

"Ok."

"Sur Balzan, I'm an avid reader of your paper. I won't take up much of your time. I'm 74 years old, and I was supposed to have a hip replacement this August. I have been waiting for three years, and now they've suddenly told me that the next operation is scheduled for October 2014. It's a shame. I voted for Labour because they said they would solve the waiting list. You can quote my name and my case."

"Okay, sinjura, I will follow up the story."

I walk out into the newsroom and turn to one of the journalists. 

"Get Franco Mercieca, the Health Minister, before he escapes to Lima and ask him this question."

Back in my chair, I sit down. I push the papers away and stare at the frames with the smiling faces from home.

I ask myself in a loud voice: "Is this bloody worth it?"

Disclaimer: This story is fictitious and all references to real life figures is purely coincidental. Any comment that may offend or ridicule anyone is regrettably regretted.